Arusha, You Wily Dog

Time continues to both crawl and fly by— fast enough that I can’t seem to fit in a good blog post writing session, slow enough that the days feel eternal. Both fast and slow enough that three and a half weeks here feels not quite right, and another three months feels like the rest of time, but like it might be over tomorrow. 

We’re into a very different portion of the semester, after the first few weeks of frantic fun, a new place every few nights, and experiencing seemingly every sight and ecosystem this beautiful country has to offer. We’ve settled in, into a routine with more movement, more agency, more comfort, and at the same time an almost monotonous feeling (gasp, could it be that I’m actually… oh no… in school?!?!?). In many ways I feel like I’m eight years old again– yesterday, missing a text from my homestay mom about where to get dropped off after school, I ended up at a “playdate” at my friend and now-neighbor Griffin’s house. His homestay dad gave us fresh-squeezed juice while we did homework and one of the little girls in the house played games on our phones. It felt almost like being back at Hun, walking to a friend’s house on campus, except for the constant Swahili in the background and the fact that I’m 21. 

I moved into my homestay house on Sunday, meeting my homestay mom (from here on, Mama) outside of a bus with all of my peers. She burst through the crowd shouting “Rayna!”. Being very used to people either not being able to pronounce my name or choosing entirely different ones, I immediately knew I was being called for and went to meet her. (This happened again in Griffin’s house, when his Mama, who is friends with mine, burst into the house mid-playdate and shouted “Rayna!”. It’s very very comical to have a strong-R name in this country). The first few minutes with my Mama were nerve-wracking, not knowing how much English she knew and knowing I had little to no Swahili to offer her in return. “Nzuri sana!” I repeated early and often, meaning ‘very good’, as I pointed to various objects and sights: Mt. Meru, towering over us, her beautiful and spacious home, her hundred chickens. After a hilarious car ride, the undercarriage of her station wagon catching on every rock hidden under the road dust–inches of it, swishing around like sand under motorcycle tires, coating faces and bodies, obscuring the view of approaching traffic– to which she’d say “shit!” and then a rapidfire series of Swahili phrases. Griffin and I grinned at each other in the backseat. 

After the drive, we settled into our now almost-familiar routine: I try my hardest to say a word, a phrase, a question in Swahili, Mama answers, rapidly and eloquently, I undoubtedly say either “sema tena?” (say again?), “sema polepole” (say slowly?) or, usually, “sijui” (I don’t know). She repeats what she’s said to me in halting but very clear English, and the pattern repeats. Mostly we sit quietly, listening to Evening Glory, a local religious tv channel full of impassioned Swahili sermons every evening, from which I’m learning lots of context-specific Swahili: salama- safety, moyo- heart, bwana- lord. We also exchange several dozen “Karibu” (welcome) - “Asante” (thank you) combinations a day. 

Mama is kind and patient with me, lets me help in the kitchen, and teaches me new Swahili words every day. Each morning, she cooks me a delicious, well-salted (a rarity it seems) thin omelet alongside a banana, or chapati (a cross between a crepe and naan, depending on who’s making it), or boiled sweet potato. There’s always a singular tea bag and hot water waiting for me, after I refused coffee my first day, because I don’t ever want to drink instant coffee again if I can help it. I drink my chai ya rangi na sukari (black tea with sugar!), usually chugging it so I don’t miss the bus, then walk to school with Griffin, who is always waiting outside my gate, circled by a couple of adorable neighborhood dogs. (To everyone who worries about me traveling to places that treat their dogs differently/poorly, don’t worry. I can handle it. And I never pet them because I know better!)

I’ve learned, frankly, an impressive amount of Swahili in the last few days. Tonight I wrote my journal in ~⅓ Swahili, a feat I thought impossible a few days ago. Every few words I think, I know in Swahili, and my brain feels like a Swa-English jumble, as many immersed language learners feel. There are words that are so damn fun to say in this language I hope I never go back to English– “hamna shida” instead of “no problem”, “sijui” instead of “I don’t know”, “hodi hodi” instead of knocking or asking to be let in, “nusu nusu” instead of “so-so”, “shagala bagala”, which means “mess” if describing a person. I may never stop saying “asante” (thank you) or “karibu” (welcome), it feels. 

More than anything, though, I’ve gained an impressive amount of confidence. I feel less like a mzungu (wealthy foreigner) than ever, having learned how to firmly refuse the attention/pleas/sales offers of locals on the street. I walk through the streets of Arusha only slight more on-edge than if I was in Boston or New York, confident both with my ability to navigate the dozens of Swahili greetings and refuse any offers that come my way in the language they’re spoken. I can bargain almost anything to half the price, I can order local food, I can buy stamps and postcards, I can exchange money, I can ride the daladala. I know my own limits and boundaries, and what to expect when I’m out in the world. I feel a thousand miles from the frightening, loud place I first encountered three weeks ago. 

Our homestays are all in the same village, no more than a ten minute walk apart. Every evening, after morning Swahili classes (fun, informative, the best way I’ve ever learned a languaget) and afternoon work for our other classes or free time, we ride back to the village, dispersing to our homes in sets of twos and threes. I help cook dinner, or do PAPER homework in a PACKET (!!) at the dining room table (like a little kid!!!). My homestay dad (Baba) comes home usually while Mama and I eat dinner, we chat a bit, I listen to them chat a bit in Swahili, picking up a little more each day, we watch the news, I retire early. 

When I first arrived in the house, they had me set up in a room separate from the house, with a big double bed covered in a very royal mosquito net and a private entry and bathroom. (A silly aside: I’ve always slept in a double bed, but almost always with a dog or cat or two alongside me, or in my parents’ bed as a kid, so everytime I sleep in one alone I feel compelled to leave some pile of shit next to me in the bed, like my phone, water bottle, book, and phone. It’s just too big to be alone!). I was very happy with this arrangement, spending my first evening sitting in the courtyard inside the high walls surrounding the house, reading my book and staring up at nearby Mt. Meru. My second evening, I worked out in the same spot, happy for the privacy and space apart from the intensive language and cultural experience of the inner house.

Then, my second night, I had one of the most frightening experiences of my life. During the day, I had noticed that when the wind blew, or someone knocked on my door, the sound reverberated through the whole room, making it feel almost unstable. Thus, when I woke up to the sound of something trying to get in through the window above my bed, it felt like the entire room was shaking, and it absolutely sounded like a person trying to break in. Heart instantly beating a million miles a minute, I didn’t move, thinking maybe I’d imagined it in some terrifying dream. A minute or two later, I heard the sound again, along with the sound of glass breaking. Terrified, I texted Tiger and my Baba, thinking I’d wait to see if I heard what sounded like evidence of a person. I’ve probably never felt so alone, so helpless, so sure that my number one lifetime nightmare was coming true. Logically, I thought it through: every window in the house and room is barred, and the walls around the house are far too high to scale. My door was locked, and I had the only key, so if someone did want to get in, they would be unable to. After hearing no other suspicious noises other than a cat meowing and a faraway dog fight, I fell asleep fitfully an hour later, proud of myself for not panicking, but frankly freaked the fuck out. 

I woke up in the morning hoping I’d imagined the entire episode, but after shakily getting out of bed and going outside, I saw that my window was both open and broken. Terrified anew, I went in for breakfast and told my mama what had happened. She expressed the appropriate amount of sympathy, and at this point I had pioneered the theory that it was one of the two family cats trying to get into my room, which she seconded. Although I felt heard, I didn’t sense a ton of urgency or solution-making from her, and the thought of sleeping there again left a huge pit in my stomach. I headed to school feeling fuzzy and distracted, heavy in my chest and nervous about heading home. 

School was a completely different story. During “habari moto moto” session (hot hot news), I shared what had happened, clearly gulping down tears. Our wonderful Swahili teachers offered to talk to my mama, and I instantly felt incredibly supported, relieved, and thrilled to be in such kind and capable hands. A few hours later, my teachers called me into the back room of the office and I instantly burst into tears, needing an outlet for my fear and anxiety and homesickness in a safe space. 

They told me they’d spoken to my mama, and that she had another room I could move into inside the house. They agreed it was crazy that had happened, and that it didn’t make any sense for me to be so far away from help if something were to happen. I had an interesting realization that I really would feel much safer sleeping closer to these near-complete strangers, and that in just a few short days I had become comfortable with my adopted parents, no longer afraid of my dynamic with them, but right back to my foreigner-female-fears of everything else in the world. Everyone agreed that the cat had been the would-be intruder, and that they wouldn’t be allowed outside at night anymore. 

I cried for a while, giving myself the time and space to calm down but also feel my feelings. I told myself over and over again that this was probably the worst this experience would get, that I had experienced one of my worst nightmares and handled it well, that this feeling would pass. And, guess what! This happened almost exactly three weeks in. I’ve written about it before, I’m sure, but one of the most astute things I’ve ever heard came to me from the president of Bryn Mawr College, who during college move-in once said that the hardest moments came at three days, three weeks, and three months into a new experience. My hard, sad, sick night was five days into my time here. This meltdown was two days shy of three weeks. There is great wisdom to recognizing this pattern, that a “holy shit” moment comes right around these thresholds of time. I let it pass through me, knowing it would pass, knowing I was safe and supported. 

I moved into a new room that night, two of the staff members coming along with me to make sure all was well. My new room is objectively worse in every way, with two twin beds, half used as family storage, and a shared bathroom, but I frankly could not care less. I feel so much better being closer to my parents, and don’t mind the inconvenience at all. Plus, now I have a sleeping bed AND a stuff bed!!

In general, I am certainly having an immersive experience of living in a household that feels very far from America. The toilets here are squat toilets, with not-quite-working flush mechanisms, so we flush by dumping water by hand into them. There are no showers in the house, so my showers are bucket only, with water heated in an electric kettle. I actually don’t mind the bucket showers, and usually take mine cold. It’s amazing how little water one actually needs to get clean. I haven’t tried washing my hair yet, though…. 

We lose power around once a day, usually just for a minute or two. Right now, the water pump is out, so we have no running water, just what was already stored in buckets before it went out. I am learning to be flexible in many ways, get clean when I can, and not think about the creepy crawlies in all the dust I inevitably absorb every day. The house has no Wifi, no dishwasher, and the lightbulbs are all a horrid hospital LED bright (more on this in a future post). 

That said, I am kind of loving the experience. The whole homework-at-the-kitchen-table, someone-makes-me-breakfast-before-I-take-the-bus thing is working for me, and helping bring some stability and security to an otherwise transient and ever changing journey. It’s nice to unpack. It’s nice to have my own room. It’s nice to live in a home. I’m pretty content in this spot for the next three weeks, almost two now. 

Last week, as a wee catch up, after our academic days, we had a fun-filled Friday where we went on a coffee tour and waterfall hike. The coffee tour was exceptionally fun. The village where they grow the coffee is one of the most stunning places I’ve ever been– green as far as the eye can see, under the shadow of Kilimanjaro, rows of crops planted into the side of this magnificent valley with views all the way out to Moshi, down on the dry brown savannah. 

There were banana trees, coffee plants, and passionfruit everywhere, with chameleons hiding on branches and leaves. We walked through, marveling at the zig-zagging dirt tracks up and down hills, people carrying baskets of fruit and coffee past us. The tour consisted of lots of singing, dancing, grinding, roasting, laughing, sipping, and delighting. We learned about how they process coffee and helped make our own cup, the most delicious coffee I’ve had since I got here, tinged with the woodfire we brewed it over, and the green of the jungle. After, we headed even further into the valley, hiking down for about forty five minute until we could hear water and feel the air turn cooler with humidity until we turned the corner and saw it– a huge waterfall, water leaping and arching over green mossy rocks into a small pool. I practically sprinted into it, reveling in the cold water. 

A topic for another time, but in a place where time is so fluid, and where the only thing that matters is being present in what you’re doing, there are many more opportunities for joy and delight. I felt truly present, delighted and joyful and at peace, for the first time probably since playing a silly swimming game called Evolution with Morgan and the gang on Hurricane. I couldn’t stop giggling, laughing, floating, straining my eyes to keep them open amidst the onslaught of fast, cold water. I loved every minute of it. I could have stayed there forever. 

Much too soon we headed back, feeling weightless from our splashing and playing. We headed back to Mweka, where I was staying during my last post, before heading back to Arusha. We went out to the club again that evening, enjoying a raucous night of making new friends (rafikis!) before coming back to giggle at the hotel. Already we feel so much closer as a group than our first week. It’s miraculous and wonderful, and I can’t wait to see how I feel at the end of the semester. 

The day before homestays began, we had a true rest day. I slept in (THANK YOU MOM FOR MAKING ME BRING THE EYE MASK!!!!), did laundry, ate disturbingly greasy, cheesy (there’s seemingly no cheese in this country!!!) fries and sandwiches with cold soda in glass bottles from an amazing place made for mzungus by the office, called, aptly, “Cheesy Bite”, and lay by the pool at the hotel. We watched a movie, me and my buds dog-piled in one of our beds, I called home, and went to sleep early, correctly anticipating a long week ahead. 

For now we have one more day of classes for the week, then a weekend with our families. I’ve been invited to the wedding of one of my family’s churchmates (how often do you get invited to a Tanzanian wedding?, I say to the side of me that badly wants to spend the entire day in bed, speaking to no one), and on Sunday I’ll join them at church. Next week we’re back at it, with more work to be done on our midterm portfolios, and exciting steps ahead for our Independent Study Projects. I will try my hardest to write more regularly, hopefully once a week. Too many thoughts, too many languages, too many words running around in my brain these days.

Sending love to all from this magical corner of the world!

xxR

(view of Mt. Meru on my walk home)