Daily Life in Tanzania

Well… it’s been a month and a half in Tanzania. I’ve found myself growing accustomed to the random and foreign occurrences that make up daily life here; the frequent mishaps that some would tend to call annoyances. Every morning I wake to them and every evening I settle with them.

The roosters rattling my early morning ear drums, at times causing me to scheme up ways to falter the birds’ irritating voice boxes. The flick of the water heater switch minutes before a shower. The geckos, their constant webbed-feet presence and the proof on my walls that they haven’t been going hungry. The ring of the iscari’s cell phone every evening at 11:00 to ensure alertness. The low rumble of the dog’s chords that elope into all-out three minute barking sessions, warning neighbors of the guard duty he takes quite seriously. The clink of the arch-shaped lock against the wrought-iron gate every time I depart and re-enter. The lime green flip-flops that save my feet from the shower floor. The uncapping and pouring and setting down and pouring and recapping of bottled water as I brush my teeth each morning and evening. The recycled plastic bags from the supermarket that delegate my laundry into two; those to be washed by the neighbor’s house-help and those to be washed by my own hands in the bright blue basin on a Saturday afternoon. The constant re-wearing of clothes that are passably clean or aired long enough to have found a neutral scent. The wrinkled mosquito net that’s lifted and tucked less cautiously with each passing day. The muesli and long-life milk poured sparingly into my brown cabin bowl for breakfast each morning. The reused plastic Ziploc bag that faithfully carries my lunch to school with me each day. The malaria pills and vitalizers that wait for my begrudged throat each morning in my dresser. The pot holes in the road that could only be called such if you were cooking giant’s food. The morning and afternoon coffee breaks that alternate between brewed beans and black powder; the former, clearly, being the more desirable. The constant catching of the word “mzungu” on my ears when I’m out in public, followed by consequent stares, “mambos”, “jambos”, “habaris” and marriage proposals. The dark layers of dust I find coating even the most skillfully covered white socks at the end of each day. The cool mornings that cause me to succumb to wearing the already over-used pink polar fleece zip-up. The constant mental evaluation of my rate of product-usage; shampoo, Kleenexes, and shillings spent on food per week. The familiar faces in photos hung carefully on my wall, reminding me of what I’ve temporarily left behind. The specific way of my temperamental bedside light that requires me, each evening, to shut the power off from the outlet it’s plugged into before flicking the light switch on and then going back to let the electricity flow. The hastily-written and received updates from friends and family via the neighbor’s internet hook-up. The buzz of the voltage converter box in my living room’s corner as my laptop charges. The frequent suppression of a desire to photograph everything in sight; always, of course, at the risk of looking like a major tourist. The feeble attempts at Swahili-speaking with the locals. The way my heart seems to inflate and beat harder when I realize I’m alone here. The celebrity status I’m automatically given just because my skin is several shades lighter than night. The bold yellow paint on my living room walls that doesn’t allow for a restful mind. The “in by six pm” rule imposed upon white females; the one I generally despise. The traffic patterns, or lack thereof, that clearly reveal the caution that was thrown to the wind long ago by local drivers. The muzzled speakerphone voice that hovers over the land several times a day, reminding Muslims of their faith commitments. The village kids that run alongside vehicles requesting “pipi,” candy. The heat the sun brings when it forces its way through spring clouds and rests upon my eager face. The cornered feeling I receive after looking into hazed-over blue-grey eyes of street beggars; the wondering of how they got to that place and the longing to make things different for them. The deep sense that there is a gap between locals and foreigners that is nearly impossible to bridge and the consequent yearning to take on the challenge.

The desire to show this place to the world… so they can see and experience and feel what I have.

My experience has certainly had it's challenges - most of them centered around teaching - but I am learning and growing so much. Sometimes I still wake up in the morning and say, "God, I'm in Africa right now!" and I'm sure he says "Of course you are Rachel... I've known since the beginning of time that I would answer this prayer for you." It's a beautiful thing - this life, this adventure, this God I serve.

Let me know how I can pray for YOU please?