Spark

"Navigating Our Journeys"
Tarehe Thealathini na Moja Mei

               I’m on a daladala mjini (small bus into town) early in the morning to catch a large bus to Arusha. I‘m going to visit Amani’s new Drop-In Center. My neck and back are arched to fit under the roof of the bus, like a giant in a house built for a dwarf. I think I’m going to fall over into the sitting man’s lap next to me because it’s so crowded. The conductor yells “Mzungu! Pay!” Some laugh, and I have come to learn mzungu (white person) isn’t rude, really. It’s just a-matter-of-fact type of thing, and even is used somewhat affectionately. I give him a 1000 note for a 400 fare (again, $1 = 1600Tsh). He gives me 500 back. I pursue the issue, and he ignores me, collecting other fares. I've come to realize it's a chess game. I hand him the 500 he gave me, and motion that I am paying for my Baba, too. I say “najua nauli, kaka: mia nne” (I know the fare, brother: four hundred). He says something about “ujua?” (you know?) and gives me two hundred shillings back, finally. (More on this type of thing in a later post.)

                At the Moshi station, I get a large bus, arriving at Arusha station 1.5 hours later. The Amani Drop-In Center was built for street kids of Arusha, and is used to establish a rapport with the children with the hope of eventually bringing them to the main complex in Moshi. It’s also used by street children that are too old for Amani. They can receive health information, advice from social workers, a shower, and more. I walk around the house taking pictures, talking to a former Amani street kid who is now a local artist, when I see one of the teachers treating a child sitting on the grass outside. His name is Frank, and he’s putting hydrogen peroxide on a nasty, open wound on his lower leg. I say that I’m an EMT back home, and ask to take a look. I’m told it’s a burn that he received three weeks prior in a street fire. Frank had been searching through rubbish next to a fire for warmth, when something exploded and caught his leg. From what I gather, the burn hasn’t made any progress in healing since it happened. We go to the duka la dawa (pharmacy).

                On the way, I want to ask him if he wants a piggy back. He had said the wound hurts when he walks, but when I ask this time “sawa sawa?” (it’s okay?), he says it’s fine. The pharmacist asks questions, examines the burn, and asks more questions. He asks what happened, and one of the social workers explains, telling him that Frank is a street child. The pharmacist asks if he’s been drinking, and smells his breath for alcohol. Frank is a young and innocent looking kid with a small, tight afro, and big eyes that look around actively sometimes, but at other times, down at the ground. He’s probably about thirteen. The burn seems less like a dumb stunt, and more as a result of the violence of the environment in which he lives. The pharmacist gives antibiotics and a burn ointment. The total cost is 5000Tsh. I hand him a bill. Imagine, just $3 without health insurance for medication!

                We are walking to the next errand for another child when Frank asks for money to eat. He has to take his pills with food. We go to a street vendor, and he sits and eats a meal of white rice, beans, and finely chopped and cooked green vegetable that is like spinach. After paying, we have to leave to the next errand. I give him a half hug and rub his head roughly but affectionately again. He says “asante sana” (thank you very much) with a genuine kindness. I stand there wishing I had the ability in KiSwahili to say that even strangers care for you, and I wish it gives you hope and warmth to think that, even though you may not always see it. But I can’t. There’s no translator, Frank speaks little English, and the other teachers had started walking again. All I say is “karibu sana” (you’re very welcome) a couple of times while looking down at him with a soft smile, and walk away.

                Back at the bus station after another couple of hours in Arusha, I pay 2500Tsh to ride back home. Once we’re on the road, the conductor is collecting fares. I say I’ve already paid, but the man next to me whispers that I need to pay now, because that’s the custom. I pay again. I’m upset. I listen to music, read my book, and stare out the window, a little mad at myself. It's not the amount paid, because it's little, really, but rather the principle. I need to learn the game better here, for it is a way of life!

                

                About halfway home, we stop to pick people up and drop some off. The same baba (father, or another name for a man here) next to me buys some corn on the cob from a peddler through the window. The corn has been roasted over a fire, and so the kernels are enlarged and warm. He turns to me, and offers some. At first, I say no thank you to be polite. I remember my Tanzanian manners: it’s rude to refuse. I change my answer to thank you, and we start a small conversation. The corn tastes like Corn Puffs cereal, except better because it’s slightly chewy. I eat every kernel, savoring it for its flavor and for its symbolism. I’m much happier after that. It was an act of kindness; he had said “Karibu Tanzania,” or “welcome to Tanzania.” Simple. We truck towards Moshi on the tarmac highway, across the countryside of sunflower and maize fields, and I do some comparing of the days events.

                Frank and I are alike: we both need to work within our systems, with a little outside help. I get frustrated occasionally here, especially with the hustling and bargaining. I talk to Lorraine, my family here, and my family back home. They guide me to realize how I need to take more understanding of others here, and the lifestyle people live through. And Frank may be equally as frustrated with his system, even if he doesn't show it. Today it was my turn to give that outside help, that spark of light that helps one to navigate their journey or struggles. We all need it at times! I hope my writing inspires you to do the same for another.