Into Tanzania

In Walden, Henry David Thoreau reveled in solitude. For him, separation meant time to reflect upon the significance of natural phenomena that others had chosen to ignore or exploit. Despite his glorification of isolation, however, Thoreau readily acknowledged that he often entertained human guests. My experience of living 15 months in Tanzania, one of the poorest countries in the world, has taught me that solitude was something neither to celebrate nor indulge.

I traveled alone to Tanzania in September 2006 to teach English in a local high school. I went without the assistance of an American NGO, mission, or university sponsorship. Before I left, I had no fantasy that I would receive visitors from home since my family made it clear that Africa was not one of their dream destinations.

Through the months of living in Tanzania, I endured repeated trials which often made me yearn for home. Some days, the feeling was overpowering, especially when loneliness seeped into my soul. Like Thoreau, I was never secluded. My job took me to a city with a population of two million. But I was isolated by a language barrier, culture, and skin color. And although I could not escape the feeling of living in a fishbowl surrounded by curious eyes peering from behind curtained windows or alleyways, I still spent much time alone. I thrust myself into 12 hour workdays, including weekends. Nights were particularly difficult. I always thought I was a bit of a loner, but Tanzania taught me that I hated being alone.

Eventually, I developed a network of Tanzanian friends and filled my weekends with visits. Once a friend asked me how I managed to eat since I didn’t cook. I replied that I was often invited into the homes of friends who, although very poor, would feed me. Visiting, however, meant that when sunset was looming, I had to dash home. I promised the school that I would not venture out alone at night. I knew the risks. One night I got stuck on the street past dark and was accosted by two men—one who kept touching my backpack and another who tried reaching into my jacket pocket.

To the first, I turned around and asked, “What do you want?”

“Which bus are you taking?” he replied. He then directed me to the correct bus.
Once on the bus, through an open window, I felt a hand in my pocket. I slammed the window shut, hoping to remove a few fingers. But the hand was swift and the would-be thief retreated into the night.

Through my experiences, I learned the lessons of patience, flexibility, and open-mindedness. For me, patience took the longest to accept, due, in part, to coming from a culture where services and results are rendered speedily and efficiency is based upon such markers. “There’s no hurry in Africa,” many would instruct me. I had to learn to accept delays without complaint since everything began late. At a small university where I also worked, meetings often began an hour or longer later than scheduled and concluded long after, usually between 2 and 8 hours.

During the rainy season, torrential downpours would turn the streets into small swift-running rivers. If I was out during a storm, I would walk home with my pitiable umbrella, much to the amusement of strangers who took refuge under the eaves. I have since learned to wait under the eaves however long it took for the storm to pass.

I needed flexibility in order to adapt to my daily existence. In the beginning months of my stay, the electricity was turned off 12 hours each day. From 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., I worked without this convenience. On some occasions, the electricity stayed off until well past 7 p.m. Without light, there was nothing to do but go to bed. Even with electricity, when the weather turned cold, the fluorescent light in my room blinked like a haunted house, again forcing me to live in the dark. My laptop became my best friend. I often watched movies when it was too dark to do anything else and too early to sleep.

And water often failed to flow. I kept a large bucket of water in my bathroom and learned how to bathe the important body parts since many mornings passed with no water streaming through the showerhead in my room. When the flow stopped, I had to pour water down the toilet in order for it to flush. During my last month in Tanzania, the water shortage was so severe that I could not even spare it for flushing. When I left for work on these days, I thought to myself that if I died, the last impression of the school workers collecting my personal effects would be that the wazungu, the whites, don’t flush their toilets.

Open-mindedness was essential when living amongst people from a different culture, many of whom either spoke no English or broken English. As I had no formal Swahili training prior to my departure, survival meant learning language basics, quickly. Most important was the greeting. Greetings amongst Tanzanians was not a quick “hi,” but rather an elaborate ritual that included many questions and answers in rhythmic succession with a simultaneous protracted handshake.

Knowing this rhythm helped me practice Swahili and gave me credibility. Greetings typically included inquiries into one’s family, work, school, travel, physical location, and health, followed by rapid responses indicating good health, satisfaction, success, and happiness. The handshake greeting transferred feelings without words. After one meal from a restaurant where I was acquainted with the waiters, I shook one of the waiter’s hands to thank him for his service. While tickling my palm with his finger, I thought, “Could this gesture possibly have the same meaning which it does in the United States?”

I began eating with my hands after my acquaintances shamed me. They taught me how to eat ugali, a staple food made from corn flour and water. It is rolled in the right hand, dipped in the accompanying meat or vegetable dish, and then popped into the mouth. I could also tear the meat from a fish with one hand, although I could never bring myself to eat the head as a native often would. In their own endearing way, Tanzanians could make me feel uncivilized when I used utensils.

But I longed for experiences of my own culture. One evening I had drinks with some friends from the Luo tribe, the same tribe from which Barack Obama’s father came. They were engaging, gregarious, and boisterous. Their sense of fun closely resembled that of Americans. I realized how much I missed a good hearty laugh with people unconcerned about public appearances.

In the end, the greatest lesson I received was from an older Kenyan man who had a glass eye that permanently looked askew. In English, he told me, “Persevere.” His words were prophetic.