A Day In The Life: Reflection on My First Two Weeks in Village

As I boarded the Kikwesha bus to go to my site on April 25th, I must admit, I felt deeply alone. There is something quite jarring about the aloneness that surrounds you in a new country, when you are still learning its nuanced ebbs and flows. Waiting for the bus driver to be ready to leave, I felt isolated and alone. I felt laughed at when I misunderstood something someone said in Kiswahili. I had one of those moments where I desperately missed home, or perhaps, not home, but instead the familiar, the comfortable.

Eventually, we started off towards the Pare Mountains. As soon as the bus began to move, and I felt the afternoon air blowing against my skin, and I felt it all lifting. I put my headphones in, and I felt the road moving, fast and rough, beneath the vehicle. I took a deep breath, I could smell rain hanging in the air. Something about moving vehicles and music brings me to my soul place. I almost always cry when I take off on a plane, a train, apparently a bus too. There is a release in the movement, that I think perhaps mirrors the movement in my heart.

The Kikwesha bus is always staffed by the same three men. One older man, Joseph, who seems to be quietly in charge. A younger guy, Safiel, who seems to do most of the heavy lifting to load banana bunches, bags and other belongings onto the bus. And the driver, whose name I never catch because he always says it too quickly, and who reminds me of some Neil Cassidy-type wild man with a slightly crazed look in his eye, who tells me I’m late no matter how early I arrive.

About an hour from Mvaa, it started to rain. The roads leading to my village are rough as it is but adding rain to the equation certainly doesn’t help matters. As the bus slowly emptied, I was one of three or four people left. The young guy, Safiel, sat down with me and I gave him one of my headphones. Together we listened to folksy music that had a deep, penetrating bassline. He smiled, and we both nodded our heads. These are the moments that bring to life and texturize what it means to live here. He wrote on a piece of slightly wet piece of paper, Ninakupenda. I like you. He thought I didn’t understand. I laughed. I wrote, Ninapenda kutana rakifi tu. I like to meet only friends. He nodded, slightly confused, but accepting of my response. And just like that, the moments are both beautiful and utterly strange.

On Friday April 26th I woke up and made my way to Gonja Hospital, which is one of the largest hospitals in this rural part of the mountains. The previous week I had spotted two fellow wazungu, or foreigners, wandering down the road in my village. Turns out they were two American medical students finishing up a month’s longs surgical rotation at Gonja. So that Friday I arrived at the hospital and did rounds with them. Eventually they geared me up with scrubs and told me I would be able to observe their surgeries that day. While I do have a history of fainting, it has never been due to medical related things… And I would not have pitched myself as one to get lightheaded in this situation. Yet, when I got into the operating room, I couldn’t help but watch this thirteen-year-old boy’s body shaking violently with fear. This young boy was alone in a room with people speaking a language he most likely could not understand. His body exposed and being prepped for a surgery that would take place with only a local anesthetic. I sat next to him and spoke a few words to him. He looked grateful to hear his mother language. As I watched the surgery begin, the lightheadedness, kizunguzungu, came as a sort of empathetic reaction to this boy. I wasn’t able to make it through all the days surgeries but was able to observe parts of a hernia repair and appendectomy.

I returned again this past week to visit the medical lab. I was shown all of the different machines they have for testing blood, storing samples and so on. I was taught to do patient intake forms. I was shown intestinal parasites and hookworms preserved in formaldehyde. I felt lightheaded again at the smells and sounds. I think, perhaps, there is something so real about this place that it shakes me up a bit. Honestly more than I would have expected it would. But, like many things here, there is no room for my rose-colored glasses. It is real. It is raw and it is the lived experience of many people here. This is a normal that I am still adjusting to.

So much of what I am doing right now involves the simplicity of sitting and chatting with people. The pace here is slow. There is always time to stop and sit or, piga stori. Throughout the last two weeks I found myself sitting around for endless hours with people just talking. Sometimes tuning in to the sound of my own voice as it spoke in what is still such a new language, yet I hear it rolling off my tongue with more ease every day. It’s strange to consider this work. Yet before I am able to fully engage in projects and physical work here, I need to understand how I can be of service most effectively. In many ways that understanding comes from hours of chatting, cooking, and sitting with my new friends.

I set out a rough schedule for myself for each day of the week. On Sundays I go to church with Mama Doris, who is by far my dearest and most amazing friend here, she calls me her first born. On Mondays and Friday, I visit a farm, shamba, or neighbor to discuss agriculture related challenges. On Tuesdays I visit the government office. On Wednesday I visit the secondary school. Thursdays I visit the hospital. While this schedule doesn’t always pan out exactly, it gives me a framework for each day. I have weekly dinner with Mama Doris. I have two days a week I visit Mama Joyce of chapati (think Tanzanian tortilla). Two or three times a week I visit Saidi’s duka (think Tanzanian version of a New York City bodega), and we chat, and he quizzes me on my flashcards.

Every morning I practice yoga and meditate. Then I write for an hour and drink my instant coffee that, I must say, I’ve grown to cherish. I often times laugh at that fact that I used to be so accustomed to spending six dollars on an almond milk latte. By then it’s usually only eight o’clock and I read and have a breakfast of fresh eggs and more coffee. After my morning chores of fetching water, doing dishes, washing clothes, and sweeping, its usually about 11 o’clock. I head out for the day, armed with my dictionaries, lots of water and toilet paper. I usually return home around four o’clock in the evening, exhausted. I put beans on to cook and work out. I finish my work out and take a warm bucket bath. By that time, it’s about seven and I have my dinner and read for the next two or three hours, and then, as the sun sets, so do I. Rising with the sun, speaking a new language all day, constantly processing and adjusting to my environment, and my body and brain are exhausted by sunset. And so, it is, a day in the life. Every night I am surprised another day has passed. Before bed each night, I make notes of what happened that day. I do this in part for the catharsis of it all. But also, because, inevitability, these nights will continue to come fast, and I want to remember each of the vivid moments that weave together the tapestry that is this experience.