The morning
began typically enough. First, there was
the breakfast of chai ginger tea and toast.
Then promptly at 7:00am it was off to my placement. The Hillcrest School is a brisk 20 minute
walk up paths utilized and deemed as roads here in the Maasai village just
outside of Arusha. The sun was bright
and my spirit light despite the undercurrent of digestive rumblings, which is
another caveat. Cars and motorcycles
passed intermittently going mostly in the opposite direction while the workers
in the quarry on the one side were sitting on individual mounds diligently
breaking by hand various sized stones for use in roads and construction.
The trek itself
to the facility is full of curves and similar landscape, but after four days I
was proud to note that it was negotiable without assistance. Upon arrival, my assignment was to continue
up the mountainside to several children’s homes to pick them up and walk them
back to school assuring their otherwise questionable attendance. I had done this twice before with the
teacher, Elizabeth, and fortified by my most recent success, I assured her I
was capable of a solo run. Heading off
on the road going up of course, I warmly greeted those whom I passed with a Hujambo (Hello) and subsequently became
engrossed in an attempt at a conversation with one woman who seemed to be going
my way. This distraction inadvertently
caused me to miss my turn because after about 45 minutes I knew I was in
trouble. I walked this way and that,
always thinking I was ever so close. I
stopped and laughed together with a group of ladies I had passed up as I
clearly did an about-face to pass them again.
We needed no words to speak of what was happening and gratefully humor
has universal facets.
Heading back
to what I’d hoped would eventually become some familiar topography; I realized
I could not count on the light or vegetation to guide me because it was ALL THE SAME! Down seemed an obvious choice of route until
it took on a spiral quality. I passed many
children, goats, dogs and bulls roaming about seemingly aimless. At one point I gingerly moved through a group
of Maasai men in an obvious serious gathering right there on the road. I passed many women with bundles and water on
their heads and colorful kangas (wraps)
on their bodies. I passed at least a
half a dozen one room storefronts while the boda
boda (motorcycles) continuously whizzed by. I have to say I was tempted to
contract with one of them for a ride as many often do, but the roads are barely
walkable and I didn’t think I should take on any more risk than I already
had. ‘Out of my comfort zone’ is seriously
an understatement, but survival after all takes precedence. And, except for that pressing digestive
problem I mentioned and the increasing fatigue, I was really quite all
right. (I did ask God for a little
assistance in some rather forceful language, however.)
Casually walking
along came this young man who I eventually learned was named John. He had just enough English for me to convey
my predicament and just enough presence for me to trust his sincerity in guiding
me down to the road I knew I would recognize when I saw it as the Nairobi Road. We walked and talked and when we came upon a
shop that had the bananas I wanted to take to the children, he assisted me in
negotiating pricing and product choice. As
we nearly reached the main road he saw a friend he wanted to talk to so we said
Kwa heri (Goodbye) and went our
separate ways. Indeed he had a request,
but he was smooth, polite, and it was as harmless and simple as my email
address, which I gratefully wrote down for him.
Where I came
out on Nairobi Road, however, was half a mile on the other end of my
home-stay. I felt very strongly about
returning to the school as I knew they would be worried about my disappearance,
to say nothing of the children waiting for me.
So I stopped at home only long enough to race to the bathroom, get a drink, and lament my troubles
to Mama Liz, the woman who cares for us volunteers, before I once again trekked back up to the school.
Bibi! Bibi! The children called out when they
saw me. Isaac, the director, was there
with a boda boda he had hired to try
to find me while Elizabeth, the teacher (and his wife) was still scouring the
mountainside for me. She told me she passed
many of the same people I had and they indicated that they had, in fact, seen
this woman in the white shirt with a red pack on her back at various
times. In as much as I am the anomaly in
their world, there is the likelihood that the whole Maasai village probably got
a good laugh at my expense. Crazy white
woman….
Now here’s
the kicker…most of the people here materialistically have very little, but many
many have cell phones and had I purchased one like most all of the other
volunteers I could have just called to let them know…well maybe not exactly
where I was, but some landmark that might ring a bell. Needless to say, I’ll be remedying that
situation as soon as possible. Thrifty
and safety must be in alignment.
But, all’s
well that ends well and the children now know the fruit, the word, as well as
the taste of banana, which believe it or not, some had no knowledge. And I am brought to my knees with gratitude.
Yours Truly,
Bibi
(Respectful
Prefix like Miss, Mrs., Ms.)
