III. Dodoma
On Monday I showed up at my office ready to begin my first workweek. Within half an hour of my arrival I was told that I would be accompanying a program manager and a finance manager on a trip to the field. They were checking up on some projects and they thought it would be a good idea for me to tag along and witness the actual impact of all that bureaucracy and grant writing. I admit that I was worried when I realized we were headed to a rural area, but I figured that even if the trip was terrible it would be better than being alone with my thoughts (especially when those thoughts were becoming increasingly negative.)
On Tuesday I showed up to work at 8 a.m. with my big black duffel packed full of comfortable clothing and hand sanitizer and sat patiently at my desk waiting for our 9 a.m. take off time to roll around. Of course, since I’m in Africa, 9 o’clock came and went w/out so much as a mention of the trip. After my third cup of chai maziwa (tea w/milk) I decided to venture out of my “office” to find out what was going on. I ran into the program manager and he explained that the company car we were taking was having some trouble and had been taken to the garage by the driver. The program director directed me to the finance office where I was told to sign on the dotted line and handed 340,000 Tshs (Tanzanian Shillings) for accommodations and sundries. By 1 o’clock I was strapped into the front seat of the company’s Land Cruiser next to Jamaal, our driver. Because the steering wheel is on the right, I’m sitting on the left and I can’t get used to it.
Vignettes from the field
Day 1- Driving to Dodoma
As we get farther and farther away from the familiar parts of the city, my mind begins to race. I imagine every what-if scenario possible. I ask my co-workers to describe Dodoma. It’s between 6-8 hours away they tell me and since it’s a desert its very cold there. To my American mind this makes no since. Cold in a desert? “Just wait. You’ll see,” they say. I wonder if the clothing I packed will be warm enough. I close my eyes and sit back in the seat. I pray that we won’t stay in some unrefined bush hotel with no electricity or water. The program manager takes a break from chattering in Swahili to address me in English and it’s like he read my mind when he says, “You look worried. Don’t worry. We’re not going to sleep under a tree.”
When we get out of the congested heart of the city Jamaal takes us up to 140 km/h (87 mph) and the car falls into a comfortable silence. We begin to brake when we come up on a tractor trailer moving so slowly that it seems to be sleepwalking. Jamaal eases the car to the right, closer to the double yellow lines separating us from oncoming traffic. Then driving on the wrong side of the road we pass the truck. No one else in the car seems surprised and I realize that this is normal TZ driving. Passing on the wrong side of the road. Ok, cool. I get used to it and it’s a good thing too, b/c we do a lot of it in the days to come.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Have you eaten lunch?” the program manager asks me from the backseat.
“No”, I answer. I hadn’t eaten anything that day except for the three cups of tea I had in the office.
“Would you like us to stop for food?” he follows up.
“No”, I repeat.
“Are you sure? It’s not a problem.”
“I’m okay. I’m just not hungry,” I say.
I look at the driver for help, but he just stares straight ahead, driving on the wrong side of the road. The program manager gives up and sits back in his seat. The air conditioner in the car is not working, and between the moist heat building up and the men’s steady stream of Swahili I begin to nod off. I’m sleeping lightly with my novel dangling from my hand when the program manager frantically shakes me awake shoving a package of cookies into the front seat.
“You must be so hungry. We can’t have you fainting on us. Here eat this biscuit. I’m a medical doctor. You must eat.”
I start to explain that I was only sleeping but I think better of it and stuff a cookie into my mouth. When we stop at a roadside market thirty minutes later he buys me a Coke with Arabic writing on the can.
“Drink this. It’ll bring your blood sugar up.”
My blood sugar is just fine, but I comply.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
When I look up again I find that the sights of the city have given way to the wonderous pinks and oranges of an African sunset. The roadside vendors have been replaced with women carrying babies tied to their backs with colorful kangas and kitenges. The women are weighted to the ground with buckets piled three high, bundles of firewood, and tubs full of fresh fruits and vegetables for sale. Dusty old men wheel bicycles topped with oranges, or mountains of foam padding, or muslim women riding side saddle with their hijabs blowing in the wind. Beyond the foot traffic at the edge of road, blurred fields of wild sunflowers, tobacco crops and baobab trees roll by. I remember that they told me Dodoma is cold and I glance at the thermometer on the dashboard. The outside temperature has dropped from 35degrees Celsius (95 degrees Fahrenheit) in the city to 25 (77 Fahrenheit) and I wonder how much further it will go. The program manager pipes up again.
“Have you ever been to Tanzania before,” he asks.
“Yeah. I spent two months is Dar last summer,” I reply.
“Do you speak Swahili?”
“ A little. I studied it for five semesters. I can get around the city by myself.” I tell him.
“Do you understand what we’re saying in the car?”
“Parts of it,” I say. “You guys are speaking really fast.”
“Have you traveled around Tanzania a lot?”
“I’ve only been to Dar, Morogoro, and Zanzibar,” I answer.
“That’s not a lot. You must have a really hard time not knowing anything about the country,” he tells me.
He pauses then adds, “I don’t envy you.”
His comment reeks of complacency. If you don’t envy me, brother, you’re cracked. This is the biggest adventure of my life. I’m living independently in a country I really love—a place with such a rich culture and a deep history. Every day is a mystery and the novelty never wears off. I might be feeling my way around in the dark but I’m hardly afraid, and the light that does seep in is beautiful.
Doesn't he ever get that restless feeling that sneaks up on me? Doesn't he ever feel like he's in a cage that's a little too small?
“Have you ever been to the U.S.,” I ask.
“No.”
“Aren’t you curious about the rest of the world?,” I try again.
“No.”
No, then. I suppose he doesn't.
TO BE CONTINUED..
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