Days Like This: The Dichotomy of Perfection and Pain

Van Morrison’s voices vibrates into my left ear, well my mama told me they’ll be day like this. This same voice is vibrating into the ear of the little girl, Dori, who is sitting next to me. We are both resting our heads against the seat in front of us. She is holding my hand, tracing the lines of my knuckles. I close my eyes, feeling the heat of her stare upon my face. I do not mind being seen by her.

Early on Monday morning, I walked, once again under cover of darkness to the village center. Hussein, my bwanashamba– village agriculture officer – was waiting for me. He opened the car door for me, and I thought to myself how strange it is that certain things span continents. We drove down the mountain, picking up the secondary school mkuu – headmaster – along the way. As we slowly wound our way around the curvature of the mountain, the sun began to paint itself across the sky. I had never been on this road before. The savanna below, seemingly never-ending, interrupted only by the rising mountains in the distance. I glance over at Hussein as he laughed and smiled his toothy smile at something the mkuu was saying. The sun, silhouetting his profile, peaked in the cracked window along with the cold morning air.

We arrived in Same around nine o’clock. We had tea and chapati together, and then I made my own way. I had come to Same in order to buy a solar panel and the necessary accessories. The store I intended on patronizing was closed, and so in typical Tanzanian fashion I asked person after person, until I found myself at a solar panel storefront. Immediately I knew these men were trying to sell to me at mzungu – foreigner – price. We had a back and forth and I haggled from milioni moja – one million shillings – to lakini tano – five hundred thousand shillings. I told them I would return later to make the purchase before boarding the bus.

Now, every single time I have boarded Kikwesha – the bus that travels from Same to Mvaa – they have told me they would leave at noon but have not left until two or three o’clock. Around noon I slowly made my way to the bus stendi to check in on the status and to buy my ticket. Upon my arrival the mkuu told me they were ready to leave and asked where my solar panel was. I quickly shifted gears and made a joke about how they never leave on time; it did not evade me that I am now able to make jokes in Kiswahili. The mkuu and I returned to the store together, and one thing after another led us to believe this was not the right place for me to make this pricy purchase. As we were involved in a back and forth, the konda from Kikwesha came to tell us they were leaving. A good friend of mine here told me, just don’t ever believe anything. A joke that can surely only be understood after living here for quite some time, but alas, when they say they’ll be late, they are early, and when they say they’ll be early, they are late. Time moves differently here, and this is one of the many reasons I am both raptured and infuriated all at once. The New Yorker in me demands a timetable, a schedule. The traveler in me knows that life happens in the waiting place.

And so, after making our way to the original store I intend to go to and purchasing all the things I needed for a much better price, the mkuu and I made our way back to the stendi to wait until our Noah – or glorified Tanzanian mini-van – was ready to depart. Around four o’clock in the evening, seventeen, yes seventeen, people packed themselves into this van; twelve adults and five children.

And so, this is how I found myself sitting, with the metal rod of the seat wedged into my tailbone, the mkuu to my right and a bibi -grandma – and her granddaughter, Dori, to my right, listening to Van Morrison. As we began driving I whistled and asked Dori to try, unaweza – you can – and she gave it one try, two tries, and then whistled for the first time. In fact, she could whistle better than me. She glowed and continued to whistle as we lay our heads next to one another. I pulled out my headphones and put one in her ear.

As I closed my eyes, allowing her eyes to fall upon me, I began to breathe deeply. Not even an hour in and I was already so uncomfortable. Yet, simultaneously, having the loveliest moment with this girl, the type of moment that truly colors this entire experience. And then the mkuu taps my shoulder and whispers, ona – look.

As I lift my head and look towards the North, I see eight large elephants walking in line through the bush. Up until this moment I have never, in twenty-six years, seen an elephant in the wild. The car has stopped, and everyone is at attention. We all watch in silence, except the children who are either giddy or utterly uninterested. Dori squeezes my hand a little tighter. I feel the heat of tears in my eyes. Everything falls into place like the flick of a switch, then I must remember they’ll be days like this.

As we make our final accent into the mountains hours later, the sun has fallen far into the West. The twilight barely hangs onto the trees. The bibi sitting next to me asks me if – unaweza kusidikiza yeye nyumbani kwake, anaishi karibu ya duka ya stationary – you can escort her to her home, she lives near the stationary store. We stop in the last village before Mvaa and the driver gets out to assist the bibi as she unloads her items, having just charged me with bring her granddaughter the rest of the way. The driver pulls out a machete and cuts a long stock of muwa -sugarcane. The night air is filled with the sweet scent, only noticeable while watching a man use his teeth to tear into the tight sinew of the husk – a plant he just cut from the land.

Dori and I are both draped and wrapped in the colorful folds of kitenge and kangas, as the cold air flows in through the open window. She leans her small body against mine. I wrap my arm around her. She is still holding my other hand. Tumechoka, bado kidogo titafika – we are tired, very soon we will arrive. She nods her head and snuggles deeper into my chest.

And we do. Her father is there to retrieve her. My counterpart, Augustino and Gideon, my mtendaji – village executive officer – are there waiting to assist me in bring everything back to my home. I intentionally never return home after dark. Since moving to Mvaa I have never once been out after dark alone. The first night I arrived here for site visit way back in March, I arrived after dark with Gideon. As we walked about two kilometers to his home, I remember thinking how utterly insane it was. Was I safe? Could I trust this man? Where were we going? What on earth was I doing? What kind strange Survivor-like thing was this where Peace Corps thought I was somehow qualified to just be dumped into some rural Tanzanian village?

On this night, a mere two and a half months later, I walk home with Gideon, making jokes and recalling my ridiculous day in Same. We laugh together. So much is lost in translation, but laughter rarely is. And I feel safe. I feel steady, held, secure. After only two months I feel I have truly cultivated, or at least begun to cultivate, a deep feeling of security and home here. This is in many ways thanks to the unwavering love and welcoming these people have shown me, despite my novice Kiswahili and seemingly alien-like mannerism and behaviors. And so, I glance up at the stars, and the waxing Gibbous moon, and laugh as Gideon says something I only partially understand, and I am home.