Blog Update: A Foreigner Once Again

Sitting here in the Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam, what now feels like a massive space ship after a year in a small East African town, I feel more like a foreigner than I’ve ever felt before. It’s strange to have more than twelve hours pass and not feel the earth beneath my feet. This land of constant electricity and six-dollar cups of tea and crisp new stacks of books and newspapers amid an airport with a casino and a museum featuring the works of Rembrandt feels like it has nothing to do with me. I expected to miss the Amani kids; to miss my friends, but I didn’t think about missing Tanzania. After you’ve experienced eight-hour plus bus rides in Africa with dust and sweat and two adults sharing one seat with a child on your lap who may or may not choose to pee on you (it’s happened twice!), air travel just isn’t as exciting. A cold soda never tasted so good. I’m hoping this means my fear of commercial planes (I like the little ones), is past.

I think my favorite thing about East Africa is the way people greet you and take you in despite the differences. Yes, there are the people who ask you for ridiculous things or feed you harassment identifying your differences, but there is a different way of facing the new and the foreign. It is direct and honest and optimistic. Sometimes you’ll want to scream walking down the street and hope to have no one notice you, desperate for anonymity like a peaceful release, but in the end, the humanity of daily interactions will win your heart. To suddenly be thrown into a world where I’m no longer the minority after a year of the opposite is a strange experience to say the least. I keep wondering where all the black people are and reminding myself not to say “asante” instead of “thank you.” Why are there no chickens on public transportation?

Particularly upon arrival in Nairobi, my mouth hangs open, distended for minutes. Kenya is facing severe drought, on-going political problems and a dangerous shortage of water, yet the Nairobi airport is flooded with so much wealth in every corner it is hard to believe it is still Kenya. Only weeks before I saw pictures of children bathing in brown water, most certainly filled with schisto, and read about squatters in the village Mau searching desperately for water. I have heard so much about Kibera, the largest slum in Nairobi and East Africa, which I hope to see someday, that it is all the more shocking to walk into an airport that resembles a palace, where calls to Tanzania are two dollars per minute. It is frightening to think what two dollars can do for people with in Mau. Looking out the airplane window at night, the electricity is overwhelming as the cars quickly pass with an aerial uniformity reminding me of robots. I find myself wondering where all these food products come from in the store windows; flour for shiny pastries and tropical fruit in a place so cold. Where are all the beautiful African mamas selling tomatoes on the road? Their vibrant reds and sunshine yellows guarding them from the mid-day sun. December is the season for mangoes and pineapples. It’s literally the sweetest time of the year.

Then there is the unbelieveable. Chocolates from Belgium, giant bags of m&ms and cigarettes, pink plastic dollhouses and, the most thought-provoking of all, shops filled with diamonds.

My heart will forever be tied to my Africa- the world I experienced and the friends who turned into family along the way; a beautiful surprise and an immeasurable gift. Even my taxi driver, Nondo, became one of my most trusted friends, introducing me to his family and his home. The day before I left our beautiful country house in Moshi, our three-legged dog Shy who we were all convinced would die in July after being maimed by a panga (machete), gave birth to four healthy little puppies. After visiting the seamstress, Mama Esther, next door, I came home to find Shy waiting at the gate for me. As I followed her, she lead me straight to the chicken house where she had made a small den to give birth and protect her babies. She happily wagged her tail and showed me her four beautiful blessings. All so tiny they hadn’t yet opened their eyes. One, fittingly, was all white with black eyes. After a year of being called “mzungu” for the foreign color of my skin, we finally had a little mzungu of our own. Gone was the frustration and impatience, and all I felt was the warmth within my heart.