Tiniest Moments, Biggest Smiles

*Note: The past two weeks have been hectic and packed, but never fear, I will make up for being remiss with several posts this week, including safari!*

How to hail a bus in Dar es Salaam

For as long as I can remember-- which dates about back to the time I was three and tottering across a blue shag carpet (ah, thank the 70’s for that ingenious creation) in my grandmother’s high heels and oversized Sunday church hat (incidentally also the time when my family decided I was either bound for the stage or a stripper’s pole)—my parents have repeated that age old adage “Don’t sweat the small things” ad nauseam. I’ve listened, smiled politely like I was listening at least, and continued to be perturbed by even the slightest of hiccups. Go figure choosing a life and career of constant unexpected gems and harrowing moments in development. Keep breathing I would remind myself. It really can’t be as bad as it seems. And usually (usually) it wasn’t. My father, the ever patient man that he is, has carefully reminded me before each nail-biting plane ride to some far-flung land: Remember, whatever happens don’t panic. My brother is typically more direct in his appeal of Chill out. What’s the worst that can happen? For a slightly paranoid disaster-conspiracy theorist/life-is-a-walking-booby-trap believer who has a Plan B for the day before she opens her eyes the morning and who has born holes in her computer screen reading horror stories of abductions, maimings, ill-functioning body parts, and unsavory jail cells (not to mention watching reruns of every Law & Order SVU episode known to man), this usually does not calm my rattled nerves nor assuage the miles-long list of fears locked in my brain. But I digress. Don’t sweat the small things.

As my time in Tanzania grows short with mere weeks creeping up on me, a sunny day suddenly brought to life all the small things and moments that I have managed to not only not sweat, but appreciate and relish about this scenic mountainside town and the country in general.

Having an impromptu dance party in the middle of the night with my housemate and the house guard, with an alternating playlist of Pitbull, Rihanna, Bon Jovi, Counting Crows, and Bongo Flava (Tanzanian style danceable music fusing something like hip hop and Caribbean vibes) in the background. Then afterwards, spending quality time with the twenty-something guard just older than my brother who spends day and night looking over our home and learning that though he has many male friends in the neighborhood, few of the ladies have caught his eye, but who knows what might happen one day? 

Who can resist that face? Little Sharon!

Listening to the field trainer at work tell you how much you remind him of his daughter who surprisingly has the same Kenyan birth name you were granted in your one week exploring- Wanjiku- before buying you a beautiful traditional Masaai embroidered wrap as a parting gift when he leaves.

Cuddling adorable babies as they fall asleep on you time and again; practicing lullabies to keep them that way.

Receiving a text from a driver friend in Dar es Salaam and understanding about 85% of this when I asked for a ride from the bus station:

Sina uhakika, kwa sababu kuna mtu atakuwa na mimi kesho, hivyo sijui atamaliza muda gani- atakuja rafiki yangu au mimi, ahsante.

(I am not sure, because someone will be with me tomorrow, so I do not know how long until it finishes- my friend or I will come, thank you.)

Nap Time for Godwin

Knowing a faithful piki piki driver who not only will wake at 4:30am to carry me to the bus station, but will call the night before to confirm and then text the morning of to ask Uko tayari 5:00am? (Are you ready at 5:00am?)

Spending ten hours on a bus to Dar with a surly young woman beside me who seemed to loathe my very presence for much of the ride (reasons unknown) and then decided at the last minute to be a helpful guide in perfect English, assisting me to navigate which stop to exit the bus where there would be fewer hustlers and I could get a decent, affordable ride home.

Thanking a kind-hearted Muslim taxi driver for finishing his Ramadan fast-breaking early one evening in Zanzibar to drive two girls somewhat stranded on the roadside at dusk in Dole (sp?) village back to Stone Town. This came after a similarly kind-hearted Christian guy waited (with no expectations of compensation) to watch over us until the Muslim prayers were through and the driver was ready, yet before the taxi driver and his friend proffered us a sack full of sweet and delicious tende (dates) to take home for the night.

Kitambaa of choice

Visiting the kind kanga seller on my street and, finding her absent (there was a moment where I sat grinning fatuously for about ten minutes after I swear her son said she was in the loo) and then realizing I would have to ::gulp:: convey to her son and husband what I needed. It wasn’t easy explaining in—albeit broken, but somewhat functional—Swahili that I would like two sketis (skirts) made tafadhali (please). Unaweza kushona? (Can you sew?) One kama huu (like this one) and one a bit fupi (short) from this kitambaa rangi ya kijani (green fabric) and this kitambaa bluu (blue fabric). Eventually, I was led down a small alley through a green-leafed corridor and into a metal gate where a seamstress and a team of several young apprentices sat around a single machine chatting, stitching, folding in an assembly line. With one glance at me and the nakshi (pattern) I held, she took no measurements, asked no questions (except: Lining or no?), and told me to return at saa kumi (Swahili time for 4pm) kesho (tomorrow) to pick up my miniskirts. Errrrrrrr? Miniskirts?? I sighed, smiled, remembered not to sweat the small things, and went home wondering if I would return to a thigh-high mini on the morrow. Ah well, stripper’s pole after all then. 

The next day, I approached timidly just a few minutes shy of the deadline, remembering that whatever she produced, I would pay for, smile, and cherish till the end of time (or until the nearest wastebasket or used clothes bin). Already the day was feeling bright as I approached and found the Mama owner of the kanga fabric shop who had been missing the day prior. She welcomed me in, asked after the friend who had accompanied me weeks past, and ushered me down the little alley to the back. I held my breath as the seamstress produced two folded sketis beaming. Her apprentices stood to watch my reaction as she unfolded the gorgeous pieces. Giggling with them, I spun around exclaiming how vizuri sana (very beautiful) they were. Mama Kanga admired the work, but clicked her tongue at the length of the “mini” which hung just about to my knees. With a promise not to wear it on a mototaxi and only to wear it in Marekani (America), we both laughed and she patted me on the shoulder and encouraged me to come again. Karibu tena. (Welcome again). For less than $20 and two beautiful pieces plus the remaining fabrics for shawls and wraps, I definitely would.

Our street

Thus despite the frequent power cuts and sandstorms of dirt and dust clogging my lungs and nostrils as I walk or ride the crater-pocked road home, or the frigid nights and constant haggling in the market place every time we need new fruit and vegetables to last the week, this country is filled with moments like these that form the gems in my brief experience, reminding me that learning not to sweat the small things means learning to recognize that sometimes the small things can make the biggest difference. When you remember that being here is really about the tiniest of moments that bring the biggest of smiles, it makes all the rest of it that much more worthwhile.

Up next: Safari, Bagamoyo, back into the field, and Zanzibar Part 2!