Going

"I get the urge for going but I never seem to go.
I get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
and summertime is falling down and winter's closing in."
- Joni Mitchell

November 6, 2008

You have some sort of weird guilt or something you are trying to prove when you are an American living in Africa, or at least when you are a PCV. I think this is what has led me to live for two months with only one fork-just to see if I can. When you come from the land of plenty you are used to every comfort, and so of course living with one fork is not a sustainable way to live when you know what's out there. Two years of living like this would cause you to be unhappy- but in the beginning it is something you need to grapple with. PCVs who have been here for two years treat themselves. They spend more money at the nice shop on things like olive oil because they know just how much better it makes life. And I wonder- is this why they are happy living here for so long? Because there is some semblance of American life in Africa? Since I have only been here for five months, I am still practicing going without which I think is what led me to give up my front seat position in our village pick-up truck on the way home from town. I know I have complained a lot about the transport here- but there is more.

I gave up my seat under the condition that a mother with a baby sit there, not some man. Our village car is an old green toyota pick-up. In the back is everything my village will need for a time- sodas, chickens, boxes of sugar and flour, tiles, veggies and then the villagers who have come to town sit on top of all of it. The bed is covered with some canvas that is attached to some iron rods that come from the cab ceiling. I climb into the back, along with 15 other villagers- this is not including three babies and two toddlers. It is already packed with luggage but I find some room on top of some metal pipes and curl into a tight ball while trying to keep my skirt over my knees so as not to be "indecent." I am uncomfortable immediately. I have to hold myself up with one foot at a weird angle to keep my head from bumping into the guy's crotch who is standing over me- and I am probably in the mostly comfortable position of anyone. It is bumpy back there and I bounce around on the pipes and think of lazy-boy chairs because it has to be mind over matter to not think about all the bruises I am getting. In a way, though, I welcome it- "Bring it", I think, "I can handle this and I deserve this, this is how my village travels and I am a villager." After the first hour of it though, I have to convince myself to not call "Uncle" and have them put me in the front again. I look around at my villagers faces, they all must be horribly uncomfortable, yet none of them is complaining. On their faces is a look of total acceptance- "This is how we get to town, might be uncomfortable, but this is what we know."

I still can't believe no one complains. When PCVs travel together we complain loudly in English. That is a great thing about Tanzania- even though some people speak English, they speak more of a British version, they don't know our slang and they don't understand sarcasm- making American English entirely confusing to them. If you speak quickly enough running your words together, even the best English speakers don't get it. I have become good at this and don't feel bad about it because they talk about us all the time in Kiswahili. So it makes us PCVs feel better to put it out there-"Could they get anymore people on this bus?" or "Yeah, stop again for no apparent reason." But this time I am travelling alone so I complain loudly in English in my head. I space out for a bit- thinking about this blog entry and how everyone who reads it will also have to listen to my English complaining, when there is a loud noise, things get bumpier, my head finally hits the guy's crotch and my patient TZ companions start yelling. The truck stops and people start jumping out- so I jump out too. We have blown a tire, but this has never happened to me in America, so it takes a minute for me to realize what is up. Now I am on the side of the road, there is no villages around, so I wonder what will happen next. I know in everyone's life they don't know what will happen next, but it is more true here. It is weird to have such little control over anything. So I watch with interest where I will end up, who will help me, what will I eat, when will I get there, etc every day of my life here.

A big semi type vehicle comes along eventually. A man gets out of the cab in a clean khaki outfit and a hat-he has eyelashes that curl past his eyebrows and white straight teeth. He looks me up and down and then says in great English- "What is someone like you doing somewhere like here?" I say, "I am an American." As if that answers his question-I am an American we do what we want. But really I am surprised at the way he is speaking to me when he says, "I know". Americans tend to be fairly easy to pick out of a crowd of Europeans, haven't exactly figured out why yet... So I say, "I live here". He tells my villagers to start putting the luggage in the back of his truck- he will take us home, but he tells them in Kiswahili, "She will sit in front" motioning toward me. My village agrees and I think "thanks guys for offering me up, what does this guy want?" But he has clean fingernails and a nice smile and sometimes that is all you can go on. So I climb into the cab to a captain's seat (I conjured up a lazy-boy!) David, the driver, says he rarely gets to speak English and wants me to tell him all about America. I tell him things and finally he says, "It sounds like you have a lot of things, but do you think you are any happier?" I say, "No, Tanzanians seem very happy and content." He says "Yes, you are searching for something here, what is it?" I really can't answer him still.