Home...again...

Here I am.
I am sitting in a comfortable leather chair wearing the furry warm socks my grandmother gave me. The air is cold and I find myself still covering my head with a scarf and feeling that showing much more than my ankles and wrists in public is inappropriate. With my hood or scarf around me I can almost convince myself I am still there. Still shading my face from the strong massive sun. still covering myself so as to somehow blend in with the women around me.
Whereas here a scarf on my head makes me stick out.
But I never was the trendy type.

Last time I sat at a computer I was perching on the edge of a hard homemade wooden chair in a hot hot internet cafe wishing for the cold. As sweat dripped down my face with each sentence I typed I smiled dreaming of being cold and shivering on the way to church on Christmas Eve. And now I have it. Atlanta is cold. And now I yearn to feel the African sun on my toes...to feel the warmth. That genuine warmth.

and so the saying goes...

But since arriving home five days ago I have not missed Tanzania. Not in the way people might suspect when they ask, "How is it being home?"
I have enjoyed being with family and friends. Enjoyed seeing some faces from years past. And when we speak, our kind and familiar words suggest not a day has gone by. What a lovely feeling. Our hugs and smiles suggest that we still know each other quite well. And in many ways it's true.
But something inside feels as if I am meeting them for the first time. Not because they are funnier or skinnier or happier or taller than a year or two ago...but because it is me that is not quite the same person as before. Not a new person, not different, not kinder or quieter or changed really. Just---rewired. A few nuts and bolts have been rearranged.
Everything I see, every word that I hear, now is processed through a slightly altered machine.



What I miss about Tanzania isn't the huge shining sun, the gorgeous sky, or even the beautiful fabulous kind and loving people you find everywhere. It isn't the slow pace of life, the relaxed attitude of everyone, the taste of my roommate's cooking or the smell of flowers on my walk (not drive!) to work. It isn't the overwhelming welcome and smiles that I received each morning entering the office at work, or in a distant village. It isn't the tasty lunch that cost less than a dollar or the fresh fruit that was so sweet, and so fresh, (and did I say cheap?). It definitely isn't the English services at the Cathedral that I giggled my way through; or even the evenings of prayer and song with friends in our attempt to make amends for the disaster that always was Sunday morning in Dodoma. It isn't the jokes and snickering and comments of my charming, brilliant and entertaining students.
It isn't my closest friends, or my boyfriend, (what?) or the new Swahili or Gogo words that I learned each and every day.

It is feeling at home. And not like coming home for Christmas after being away at college. Not coming home after a week of stressful traveling. Not the cliche "Home Sweet Home" warm and fuzzy I want some of dad's meatloaf and mom's chocolate chip cookies wanna pet my dog and sleep in my own bed and make fun of my parents with my siblings coming home.

I miss feeling at home in a place that is not naturally home. Feeling safe and comfortable and secure and loved in a country, in a town, in a community where you arrived not knowing anyone.
And leaving I now somehow feel that I know them and they know me even better than I thought. Of course my friends and co-workers were there for me all along--when I was sad, lonely, happy, or hopeless. But that's what they are there for right?

It was the the neighbors I rarely talked to, the thousands of faces from all the villages I visited, the taxi drivers I chatted with, the mango sellers, the tailor, the cucumber and green bean man, the lady who swept my house and washed my clothes, the dude who sold me cheesy Tanzanian souvenirs, the random children greeting me on their way to school...these are the ones that made Tanzania feel like home. These are the people that gave me the feeling of being home. Although I will forget faces, smells, words and names, the memories won't change.
Whereas most places hosting tourists have the attitude, "hurry up and go home," Tanzanians seem to say, "there's no hurry here--this, too is your home."

Clouds

Today is a Friday. Fridays are normally good days. Today feels different. It feels sad. A bit gloomy. A bit like anything could happen at any second that could just make me break down and cry. But it’s more than that. It isn’t really tears that need to be shed. It is more that some thought and reflection needs attention. Some prayers need to be whispered.

A close friend’s grandmother is in the hospital. What feels worse somehow is the suffering of her children and grandchildren…the pain in their voice and in their eyes. and yet the love expressed through their grief is encouraging and real.
Another close friend…her mother is sick. Not doing too well.
It’s more the confusion, the complete inability to understand, to comprehend…than a plaguing sadness.
Or is it?
And then it is hot. So hot outside. Not hot like laying on the beach and needing an ice cold refreshment and a soft breeze blowing through the palm trees hot. Hot as in trapped. Hot as in you feel so insignificant, so small; and it is difficult to take a deep breath. It isn’t the humidity. There is none. It has not yet rained. Those who rely on farming here—most of the population—are waiting. Waiting for God to provide rain for their fields. Waiting for a guarantee that they will be able to feed their children next year. Christmas. Yeah. It is a day on the calendar. A day of celebration within the church building. And that is it. Simple.
Walking down through town, I feel like I am in a daze. The same path I have walked 2-3 times a day for over 4 months…but today is different. Today I could only think of all the sadness and stillness around me. The boys asleep in the shade under a tree. Not because they are lazy, or even particularly sleepy, but because there is no job. Nothing to do. A man with no fingers and no toes begs for money in the palms—what is left—of his hands. Meanwhile he sits in the sun, leaning against a street sign with his eyes closed due to the bright sun. Mothers carrying their babies on their backs and 12 pineapples on their head, just hoping that they can sell at least 3. The thirty-something year old man with 4 pairs of shoes for sale. He hopes to earn enough money to pay for his bus fare to return to his home village to visit his family. The young boy skipping to school hasn’t eaten in two days. But today is the last day of school for summer break so he is happy. I think. One wonders what he will do when he doesn’t go to school. Who knows if he will return to school in January. Maybe his family will need his help on the farm, or selling nuts, or begging.
Music is playing from some taxi down below. A café across the street plays a different radio station. The music is happy, cheerful, but it feels fake; staged somehow. Distant.
Another child. HIV+. 12 years old. Both parents already dead.
It is Friday. Huge numbers of men and women walk towards the mosque. Time for prayers. What will be prayed for today? What personal prayers will be spoken silently under the sound of the familiar recitations and repeated words?

It seems that the sky is overcast now. Perhaps there is some hope for rain.
Or maybe it’s just a cloud that has come to shade us for awhile. To block out the intense heat for a few short moments. To give us a breath of cool air.
But soon it will move on to another town, another place. And we will be enveloped in hot air again. With a feeling of emptiness…just waiting to be filled.