Last spring I went to Tanzania to visit a friend stationed there with the Peace Corps.
The flight was rougher than I expected; it replaced my excitement with torment and, instead of worrying I’d be swimming in the Atlantic, I was worried my head would explode on the seemingly never-ending flight. (So I don’t sound completely ridiculous, let me explain: my seat’s reading light didn’t work, nor did the TV; I had the window seat and am the type to sit miserably for hours lest I annoy the person next to me.)
Soon after arriving in Tanzania I came to know that which I had confidently, but really only partially, known heretofore: that people are generally the same everywhere on Earth; that the differences that separate cultures are not as strong as the similarities that bond individuals. This knowledge, I think, is so basic yet so profound that it must be obtained through life experiences, gathered by the senses, to be known completely.
I realized this early through the conversations I had with Tanzanians, and it was affirmed by the many subsequent conversations I had had. Tanzanians were more than happy to talk with me, not that I thought they wouldn’t, it’s just that I expected the conversations to unravel in an unfamiliar way. They didn’t. The awkward pauses, the fleeing of the conversation when topics became scarce, the uneasy smiles, the out-of-place but liberating laughter, the reliance on the most talkative member of the group to save the rest — all too familiar to me. I felt comfortable, as if only the scenery of my life had been changed. I felt — for lack of a better, more specific word — human. To clarify: I’ve always felt human, or so I suppose, but for the first time I was connecting with people simply because we were people, that is, curious, caring, bored, in the mood for a Fanta.
My friend and I, true to Peace Corps principles, had an unsaid but religiously-followed rule: to live and travel as average Tanzanians. In a country with little, and often rudimentary, infrastructure, this rule made traveling all the more interesting, memorable, edifying and, frankly, scary. And travel we did — through forests and cities. We journeyed to a preserved rainforest by the strength of our feet and two pick-up trucks, the second of which we shared with three barrels of gasoline, maybe 200 pounds of rice and ten to fifteen Tanzanians. Another notable trip took place in Dar es Salaam, the country’s largest city. This particular trip made the finite space of a minibus seem boundless. Just when I thought it was impossible to fit even a small child into the bus, it stopped to pick up another four African mamas, each carrying goods from the market, and, for whatever reason, a computer monitor was brought in through a window.
This space-defying, tightly packed trip happened to be my last in the country; I was going to the airport. At my stop, I hesitated. Some people in the bus shot me a look; others spoke in Swahili. I imagine they thought or said: “What’s this mzungu doing? This is his stop.” My friend gave me a nudge and said, “Just go.” I went. I had to squeeze through people and climb over them. To my surprise, no one pushed back or became annoyed. Tanzanians handle such situations with incomparable equanimity, and it’s refreshing to see people in such close contact remain calm, cooperative.
After three weeks of such travel and powerful realizations, the flight home – figuratively and literally – flew by. Throughout the flight, I was in deep introspection (and didn’t even bother to check if the TV worked or not). I realized how privileged I was and that with this privilege comes great responsibilities. Namely, if we are going to use valuable resources to visit (or report on) those without such resources, we must do so modestly, respectfully; we must share what we’ve found understandingly, forthrightly; and it must be to our and their benefit.
I owe much to the continent and am looking to settle my debt with interest.
Waaah, i didnt win :-(
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