When I Leave, I Will Miss ...

When I go, I will miss …

I will miss the children - their smiles, their shy greetings, their big eyes and bare feet, their toys made of palm leaves, plastic bottles and spare tires, their school uniforms in varying degrees of deterioration, their unyielding desire to go to school. .. even their shouts of mzungu and naomba hela or the English version of the same phrase – give me money! I will absolutely miss the children – they keep me going from visit to visit, they keep me energized to pump donors for more money, they keep me coming back for another hot summer, another crammed dala dala ride, another trial of my patience and determination. One afternoon in their humble homes or on a rock by the river, chatting away about simple matters or sharing information about our respective cultures and I feel that they are all that matters in the whole world.















I will miss the food – I will miss knowing that everything I eat or drink was grown within meters or a few miles of where I sit. Even though some of it is not native to the area (mangos), it still grows right here. The fish I ate daily was caught in Lake Tanganyika. Every night I would sit high above the lake, watching the moon rise and the fishing boats light up along the horizon like a city in its own right. I thought about the men on those little boats, staying out there through the night to catch the food I would eat tomorrow. I will miss fresh juice that only contains the fruit it came from – no extra flavors or sugars. I will miss avocados the size of Chihuahuas that cost $0.20 each and spoon out like soft butter. I will miss eating with my hands and wiping my lips with water from the communal sink after eating, not caring that I have a wet face as I return to the table. And related to the food, I will miss the big beautiful mango trees that provide the only shade in a region devastated by deforestation.














I will miss Kiswahili – I should speak it much better by now, but I do speak it much better today than four weeks ago. I can’t wait to run home to Salt Lake City and visit my Burundi and Somali friends who speak Kiswahili so that they can see that I can do it! I learned yet again and hope to retain more throughout this year than I did last year – when I got lazy or caught up in my life of dissertation, dating, dogs, facebook and fundraising. I can’t wait to have more in-depth conversations with Spes (from Burundi) in a language she understands instead of having her daughters interpret for us as we try to catch up and share stories about recent adventures in life and learning.

I will miss the dala dala rides - I love observing the way people pack in with very little to say to the people they’re crammed up against, unless the silence is broken … from which point, random conversations between three individuals can turn into a discussion involving everyone on the dala dala – perhaps about something as simple as the latest cost of onions at the market or the behavior of a passenger who just ‘dropped down’. I love how unfazed people are by the closeness of their bodies to one another. There is no embarrassment in having an elderly woman bend over in front of you to move her basket – leaving your nose an inch from her rear end. The looks and laughs that moment would invite back home have no place here, where living in close quarters is just a way of life. When it happened to me, my American ego was blushing, avoiding eye contact, imagining the snickers and smiles about the big butt in muzungu’s face … until I realized, they don’t give a shit – it’s just the way it is on the dala dala.

I’ll miss the colorful kangas – The women are always wrapped in one or two kangas and then often have another to hold a child on their backs. They are so colorful and rarely match whatever else the woman is wearing. Even if a woman is wearing a dress or skirt, she ties a kanga around her waist. I tried to figure out the ‘why’ of these kangas. I thought maybe it was to protect the rest of their clothes from dust – and that’s possible, but dust isn’t as prevalent now with the paved roads. I thought maybe it was to have something handy in case they needed to carry something unexpectedly – and that’s possible, but they would sooner carry something on their head in a plastic bag or basket. At the end of the day and after prodding Lucas for insight, we figure it’s just ‘the way it is’ here – probably what they say about ‘the way it is there’ – in America and beyond, when they see all the wazungu walking around with water bottles, backpacks and sunglasses. The women have been decorating themselves in kangas for years – why stop now! And I won’t complain – I adore the colors and love to give kangas as gifts to my friends in the village – $4.50 to brighten a woman’s day … hamna shida!



















When I go, I won’t miss … (yes, there are contradictions!)

Maybe I won’t miss the dala dala rides - Bottoms, boobs, bad breath and B.O. in my face. As much as I marvel over the whole experience, there are times when I really want to be behind the wheel of my own pick-up or just be walking. In fact, once upon a late afternoon I chose to make a 50-minute walk home rather than try to pile into the 5pm slammed-full dala dala because I had just had enough that day – heat, dust, mzungu attention. If I do end up on an overcrowded dala dala, then I want to be the one standing in the isle, hovering above everyone else – even if it means having my neck bent or bumping my head on the roof. My least favorite experiences are when opportunists on the bus start to explore me – with their eyes, fingers and other body parts. Curiosity gets the best of them. Sometimes, it’s not such a big deal – like when children start stroking my hairy arms, but I’m not as delighted when men press their legs (or other bits) against me when there is room to do otherwise, women stare at me as if I were a car accident, and the dala dala conda (guy who shouts for riders and takes the money) keeps my change and tells me I’m paying for his friend … Ok, that only happened once and the Conda was a guy I had come to know – but still, the cheek!

I won’t miss the fires – wiping out grasses, trees, animals, insects; filling the air with smoke; filling small kitchens with air that shouldn’t even be used as a form of torture – yet it’s breathed daily by women and children who spend much of their time in the kitchen. Flying over Dar recently on my way back from Kigoma, I looked out from the small plane at the land below. It was amazing how much forest there was, and yet you could visibly see it deteriorating – being cut away at the edges for inhabitation. Of course, it did occur to me – they’re just a little behind us and once upon a time, someone flying over the US would have seen the exact same – we’ve just left little evidence of that for observation today. What forest that is left in the USA is hopefully protected. Mountains on the other hand, well – they seem to be the prey of the day for developers – at least where I live. Still, it’s hard to see the forests of Tanzania fade away, into the dirt that surrounds small huts or into a veil of smoke that burns the elders of the forest that have already been chopped down.

Side-note: One marvelous little view I had from the plane was a tiny dot in the center of an enormous forest – a tiny tan colored dot that in reality was probably 50 meters in diameter. No roads accessed the tiny dot and given that there were miles of forest surrounding it on all sides, it was even that much more remarkable that inside the tiny tan dot were 7 small huts! Imagine – they live, literally, in the middle of the forest (some might say in the middle of nowhere), far from water, roads, other people. How did they come to find themselves clearing a spot there! What do they eat? Drink? Hunt? Farm? Incredible!

I won’t miss “Shikamoo” – This is the greeting for ‘elder’ individuals – i.e. anyone older than you. It literally means 'I touch your feet.' It’s great when I’m sending it from me to one of the oldest people on earth, but when it comes my way – it’s just a reminder that I’m older than a lot of people.

I won’t miss being seen as a cash cow – If only they knew! I would have them call my mom to get the sad truth about my financials, but none of us can afford the call! So, I haggle as best I can – but I’m a bad haggler. I really don’t like to do it at all, but I really hate to be overcharged because of … I’ll say it – my skin color. I remember Tamrika trying to explain to Lucas two years ago about their diner – how prices are fixed and you can’t just charge someone more for their meal because they have accented English or a different colored skin. Lucas responded in his common expression of surprise( regardless of the subject): “Is it?!” So, sometimes I find myself haggling for 500Shs. That’s a lot right? Nope, that’s about $0.33. Still, it’s the principle.

Of course, I’m only human. So – at times I just want to throw money at a problem… After talking the price of rice down from 1000Shs to 730Shs per kilo (so I could buy 70kg for a wedding present) Lucas and I found ourselves being denied access to every dala dala that passed on our attempt to reach the village… they were all full and we were more like 4 people with the 2 big bags of rice. After sitting in the blazing sun on a sack of rice for too long, I wanted to just pay for a stinking taxi to the village – price difference: dala dala -$0.33, taxi $33.00! I didn’t do it! But I was so close at one point! Finally, God passed by in the opposite direction (Yes, like the ‘big guy’ only pronounced by the locals as ‘Goadie’ … and a name belonging to the conda who made me buy his friend’s fare). Lucas ran across the street and told him about our situation – God promised to save us a seat by not filling the dala dala at the station… Sure enough, he was scooping us up 15 minutes later on his return trip to the village. Gotta love God – saved me a heap! haha

As I leave, I have greater appreciation for …

I appreciate the elderly – As I mentioned in a previous entry, I never considered myself to be ‘good’ with the elderly. All of my family lives in Ireland – I saw my grandparents rarely and they all died when I was fairly young. Beyond my interactions with them, I didn’t have many old folks to kick it with. I’ve even had thoughts about how poorly I would serve my parents in their very old age – when that time comes ... next year. Haha! Just kidding mom and dad!!

After seeing several of what I believe to be the oldest people on earth, I have come to adore the elderly. These very old souls in Tanzania don’t get to retire to a home or be taken care of in quite the same way as they might in the US. Here, they continue to walk until they can barely hold themselves up on their tall walking staffs. They continue to carry food and firewood ‘to the head’ until they can no longer stand up straight enough to support anything that way – and then, they still carry what they can in a small plastic bag hanging limply from their old wrinkled hands. They continue to walk in flip flops or bare feet on tarmac or dirt roads, through the village and in the city. Everyone greets them with special words to show respect and most are given a seat on the dala dala by the younger generations – “Shikamoo, bibi. Shikamoo, babu”. They are surely not as old as they often look and I know their life expectancy must be far shorter than ours – for obvious reasons. Life is hard and to become old in Tanzania is an accomplishment. When, where and how they ultimately die is a mystery to me. I wonder when they stop and sit and decide – I’ve done enough. I’ll rest now and wait for my end.

I appreciate the fuel crisis – I can become (quietly) infuriated by the sight of the fires on the hillsides in the villages. Sometimes, they are random and unnecessary, perhaps a fire that rages out of control from a previously controlled burn. But more often, they are deliberate. They burn to cleanse the land of old grasses so that new grass can grow – new, fresh green grass that they will later cut to repair the roofs on their houses. In the never-ending quest for new grasses, however – the insects, trees and small animals suffer, not to mention the environment at large as the atmosphere comes under attack by the plumes of smoke. What isn’t destroyed by fire is chopped down for firewood – the primary (read only) source of fuel outside the city or big towns. But what is the solution?

I can appreciate that in the absence of an innovative solution and often in the absence of education and information about what these every day practices are doing to the planet, fires rage on and forests disappear – and really who cares what happens to the planet when your children fight for their lives against hunger and malaria, your wives die in childbirth and HIV positive individuals keep their illness a secret. (Those are worst-case scenarios, of course – but very prevalent where I’ve spent my time.)

Attempts have been made with more efficient stoves and alternative fuel sources, but as development workers will tell you – the problems there are endless as well. When left with no way to repair a new stove, people return to their old ways. When the new stove is so expensive that only one or two villagers can receive one, the positive impact is minimal. Until large scale, government-initiated and supported infrastructure improvements are made – such as installing gas lines or investing in wind and solar energy for electric stoves – the fires in western Tanzania will continue to rage on the hillsides, trees will be cut for firewood and water will take ages to boil in a pot balanced on three stones – just like the good old, old, old days. I’ll have to turn my head and focus on education for now and hope for change to come with it.

I appreciate the body odor – There is something very distinct about the body odor here. I wish I could really describe it. It’s like a combination of fruity, sour, acidic, sweet and just plain wrong. I would catch whiffs of it from time to time at random – on the street, in a shop, on the dala dala. And honestly, it wasn’t an odor I could really appreciate – until it happened to me. To this moment, my B.O. smells just like everyone else’s here – a testament to the link between B.O. and diet, I suppose. Truth be told, I’m not using antiperspirant, just deodorant – and we all know that’s not as effective, but it won’t give me breast cancer, so whatever. And so, I sit with myself long enough on a bus, plane or dala dala in Tanzania and I turn my nose up and away, furrow my brow and think back to the days when I smelled like lavender, rose, jasmine, Be Delicous by DKNY…. But it’s ok. I eat mgebuka, wali na mchicha (fish, rice and spinach) and drink it down with jusi nanasi au passion (pineapple or passion fruit juice) and I smell just the way I should – sweet, sour and downright putrid.

Napenda sana Tanzania! Truly - I do love Tanzania!