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.

Mlima (Mount) Mbeya

The namesake of the city in which I lived,
taught, and learned.

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.