Trust

A few months ago, I went to the beach with my housemates, Michael the American Jesuit (he's wonderful, we just call him “Michael” though), and two British volunteers who had just arrived and were en route to Dodoma for their service placement. It was a spur of the moment beach visit, so I was wearing a floor-length kitenge dress (think traditional “African”), which is not ideal for swimming in the ocean, but whatever. I hiked up my skirt and walked right in as the others sat on the beach and Michael was off swimming somewhere, and in the process, saw a young woman around my age who was also wading into the water. Our eyes met, and in her blunt Tanzanian way, she grabbed my skirt without so much as an introduction, tied it into a sumo-wrestler style diaper, and pulled my elbow further into the ocean. We just sort of stood there for awhile, exchanging simple words in Swahili, and then I invited her to sit with us on the beach. More silence. We sat. Michael returned from his swim with some little creature/pricker stuck in his finger. Without many words, she shook her head at our meager attempts to dig it out gingerly with a pair of tweezers, took Michael's hand, jabbed the instrument into his poor finger, and the obstruction was removed swiftly, and probably painfully. And then we left, and I gave her my phone number.

The next day, she called and invited me to visit her home in the more rural area of Dar es Salaam. All of my other housemates were busy, but I was free. Sure, why not. She told me what bus to get on and the name of the stop, and without asking any other questions, I was on my way to visit this stranger I met on the beach, carrying a pineapple to offer as a gift and a dictionary just in case I ran into trouble. After a 45 minute Daladala ride with a few transfers in between, I was in unfamiliar territory. Realizing she hadn't given me directions past “Get off at Temboni”, I gave her a call. She started yelling in rapid Kiswahili, and all I could make out was that she wanted me to give the phone to a pikipiki driver. A group of about 10 of these cat-calling, motorcycle-driving, rough-looking guys had been trying to convince me to ride with one of them since I dropped from the bus, so I reluctantly handed the phone over to the most adamant one, and after a few second conversation, he jerked his head backwards in a way that said “C'mon! Climb on!”. So I did. And then we were off.

Now, while sitting on the back of this motorcycle, which had just turned onto a muddy, rural dirt road and was currently climbing up a pretty treacherous looking hill, I started to wonder if this was a very good idea. I was all alone, completely at the mercy of this man driving a motorcycle, on my way to the house of a woman I hardly knew, who couldn't speak English, in a district about an hour outside of my home, in a foreign country where I could just barely squeeze out a conversation. And all I had was a pineapple to defend myself with. Was this really how my life was going to end?

To spare you the suspense, I reached Husna's house in 15 minutes after sharing quite a pleasant ride through the countryside with Samuel, the intimidating motorcycle pikipiki driver, who passed the time schooling me on the pronunciation of all the villages in the area. He also honked his horn whenever he passed his friends on the roadside and pointed his thumb back at me, saying “Look guys! I've got a Mzungu!”. I quickly learned that that was my cue to wave and yell out a Swahili greeting to the thrilled onlookers, who would respond with a squeal of joy. What good fun we had, Samuel and I.

Husna met us as soon as we reached her home, beaming and insisting that she pay for the the pikipiki ride. She took my hand and brought me to about three houses to meet her neighbors, and then we climbed up a small hill to sit on her porch, which overlooked an amazing view of the rest of the village (I say village but don't think about thatched roofs and monkeys and all of that George of the Jungle stuff. Village just means that we were now a fair ways outside of the city, and there are trees and hills and plants. LOVELY!). We sat for a moment on her porch as she stirred the ingredients for pilau in her little coal cooking pot (which happens to be my favourite food here), and I chatted with the two women who live in the rooms adjoining hers (it's common for a person or a family to just rent out one room of a unit and then cook in a common space with a small coal stove). The dictionary was a hit, considering they didn't know any English and my Swahili is shameful. Husna and I then walked to the small market down the street and she bought me a mango. We sat with a group of bros who were smoking under a tree and Husna clicked her tongue when they offered a smoke to me. “Eh, we don't smoke”, she said, and I nodded curtly in support. “Yeah, we don't.” We were a we already! I met her sister who owns a medicine shop, her brother who was passing through the neighborhood, some older people who were sitting by a church, and pretty much the whole village. Unfortunately, in addition to the pilau, she cooked cow stomach, which is just as appetizing as it sounds and tastes exactly like the way a deodorant-less arm pit smells, but I ate it with a smile and achieved the most amazing feat of stomach expansion by taking on a second full plate of Ugali and Beans, cooked by her sister, just to prove that I knew how to eat with my hands. That sure sent them into a riot.

Before leaving, Husna took me into her room and we rested on her bed, like two girls at a slumber party. She started gossiping to me about how she once had a boyfriend who was a Mzungu from Italy who is still living in Dar es Salaam but won't call her anymore. I did all the things I would have done if this was a conversation with a friend from home. “You mean he isn't even picking up the phone? Girl, you don't need him anymore. You want to call him now? You want me to call him? Teeheheheh ok ok ok ok gimmie the phone gimmie the phone IT'S RINGING teheheheh oh OH he didn't even pick up! NO he didn't I think he hung up! Ohhhhhhh yeah I know I know he's lousy but shh sh sh don't worry don't worry you'll find someone else, really, REALLY you will!” ...Ok, so maybe my limited Swahili resulted in the ultra girly exchange, but OH MAN! I'm gossiping with my new best friend! Things are great! Then she hopped on a bajaji (a rick-shaw like motorized tricycle thing) with me back to the bus stop, sent me on my way, and that was that. This visit happened in early January (I know I know, really delayed on this one), and I just visited Husna for a second time this week with Kathleen, the new first year volunteer. Husna and I are in regular phone conversation, and we're planning on a day for her to come visit Mabibo.

The transition from “I could very well die right now.” to “This is the best day ever” was a nice experience in faith and trust. Faith is one of those words that turns me off. I don't know why, either. It's a really wonderful and beautiful and picturesque-sounding thing. I just don't like it. I don't know, maybe I have control issues, maybe it irks me that “putting it in God's hands” seems like an apathetic cop-out, maybe (definitely) it's my culture telling me that if I'm not doing everything in my power to get to where I want to go at the speed I want to get there, I'm not doing enough. I'm not working hard enough. Tanzania is a VERY faithful place. There have been moments when I'm completely in awe of how wonderful it is, and just as many moments when I want to shake every person who shrugs and says “Well, there was another awful road accident, it's such a shame, but we cannot know God's ways, and we just have to keep praying.”. Praying? No. You should try to regulate traffic laws, or pave more roads, or NOT pack minivans full of 50 people and babies and chickens. Faith? What about initiative?

I think that's what the me of last year would have complained about. Now, I'm starting to kind of get faith and trust a little bit more. Obviously, it's important and safe to have doubts about people sometimes, but if I hadn't trusted Husna, I would have completely missed out on the opportunity to meet someone amazing. I would go completely crazy in this country if I didn't just put my trust and faith in something, or someone, else. There isn't nearly as much control in this country, and that used to make me so frustrated. But now, it's freeing. I'm not saying I'm going to make a habit out of jumping onto strange motorcycles, or that I'm going to sit around doing nothing and say “it's in God's hands”. I just think it's important to give people the benefit of the doubt, and to go with the things thrown at you. Sure, you could run into bad situations. But you could also run into something good.