Rainy seasons yield warm sunlight and beautiful days...

by Terri Horn, IWM serving in Bukoba, Tanzania

It is November. The weather is getting colder. I have approximately 6 weeks left here on-site and as time it gets closer for me to leave, every day feels more important to me than the last. I recently had an unique experience that I would like to tell you about. The rainy season has begun but this morning, after weeks of cloudy, grey weather, the sun reclaimed its literal spotlight by sending luminous rays into my bedroom morning at 7:30 a.m., to the point where the light itself was gently nudging me out of bed in the sweetest of ways: “I’m back! I’m here! Please pay attention to me!” So I got up out of bed, showered, and headed for the taxi stand. Today I needed to make a trip to the Hekima Girls’ Secondary School, where my food and rent money is kept- opening an international bank account here is both costly and unnecessary... oh, the cost of being a foreigner. I headed to the nearest taxi and hopped in, sitting in between 3 other adults squashed into the backseat, making a rough but not entirely offensive ride (as I’ve been in taxis even more over packed than that). On the ride up, I cannot help but notice a young mother with distinct scars on her arms in the front seat. She is holding a little boy in her lap who looks to be around 1.5 years old. He has the same eyes and lips as her, and he is gazing directly at me, undisturbed by the bumps and scattered dust the driver is battling so as to deliver us to our destination. The boy really is too young to have been taught the word “Zungu, zungu!!” (White person/foreigner) so I have to wonder if in his eyes I really am noticeably different from him, or does he only notice me because it is pointed out? In the naive, Americanized part of my brain that is so used to living in racial/cultural/religious heterogeneity, I still sometimes find it difficult to live in a place where the children are taught to recognize differences instead of similarities in those who are not African - i.e. my skin color, native language, and economic status. It took a long time to get used to this but even so, I know I am lucky. I am lucky enough to have a Board of staff, coworkers, friends, and house landlord who have learned to accept my behavior, my choices for ME. I have been able to form friendships and spend time with people who look at me as the “same” as them. It took me time and many interviews with BUWEA members to realize that they all have the same wants and needs- a healthy happy family, chances for continuing education, and the independence and self-sufficiency that comes with having an income generating business, and the value the women feel when they are able to contribute to that. It is so much less than what I have, what I want, yet it is everything to them.

I am met at the Hekima School by a young lady named Macrena- she helps me navigate my way through the office where my money is kept- and when we are finished, she offers to escort me back to the road to return to town. Macrena explains to me that she attended the Hekima School for 4 years and has finished Form 7, as high as you can go in secondary school, and is now waiting to begin university in September. She mentions that she wants to study Languages in college. She is working at the school as a librarian and living with other teachers. As we talk, I am trying to enunciate and “culturize” my English as best as I can- but I can see that Macrena comprehends me perfectly. On the dirt road, I am accompanied by 2 young boys who follow me from a distance, practicing their English with one another, “How are you? I am fine thank you”, “Where are you going?” and I’m entertained by the fact that their show is not even for me. The road links at a beautiful, large Catholic cathedral that is attended by the Sisters who live near the Hekima School. The boys cross the dirt road and stand on the other side, concurrently playing, and then turning around, wrapping their arms around each other, and I can still hear them murmuring in English. When I try to speak to them in Swahili, they become a little miffed and raise their voices to respond to me in a hyper-mature, over-developed man voice that is not in agreement with their young ages- I am sure they couldn’t be older than 7 years- and I am reminded again of just how quickly the children are expected to grow up here. While waiting for the taxi to pass, a small boy of around 2 years is sent to me by his mother who is also going to town. He approaches me with his head down, briefly glances at me with wide, wondering eyes, sticks out his hand and gives me a small orchid flower. The flower is silky soft with buttercup- yellow stripes inside and gives off a lovely sweet aroma. There is a swift cool breeze in the air that for some reason, reminds me of finality and longing of something special, like the melancholy feeling that accompanies the last day of a vacation. The warm sun on my shoulders makes everything beautiful and I feel like I’m being kissed all over by something wonderful and loving. I am suddenly and overwhelmingly aware of how much I will miss this place - despite myself, despite all the difficulties. I deeply care for the BUWEA members- their smiles appear in my dreams at night, fore-haunting me of what I will miss. Tanzania, somehow I do love you. I only wish I was conscious of these moments more often so that it doesn’t seem like time is flying by, so that later on, I won’t feel like it was taken from me. God, help me to see each day for what it is.