Tunduma

We reached Tunduma, a town on the Zambian border. Yet another scene of chaos but on a larger scale than I had seen previously. We parked at the police station and crossed the street to the stall containing the businesswoman’s wares. She sold higher end clothing, much of which was Italian. God knew where she purchased these things.

We walked up and down the main road, the sides of which were choked with pedestrians. Through the crowds, cars and trucks were trying to pass. Each side of the road contained a long line of attached storefronts selling just about anything African. We then stepped into an alleyway where a maze of stalls contained clothes. In some stalls, people were sifting through piles of used clothes, presumably to resell. Shoppers, hustlers, and messengers were walking or pushing their bicycles through the maze. There was, however, a noticeable dearth of visitors, like tourists. The buyers were mostly Zambians, who come to make purchases that are unavailable across the border, which I saw was mainly houses and dirt.

After walking through the stalls covered with blue tarp, we headed toward the border. We passed into the free zone—that nether region where border crossers can safely walk without having to pass through immigration. The area was surrounded by high fencing. The only offices found there were immigration and customs and a gas station, as well as rows of cars sitting with dust piled upon them, waiting for their duties to be paid.

We stepped inside the Tanzanian customs office where I was given a stamped pass. Next, we went to the immigration office for Zambia and since we promised not to venture too far into the country, my pass was again stamped with an approval. On the Zambian side, a very long line of tractor trailers were waiting with their engines off. It seems that these trucks were waiting for entry by the Zambian authorities to go into Tanzania, although it is equally possible that the Tanzanian authorities were waiting to receive their bribes for a pass through. I also noticed that dry earth permeated everything. When I reached the hotel that night, I felt like I was still in a cloud of dust.

Upon returning to Tanzania, I noticed young men holding wads of Tanzanian currency. I learned that these men exchange the currency with the Zambians who bring their own currency into the country. Somehow, the exchange rate is determined: maybe by a comparison with the banks’ rates. But these men were actively seeking out customers and were trading quite openly. I learned that the Tanzanian government tolerates this activity because it provides employment to men who would otherwise be unemployed. And the exchange is very quick, whereas an exchange in the banks alone would be painfully slow with excessively long lines. So perhaps the government sees these men as facilitators to a quick-moving economy whereby the faster the money gets exchanged, the faster it will be spent in Tunduma.

An Open Letter to Sola

In you there is wisdom, humor, a life lived in the past, and beauty. It is because of these virtues that your future is held in high regard with optimism for your success.

But your success will be had at a price, as success often does. It won’t come to you willingly. Rather, it will wait and, since it knows infinite patience - after all, many many people never meet it in its full splendor - you will need to make great efforts to reach for it. But you must first decide what it will look like. Will it be envisioned in full regalia or will success to you be in Spartan attire?

However you choose, you must never stop in your quest for success. It may seem elusive at times, like it is playing a child’s game of hide-and-seek, but, with perseverance, you will capture it. Never stop searching: do not give up and acquiesce to defeat. On the contrary, it is expected that your journey will take a lifetime.

At the same time, you are not expected to embark on or endure this journey alone. This is not the way humankind attains success. Otherwise we would have perished ages ago. You shall have necessary tools to begin your safari.

Firstly, you will have the fortitude to endure hardship. You will be able to place challenges in their due perspective. This means relying on a strong sense of self. Lesser beings will try to hinder your efforts. They will question your motives and try to discourage you. Don’t let them. Keep going.

Secondly, you will possess discipline. This means the ability to focus while drowning out extraneous distractions. This is a skill and will take practice. You will not be disciplined in every encounter. But each encounter, whether or not successfully negotiated, will add to your repertoire of skills. Each encounter will strengthen you.

You may be wondering at this point what your journey will entail. It can’t be articulated for you clearly just yet, but this is evident; you have a whole family that lives in Tanzania. And they love you, even though you haven’t met. Your family, you will learn, comprises not only your blood relatives, but also friends. They are all awaiting you. You must go to them and learn from them. Some will not speak English, so you must learn Swahili.

You are a privileged boy of two worlds. You were born in a wealthy country. You know electricity, running water, indoor plumbing, and sturdy shelter. You don’t want for food, clean accessible water, and a life free from diseases like malaria or dysentery. This wealth must never be usurped selfishly. But rather, it must make you understand the larger implications: that having wealth means sharing it.

So, your future may be one of helping. Whatever profession you choose, altruism must weigh into your life. You will see. You will see how others live. There will be images of them that will be burned into your memory and, it is hoped, motivate you to action, however you decide.

You were born into two different worlds. You thus have a responsibility. Your success will not be yours alone to materially hoard. Your success will be shared. This is the vision that we have for you.

Kila la kheri

Darkness

Darkness, descending upon Mbeya, envelops the earth like a black velvet wrap. Stores close at dusk unless they have electricity or oil lamplights. Even those with electricity often do not stay open for long after the dark approaches. The workday revolves around the sun: 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. The sun rises and sets predictably in accordance to Tanzania’s proximity to the equator.

Time is measured differently there than here. The 24-hour cycle begins at 7 a.m.: one o’clock in Swahili time. To meet someone at one o’clock in the evening means to meet at 7 p.m. I learned this after I arrived in the country.

People move about very early in the morning. It is to make use of a full day when the sun rises at 6:30. At dusk, people rush home.

One night I arrived in my room after dark. The electricity was completely off. I had to feel my way to my room. I didn’t know if anyone else was with me. The darkness enclosed around my body. It bore down on my head. I could only hear my own thoughts and the maddening darkness. I did not know if anyone else was with me. The feeling was unnerving. Once inside my room, I found my flashlight. No one had followed me.

The darkness provides complete cover. I promised that I would not venture out after dark without a trusted escort. I could never hide my identity. As much as I covered myself, the whiteness of my skin gave me away in the darkness. One night, with my escort, a man appeared out of the black liquid of the dark. The whites of his eyes revealed his desperation. I was afraid of him and felt relief when I saw that he knew my escort. He was dying. He had Aids and was resigned to the fact that his time was limited. He begged for some small change from us. I hated him for his assumption that I would help him.  My escort provided money to him. I knew that if I was alone, he would have robbed me. This reinforced my fear of darkness.

However, people do operate in the darkness. In the night, they walk and ride along the shoulders of the roads while cars push forward, the beams of their headlights dimmed by the fine particles of dust choking the air. Streetlights are nonexistent. Sidewalks and barriers are nonexistent. It is a sight to see the main roads alive in the darkness with foot, bicycle, and vehicle traffic. But pedestrians get hit. I knew about two people who were killed. Others I knew were hit and injured. I was almost hit at least one time. One day, a driver came so close that I could feel the wind between his car and me. He skidded off of the road at the bottom of the hill I was descending. A crowd surrounded him. I don’t know why he did that.

Full moons bring out more people in the darkness. It is easier to see each other and avoid the jutting rocks stuck in the hard dirt of the footpaths and roads. People pass by, trying to recognize each other. Small oil lamps make roadside stands of vendors and their wares glow: fruit and vegetables, plastic trinkets, shoes, food, whatever. Under electric lights, bars and guest houses are in full-swing after dark, catering to the truckers who pass through Mbeya on their way to places as far as Sudan or South Africa. The drivers play pool or watch football and drink soda, beer, or Konyagi while cozying up to their favorite waitress or any woman providing a warm body. For many, the darkness is rewarding.