As I mentioned, I forewent the cheap guest house accomodation for a little peace of mind. I'm still paying a very reasonable rate for a nice cozy room and my own bathroom on the top of a hill overlooking the lake. I wake up and mozy on over for breakfast - which never changes in its options: fresh papaya, pineapple, banana, warm chapati, and a surprise tub of peanut butter and a side of jelly. Of course, chai, coffee and hot chocolate as well as fresh juice are always available! Not so shabby. The TV usually blares in the room, often from Aljazeera - which has me convinced that little good is happening in the world right now. The majority of the news I see is about police in Iran killing protesters, people in Israel taking over Palestinian lands and properties, US killing civilians in Afghanistan, Somali pirates kidnapping anyone and random and assorted details about trains and planes crashing in and around the US... so, I take all that with my fruit, wash it back with fresh juice and then begin my day with the intention of having a positive impact on a seemingly doomed planet!
I buy a bottle of cold water at my hotel and as I walk the 20 minutes to town, I carry the bottle as close to my body as possible until the temperature of my body goes down and that of the water goes up... That'll be the end of comfort for the next several hours. On the way to town, I spread greetings in both Kihaa and Kiswahili to those who allow me to do so, by looking up and showing a hint of warmth on their faces. Others choose to keep their head down and march along with their own purpose at hand. My most successful greetings are with women, children and young fellahs ... The men, though not all, seem less interested in saying 'hi' to the mzungu . Once in a while, a young man will pick up pace to join me on the walk to town.
My last walking partner was a bright young boy, studying computers on his break between terms in secondary school because he saw it has his only way forward. By the end of our shared path, he was - as is ever to be expected - telling me how Tanzania is no good, the government is no good, they need outside nations to help them ... he asked for my contact and suggested that I could help him get to the US for a better life. This will always be the end of a conversation with a young man between the ages of 16 and 25 ... almost without fail. If it doesn't come up, I am pleasantly surprised. I have learned how to say no gently to the request for contact information and usually give a little schpeel about how the people of Tanzania must own the change themselves, stand up to corruption, seek ways to improve their lives and vote for politicians that support their views... I know this is all in vane, because they can really only do so much here and they are just desperate for a way out or a way forward.
Upon reaching Kigoma town, I meet my buddy Lucas. He has been indespensible in terms of providing wonderful company, assistance with communication and guidance on decisions about how to navigate my mission to build classrooms and support children in local villages. We board the dhalla dhalla (TZ version of Kenyan matatu or minibus) and make the journey to Mwandiga - about 20 minutes. The dhalla dhalla starts with a reasonable number of people - one per seat. As we pass through Kigoma town and then to Mwanga, we have a proper motley crew, seated and crunched in the isle in the little minivan, shoulders hunched, heads bowed, arms extending this way and that to hold on as the dhalla dhalla meanders along, shouting out the window for more riders to join. The folks on the bus are on their way home, to work, to school ... with buckets of fish, baskets of fruit, school books, cell phones and babies. No one chats on the dhalla dhalla except, often, Lucas and I. People take a moment to check out my hairy arms or my bracelets, or maybe my unusually rosy cheeks, made worse by the heat and sun, or to acknowledge that I have braids in ... or ... I have no idea! I just see them looking and I have no idea what they think. I only make these assumptions based on my interactions with people I know better - mostly children, who aren't afraid to touch my moles, touch my cheeks and stroke my hairy arms and ask "Kwa nini?" .. "Why?"
Once we reach Mwandiga .. actually, five minutes prior, we take in a deep couple of breaths and let out audible sighs ... well, I do! This is my mental prep for the walk ahead. Under an unforgiving sun (which I often curse and in my head call 'rude' and 'insulting') we walk along an equally abusive dusty road. With every passing vehichle, which luckily isn't that many - we turn our heads, grunt and groan and inevitably inhale too many particles of dust, which manifest as a lump in my throat at the end of the day. I have learned now that it is crucial to cover my mouth and duck into the bush with every passing vehicle. (picture: me swearing I'll die of dust inhalation) Lucas and I have investigated other paths and have been able to avoid the dusty disaster a bit.
When we arrive to Kiganza village, 1.5 hours later, I am soaked through. Luckily - my tops are very lightweight and dry fast - but there's never a time when I arrive without wet marks everywhere that I have a concentration of sweat glands. I'm sure they think I'm crude for sweating so much. They don't seem to. The women we pass comment to Lucas that they are happy to see me walk, but am I not too tired? They say they rarely see the white women walk so much and they like it. Three women even commented to one another as we passed (which Lucas overheard) about what a nice form I had for a white woman.... hmmm... I'm not sure how to take this given that the only white folks I've seen have been thin ... this could mean one of two things: Either that I am thin and fit for a white woman, compared with what they see on the TV ... or that I am a nice full-figured woman, compared to the white women they see in Kigoma. Either way - I feel great and I'll take their compliment with a smile because while I'm checking them out with their colorful kangas wrapped around their waists and huge bags of charcoal on their heads, they're checking out my body and admiring my form.
We get to the village and from the very outskirts, my name evolves from Mchina (my name through Mwanga where the Chinese have been working on the highway they're building) to Mzungu (my name from people who don't know me from any other whitey) to Rehema (my name with the children and people of Kiganza from last year). Lucas is always surprised by how far away from the village we can be sometimes when the children are running up behind us yelling "Rehema!! Mambo!!" I love it -oftentimes, I don't recognize the little ones who yell my name, but somehow and at some point I either had an interaction with them or they heard of me. Touching!
We arrive to the village with books, pencils, pictures, crayons and notebooks for the kids that I have been supporting through school - with the great assistance of friends back home. Each day - we have a different mission, in the form of different people to visit. First, we visited Hindu and the Fubusa family to give them pictures from years past, money and books. Within minutes of arriving, word spread like the infamous village wildfires and the children come running from all corners - laughing in disbelief that I actually came back. This year I have had the fabulous luck of seeng all the children that I love so much and meeting some of their parents for the first time. They are always so happy to see the 'famous Rehema' that they heard their kids talk about in the evenings over dinner (as Saidi's dad recounted). In addition to books and supplies, Lucas and I made one specific trip to deliver 10 mosquito nets to those that we're supporting in school as well as some of the men that I met last year - for their children and wives to stay malaria-free...
Malaria was in our face on our first trip to the village. Upon visiting some guides from the forest that we knew last year, we learned that one of them was suffering Malaria alongside his wife. They were very uncomfortable with the illness. Here, malaria is a killer. For most of them, it feels like an intense flu and with medicine they will be fine. Many of them have been getting malaria from time to time since childhood and have built up a type of immunity to it that prevents them from dying as quickly as a westerner might, but they will die without treatment. We walked past a young girl crying on the road to Kiganza on afternoon. Lucas asked her what was the matter as you don't often see any grown folks crying in public ... and she told us that her uncle just died of malaria... So, now - two of our friends were very ill with the disease. The husband didn't have the money to buy medicine, so I took the prescriptions from the doctor and came back the next day with meds. A few days later, he was up and back to work - so all was good. My friends Hadley and the Gibson family were some of many who donated nets - and those two nets, all the way from the SLC REI store, went to this family to protect mom, dad and their two boys from future incidents!
At the end of a day of visits, cooling off under the trees or in the welcome shade of their homes, we pick ourselves up and prepare for the 1.5 hour walk back to Mwandiga. On lucky days, the Chinese road builders are also wrapping up their work day and often pick us up - solidarity of the foreigner I suppose. Some of them speak English, but many don't - which the locals find funny. When I walk past a worksite, the local men tell the Chinese men to greet me because they know they don't speak English and want to put them on the spot or test them. The Chinese men usually just smile and wave and I greet the locals in their tribal language, which distracts them from their original purpose and has them rattling off all kinds of requests and comments from 'Can I walk with you?' to 'Where are you from?' and 'Where are you going?' to my favorite 'I love you.'
Dusty, tired and very content after a day with the kids, we arrive to Kigoma town. Having skipped lunch (I'm on two meals a day here), we head to our favorite cafe in town for Wali na Samaki (Rice and fish). We order one plate and share (for $2.50). We eat from the plate with our right hand, balling rice up in our palms, dipping it into some chili sauce and picking flesh from the whole fish staring back at us. The first day we ate together, the girls working there were a little surprised. Lucas commented on their expression when we sat and shared from the same plate - common practice at home, with families - but less a common sight in the cafes with the mzungus.
Finally, Lucas and I bid farewell for the day and I make my way along the 20 minute journey to my hotel - with one final hill to climb before sipping a cold ginger drink, watching the sun drop into the lake and then showering with cold water and watching it run orange past my feet into the drain.
Fortunately for any of you who come next year, I bet that road will be completed by the Chinese and the trip from Mwandiga to Kiganza will be served by dhalla dhalla on tarmac ... lucky you!
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