This
is Part 7 of a 7 part series on my experiences in Tanzania while volunteering
with a U.S. based NGO to build a library and community resource center in the
village of Nyegina, near the shores of Lake Victoria. To read other parts of
this series, please use the term “Tanzania” in this site’s search function.
Our Tanzanian experience was drawing
to a close. On our last morning, we participated in a dedication ceremony for
the library. Dignitaries from all over were in attendance, included the former
president's son, Mataraka, whom we met on our first day in Musoma. He was most
grateful to be asked to attend, for no one had ever done so for such a ceremony
before. When I talked with him, he was particularly honored to have his name on
the cornerstone plaque.
The ceremony itself was wonderful.
Hundreds of school kids, all dressed in their white shirts and blue bottoms,
had left their classrooms and gathered in one of the courtyards by Fr. Leo’s
house. The other guests and I were in seats up on a raised platform looking out
over the many people who came to see the activities. The ceremony included the
national anthem and the usual speeches (all of which were in Swahili, of
course). But it also included wonderful songs and traditional dances performed
by the kids. All of the villagers had heartfelt thanks and gratitude for what
we were doing for them.
In looking out at the sea of faces, I
couldn't help but think that we are indeed making a difference. But I would
also look at individual kids, knowing that some of them would not break out of
the cycle of poverty, despair and, in many cases, drug use.
By afternoon, we were dropped off back
in town. I could have taken a standard taxi back to Epheta to get ready before
dinner. But, I heard how cheap the motorcycle taxis were and wanted to give
them a try. The "picky-pickies," as they were called, could be found
on just about on every corner. My fellow volunteers took my picture and wished
me luck. They were going to take a more traditional taxi instead.
I sat on the back seat’s torn
upholstery, clutching my driver’s belt with my left hand and grasping the
chrome bar at the rear with my right. Off we roared. I was giggling like a school
girl. Even though the driver said he knew where Epheta was, it soon became
evident that this was not the case. We were heading fast in a northeasterly
direction when our destination was to the northwest.
"Wrong way!" I yelled into his
ear. "Head this way," I said, pointing and jabbing my fingers to my
left.
"Yes, Epheta, yes," he said
as we continued in the wrong direction.
I continued to insist that we were
heading in the wrong direction. I finally convinced him to turn.
“Okay, great. Now head toward the
airport," I nodded agreeably. "From there, I can show you the
way."
I was comfortable in pointing left
then right along the route that had become so familiar to me over the past several
weeks. But I had forgotten that a road repair project had recently started
along a portion of our route. I hadn't become familiar yet with the detour. We drove
past recently erected barricades but soon came upon large, road building
equipment that blocked the entire way.
We turned into the front yard of a
man's home. The owner pointed back in the direction we came, trying to explain
to our driver the detour route. He didn't even finish when my driver
impatiently continued on through his front yard.
Past his vegetable plot we went. We
ducked under tree branches and neck high clothes lines on which the neighbor's
wash was hanging out to air dry. Chickens squawked and flew out of the way as
we roared through the back yards of mud huts. A little boy ran out of our way,
just in the nick of time, and into his hut to bring out his little sister to
see this once in a lifetime show. It was probably the first and last time they
would ever see a motorcycle carrying a white person ride through their back
yard.
Through ditches and foul-smelling mud
puddles we splashed. Ladies yelled at us, waving their arms, frantically trying
to block our way through their patches of dirt, getting sprayed with dust and
debris as we roared past. My driver was laughing out loud, ignoring all pleas.
We finally got back onto the main
route and eventually into Epheta’s courtyard. I paid 5000 TSH despite the
quoted fare of 2000, for it was worth it not only for the quick way home, but
for the experience and tale I will tell for many years to come.
I was later back in town, this time
taking a normal taxi to get there. At the Afro-Lux hotel, many of the people we
have come to know, respect, and cherish, we're in attendance for the farewell
dinner. Dr. Kurt did a wonderful job saying words of praise to all those who
made our trip a most wonderful experience.
I was struck to say something myself
about Dr. Kurt and Jeanine. Being 10,000 miles from home, Jeanine's
comfort and guidance had come to be relied on by the many that needed it. Dr. Kurt,
the tireless worker, was constantly "on" for 24 hours a day
throughout the trip's duration. I said that it appeared he had enriched the
lives of the students he had brought with him. I also said that I could speak
confidently on behalf of us volunteers that he had enriched our lives as well.
Fr. Leo started to say a Christian grace
over our meal when soon a voice over a loudspeaker at a nearby mosque was
calling out for a Muslim evening prayer. It was a fitting end and indicative of
the wild, interesting, enriching, and exotic trip we had all experienced and
will cherish forever.
A video of the ceremonies is at the following link:
A video of the ceremonies is at the following link:
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