Dodoma Cont...

Day 2- Driving to Kondoa

After hours of meandering through the African desert, I am amazed when we pull up in front on New Dodoma Hotel. There’s a restaurant and fountain and the rooms even have television. Later I let out a sigh of relief when I realize my bathroom not only has indoor plumbing and running water, but hot water at that! I awake bright and early the next morning and sidle on down to breakfast in the hotel restaurant. I stand in the doorway looking for the program manager or the finance manager, or even the driver. When I don’t see them I turn around and go to look for them elsewhere. I stop short when I feel a hand on my elbow.

“Why you leave?” the driver says to me.

“I didn’t see you guys.”

“We there,” he points to the gingham covered table in the corner. “You sit here.”

I wonder why I’m sitting by myself instead of at the table with the three of them, but not wanting to be a burden, I put my things down quietly and head to the buffet. I decide that baked bean, ambiguous meat, and soup are too heavy for breakfast. Instead I choose two slices of bread with jam, a couple slices of pineapple, and a banana. (I stopped being a “breakfast person” when my Mom stopped making it for me around middle school age.) I sit by myself balling my bread into little misshapen spheres and stealing furtive glances at the men’s table.

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We arrive at the Dodoma C.O.P.E office an hour behind schedule. That is, of course, right on time in Swahili time. We cram into a small office with too many desks and begin the introductions. When it gets to me I stand and clear my throat, “Hi. I’m Krista. I’m an intern working with Africare for a year. I’ll be documenting the implementation of the COPE project.” The room falls silent.

“I’m American,” I explain.

“Ooooooh,” they exclaim. “You not Tanzania person. Your family from Malawi?” I get this a lot.

“For Krista’s benefit we will conduct this meeting in English,” the program manager chimes in. I am halfway grateful that I won’t have to juggle both understanding Swahili and filling the gaps in my knowledge about the COPE project. But I am irritated at the program manager for underestimating my Swahili. Uneasy glances fly around the room.

“We have come to check on the shortcomings of the project,” the program manager says in his thick African accent.

“Ok. Let us begin,” someone in the office replies. They discuss the project for 15 minutes in broken English supplemented with Swahili, until finally they tire of the effort it takes to remember the English they learned in secondary school and revert to Swahili. I don’t have the vocabulary to follow a Swahili conversation about “income generating activities”, “sub-grantees”, and “micro-lending” so I withdraw any possibility of contributing to the conversation and sit quietly doodling in my Croxley South African notebook.

When I develop a headache halfway through the meeting, I give up doodling and switch to counting my mosquito bites and wonder if I’ve contracted malaria already. Thirteen. Hmm. Note to self: keep an eye out for other symptoms and buy Panadol for headache.

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After a three-hour drive we’ve arrived in Kondoa, the rural town where we will gauge our project’s impact on the villages. Although it’s only 4 p.m., the program manager tells me it’s too late to venture into the bush. We’ll have to pass the evening at the hotel and go early tomorrow. We look around for a way to pass the time in the small, rural town. Cow tipping crosses my mind, but we settle on drinking sodas from tall glass bottles and talking in the small diner near the hotel. Well, they talk. I sit idly nearby. Finally, I grow tired of staring into space and excuse myself and go to retrieve a novel from my room. When I return dusk is settling and I am thankful for the flashlight function on my phone. I point it at the page and hunch over the Jodi Picoult novel. I am so into the novel that I barely hear the program manager calling my name a few hours later.

“Did you bring another novel with you?”

“Yeah. I brought one other.” Please don’t ask to borrow it.

“May I borrow it?”

No. “Sure,” I say, forcing a smile.

The thing is, I don’t know if this guy is a borrower-non-returner and it is very important that I get my books back. Each one of the books I have was given to me by someone special. Each of them represents a piece of my heart left stateside. They are inscribed and given in love. The one he is asking to borrow is the most special because my mother loaned it to me. I promised I would bring it back in good condition. With a heavy heart, I trudge to my room and retrieve “The Number One Lady’s Detective Agency.” I return to the diner and hand it to him hoping that he won’t break the spine or smear ugali on its pages. He places the book on the table and continues chatting. When I finish “My Sister’s Keeper” I look up and notice he’s barely passed page five.

“Let’s trade,” I suggest. He hands the book over. Inside I let out a sigh of relief and I slide the other book across the table.

“I think I’m going to retire for the night,” he says. I watch longingly as he tucks the book under his arm and saunters out of the diner. I say a little silent prayer that I won’t have to hunt him down to get it back. Something tells me I will.

Day 3- “It takes a Village…”

Our convoy jiggles over the crude, rocky path until the first white truck turns off onto an even more ragged “road”. Dusty children clad in mere rags appear beyond my window. My heart leaps a little. When the truck stops I climb out and approach the children.

“Shikamoo,” they great me. (Respectful greetings, Elder.)

“Marahaba,” I reply. (Thank you for the respectful greeting, young ones.)

I turn at the sound of footsteps on the dry leaves and see a tiny woman about my mother’s age emerging from a crude structure made of sticks and wild grasses. A young child clambers about the spot where I know her knees must lie under the torn and poorly mended wrapper.

“Shikamoo, Mama,” I pass the greeting to her.

“Marahaba,” she replies. One sooty eyelid peeks from behind her.

She and the program manager exchange words and she gestures for us to follow her. We walk around the back of the hut and she points to a small lean-to.

“Karibu. Ingia.” (You are welcome. Enter.)

I’m easily the tallest person amongst us and I have to curve my spine severely to fit under the porous roof. I hear strange noises and when my eyes adjust to the dim haze I see I’ve been ushered into the village chicken coup. The Mama explains that the family has used the resources they’ve received from COPE to start a small chicken farm. She shepherds us into an even smaller section of the structure and points to a spot under a makeshift bench.

“Nini?,” I ask her. (What?) She clasps her hands under her chin and grins ear to ear.

“Mayai,” she tells me proudly. (Eggs). I light the flashlight on my phone and sure enough there are nine ivory eggs perched in a delicate pyramid. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer of gratitude and when I open them again, they threaten to spill over.