The Exorcism of Home

First and foremost, it’s the heat that takes getting used to. Stepping onto a plane during one of Portland’s coldest winters and off again into the thick, stale Tanzanian heat was every bit as uncomfortable as I imagined. It’s 90 degrees every day, and while I will admit I thought it would be hotter than this, when you’re standing in a concrete school building with no breeze and the sun is directly overhead so no glimpse of a shadow can be found, it might as well be Phoenix in August. The sun is fierce here, but the last few days have brought unusual winds to cool the air; some say it’s a sign that the rains, which never came this fall, are finally on the way. The cattle are dying and the rivers are dry. When the rains finally do come, I imagine an exuberant celebration will ensue (during which I will do my best to hold back screaming Toto lyrics to the sky).

Cattle graze the dry lands of Mungere Village

I’m a five minute walk to "downtown" Mto wa Mbu, but town is slight. It’s vibrant and loud but lacks many of the basic amenities that we take for granted at home. We have an amazing house cook, so my dinners have been delicious, but lunch is a different beast. There are tiny shops that merely resemble what we would call a grocery store, so our pantry is modestly stocked with eggs, bread and condiments. If we don’t have leftovers from dinner, lunch is a wildcard. The local food offerings consist mostly of fried pastries, meat on a stick called “mishkaki” (this is also what they call 3 people crammed on a motorcycle) and omelets mixed with french fries called “chips mayai” (why we haven’t brought this home to America is beyond me. It’s fantastic!) Little bars line the streets offering beer and wine but liquor is hard to come by and if you want a cocktail on ice, you better visit a fancy hotel.

In the bigger cities, you can get amazing Indian and street food. While up the road in Manyara, our Executive Director took us to a place, for which the expression “hole in the wall” must have been named, that served one of the best dishes I’ve ever had traveling: “kiti moto” is a plate of rich tender chunks of marinated, fire-roasted pork mixed with spinach, onions, tomatoes, carrots and a perfect concoction of heat and spices; you simply eat it with your hands, scooping massive piles of slop into your mouth with your fingers. One of my favorite simple pleasures is the street handwashing called maji na kunawa. Every sidewalk eatery we’ve visited has offered this delightfully refreshing service: they bring a kettle of warm water with a bowl of soap (remember that chalky, powdered soap that dispensed over our elementary school bathroom sinks?) and in the other hand they hold a big metal bowl. You wash your hands over the bowl as they slowly pour the warm water. It’s really lovely and makes sinking your dirty paws into a pile of meat much more appealing. They’ll clean you off afterward as well.

A plate of kiti moto in Manyara, Tanzania

The other idiosyncrasies are on par with many developing places I’ve traveled: Tanzania time means don’t expect anything to happen anywhere near the projected time and be prepared to sit around waiting for hours on end; when I arrived at the airport, my luggage wasn't there and it took two days to receive it because they had to wait until they had enough bags to make the delivery trip worth it; drivers are wild, but they all somehow seem to be working perfectly in sync as they dart in and out to pass tuk tuks and motos; no matter where I go, I am a target for everyone selling trinkets I don’t want - I can’t wait until I’ve been here longer and speak more Swahili so I can properly heed this off.

Everyone is amazingly connected. I bought 10 gigs of data for my cell phone for 5 dollars and Mto wa Mbu has great service. As you venture out further into the villages, the connection gets worse, but in some ways it feels as if I’m still home because I can message and FaceTime as if I was. 

Handwashing at our local bar, Double M

Sleep has always been my biggest challenge and it’s no different here. The heat alone can be difficult to manage, but let’s set that aside for a moment and talk about the noise. Whoever said that the rooster crows at the break of dawn (Dylan, wasn't it?) must have never actually met a rooster. They crow whenever they damn feel like it. Around here, if I’m lucky, they’re on the other side of the house when they start at it at 6am. On the worst days, they’re right outside my window and it’s 3:30. At 4am, the call to prayer at the mosque in town begins. On Sundays at 6am, the church with which we share a property rings their bells for what feels like an eternity, then rings them again at 7 and again at 10. Their gospel choir is loud and sings the whole afternoon. And on the most special days: We have exorcisms! In the last few years some foolish westerners taught the Tanzanians how to rid sinners of the devil and now our neighbors occasionally hold ceremonies 20 feet from our house at any hour of the day. What does an exorcism sound like you may wonder? Pain and agony and terror, surrounded by a spirited audience and amplified by this crazy phenomenon where everything here seems to echo for miles. Perhaps it's the Great Rift Valley, which surrounds us, making sure we all know that she’s watching everything we do. Perhaps it’s the dead, hot air hanging on to every sound. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. With a combination of ear plugs, a white noise app and a pillow over my head, I’m managing to get some sleep, but it’s the kind of restless sleep that never quite feels real. 

So much of this doesn’t feel real. I’m watching online as the sky dumps more snow on my home than I've ever seen, while the plains here are drying up and people struggle to keep their farms and livestock alive. I’m seeing the stark difference between the rich and the poor and trying to find a place in between where I feel comfortable. I’m reveling in the fact that I have an avocado tree in my back yard to eat from whenever I want, while lamenting the loss of simple comforts like daily protein and ice in my drinks. I’m planting an herb garden in empty water bottles and teaching our cook to make homemade tortillas, while also finding myself with hours on hours of time to fill because the pace of life is so slow. 

A week in, I’m still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed but for the first time, as I write this, I’m missing home. Six months is feeling like a really long time, but I know that when it’s all over it will have flown by. My immediate goal is to improve my Swahili so I can make friends and feel less like a tourist. Then I think it will start to feel more like home.