I very infrequently dream. When I do, I almost never remember them. Never. But lately I've been waking in the Arizona mornings with vivid images in my head, of a place that is real but so often itself feels like a fleeting dream. The truth is that my feet stood on her red earth. My hair was blown into disarray by winds traveling all the way from Dar es Salaam, from the Indian Ocean. I traveled her hills and plains, roads and rivers. I hiked her backbone, and stood in the shadow of her great heights while an entire continent spread away before me. I fell in love with her people: their welcome, their kindness, their spirit of resiliency and perseverance. "Hakuna matata." Yes. I had no worries there. Only hope, and purpose.
After six months, only so much remains to be said.
I often think of her--the Tanzania I knew, as brief as our meeting was--during the most inane parts of my day. At the grocery store, I see 24-packs of Diet Coke and remember walking to the store on the corner in Karanga--with its walls of cardboard, held together with wire--and ordering a Coke, glass bottle, slightly warm... and then returning the bottle for the next customer.
I sit and read my Multiple Regression Analysis textbook and remember how much the children of Kiwodea loved the handful of books that dotted the library room shelves, and how we'd spend time sitting on the frayed rug and looking at picture books with English words:
Cat.
"Kaht!"
Blue.
"Broo!"
Giraffe.
"Twiga! Twiga!"
Juh-raff.
"Juh-raff-eeeee!"
I remember the boys fighting over one book with pictures of cars and trains and airplanes in it. There just might be a universal boy code, it seems.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to listen to the 2010 FIFA World Cup theme song--Shakira’s “This Time For Africa”--without picturing children in dusty clothes and bare feet, singing and dancing in the gravel road just outside the CCS home base gates. All of them knew every single word. In English and Spanish. I picture them all: Ivonne, dancing with Regina on her back; Brenda, creating goggles out of a discarded plastic bottle and being sassy to everyone; Beep Beep, and his wise little face; the boys playing soccer with a deflated rubber ball; little Lytie, tugging on my hand (a silent plea for me to spin her around and around and around to the music); Raziki’s smile, with missing front teeth; little Peter, shouting “Mzungu!” every day, because every day he’d forgotten our names; Lulu and Sefarina, giggling at everything; the game of tickle tag we created (otherwise known as “poke Jen in the ribs and run away screaming as she tries to catch you”).
Yesterday, on the walk to school through my middle-class neighborhood in Tempe, I remembered walking the dusty roads between Karanga Village and Kiwodea: the precarious metal bridge dangling 30 feet over the Karanga River, with holes in the floor. When I go anywhere with friends lately, I find myself thinking of the ones who have scattered across the country, to Canada, to Europe, to Australia... who are probably still remembering the same things I do. I find myself thinking of the friends I left, who remain in Karanga and Moshi.
I am terrified to forget.
My last week in-country was a blur, only further obscured by the passage of the months. Six of them. Going through the last days' notes in my journal leaves much to be desired. I regret not writing things down when I should have. There were memories in those potential pages I can never get back now. (More terror.)
At Kiwodea, that last week, I presented Mama Nancy with the finished mural project in the special ed classroom. Being Mama Nancy, she was slightly mysterious with her praise, although I do think she liked it. Also during that last week, we met with potential recipients of the micro loans, as we were able to raise enough money for the loan program's operating budget to actually begin issuing loans again. Most of them were widows, with several dependent children. Their project ideas were varied, mostly having something to do with agriculture. One woman wanted to start a beekeeping/honey business. I liked that one. It was good to see our time and efforts come to fruition, and to get a glimpse of what was to come.
On Wednesday night, that last week, we CCS volunteers who remained took taxis into Moshi for drinks at Hotel Kindoroko. We sat in the open-air bar on the rooftop, several stories above the street, drinking Tusker beer and dreading the idea of leaving. In the twilight, I heard the song of the muezzin from the mosque down the street, beckoning the faithful to prayer. I stood on the roof, breathing in the early night and wondering if I would remember all of this in a year. And when I would be back.
We met up with the guys from Pristine Safari one night at Glacier: Mussa, Adam, Hussein. We sat around a bonfire and sipped Konyagi to warm ourselves against the chill of the evening. Once the Konyagi kicked in, the cameras came out, and much dancing and picture taking and celebrating ensued. It was good to see them and say goodbye. We've kept in contact across the distance, through the Internet, and I consider them friends. At that time, through the blur of the gin and the camera flashes, it was simply yet another series of goodbyes.
Katie, Mel and I took a walk on one of those last days, from CCS Karanga to the Watering Hole restaurant for some breakfast; retracing our steps along the now-familiar washboard roads, waving to the children sitting in doorways ("Mzungu! Mzungu!"), avoiding the mangy dogs prowling the fringes; passing the carpenter building bed frames, chairs and tables in his open-air workshop; passing women in their colorful kangas with baskets of produce on their heads; passing time (too quickly). We sat on the banks of the Karanga River and ate pancakes, and drank coffee brewed from beans grown on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro.
These are the things I never want to forget.
On Friday, it was impossible to say goodbye to the Kiwodea students. Impossible. We threw them a little party for our last day, with juice and cookies and Mama Nancy's sweet rolls. We hugged the teachers; Mwalimu Joyce even had tears in her eyes. It was impossible to shake their little hands, give them all one last hug, and say "Kwaheri." It was impossible to cross through the gate, into the street, and climb into the waiting van. It was impossible not to cry.
On my last night, Saturday, I ate dinner at home base with Mama Lillian and Babas John and Fulgence. My eyes were flooding (had been for at least 24 hours) but I was trying desperately not to embarrass myself. Baba Fulgence had told me several times that there was no need to cry; "My daughter, you are not leaving us, merely postponing your stay." But how much time had to pass before my stay could resume? The sadness emerges from the unknown.
Baba John and Mel drove me to the airport. It was a very quiet ride. I managed to make it through security and immigration before breaking down yet again. A lot of mzungus sitting near me at the gate looked at me strangely. They couldn't even begin to understand. They didn't know there are so few places I've encountered, in my relatively limited experience of the world, that have gotten under my skin and into my heart so deeply and profoundly as this country has.
I left Tanzania six months ago. But.. not really, perhaps. In the instant I wake up in the morning, with the vividness of these dreams lingering, perhaps I unconsciously realize I never truly left.
The following is an excerpt from my journal; my last, which I wrote from the plane, heading home:
Kilimanjaro was spectacular tonight, on the drive to the airport. Both Mawenzi and Uhuru peaks were showing; the glaciers on Uhuru reflected the sunset. I've never seen more of the mountain than I saw tonight... a giant's silent farewell.
My heart is heavy. But, as Baba says, I am not departing forever... merely postponing my stay. Maybe that is the true nature of goodbye: the hope--no, CERTAINTY--we will meet again.
10:30 p.m.
Stopped over in Dar es Salaam. Almost jumped off the plane and made a break for it. Would have been stopped by some scary-looking dudes with some big guns. Not worth it. Or maybe...?
There are some good things waiting for me that I've missed. Parents, family, friends, drinkable tap water, endless amounts of cheese... to name just a few. But part of me is adamant that I should come back to stay on a much more extended (permanent?) basis. And feels like that would be the life choice that fills me up with utter happiness and peace. I don't yet know how much of a part of me that is, or how strongly it will call to my conscience in a week--or a month--a year. But I will come back. I have to.
So, I'm leaving... but--not really.
Kwaheri, Tanzania wangu. For now.
For now.
