Mambo!

As I write this, the only light, besides that of my laptop screen, is starlight. From my chair on the front porch, the prominent sounds are low, female voices muffled by curtains and the gravelly squawks of some strange breed of wild, spotted chicken. The dirt beneath my bare feet is still warm from the hot sun, and I am enjoying the cool breeze – the first of the night, which is mixed with the captivating, sweet scent of a plant I have not yet identified – that is floating across my face. The power has now been out for several hours; we ate our dinner of rice and savory, stewed banana by the light of a single candle.

While in India, I had many names, from Whore to Teacher to Goddess. In Tanzania, I am simply Sister (or some approximation of Elisabeth or Betsy, ranging from the most common – Elisa, Betty, and Eli – to the most memorable – Taxi and Pepsi).

Though united in my life by the span of one semester, India and Tanzania are two completely different places, bound by only three similarities: the poverty, the heat, and the inevitability of dark, dusty feet by the end of the day (in India, from dirt and pollution; in Tanzania, from going barefoot in the garden).

In India, it seemed as though no one smiled, much less cared about an outsider’s well-being; children ran beaten, naked and starving in the streets; fresh fruit and meat were the rarest of pleasures; internet could be stolen from neighbors and calls home made for 13 cents/minute; I coughed up visible pollution daily; and I counted the days until my departure.

In Tanzania, I eat mangos, bananas and watermelon; sleep on a mattress four inches thick and made of foam (instead of two inches and stuffed with straw); and am repeatedly hugged, welcomed, and serenaded by 130 of the most beautiful, loving girls I have ever met. I wake up to palm trees outside my window and friendly, mosquito-consuming lizards that cling to my mosquito net. There is little internet (by little, I mean dial-up that costs several cents per kb), and phone calls are steeply charged by the second. When the power dies, the water does, too. And, as it’s November in the southern hemisphere near the equator, my definition of the phrase summer sun is quickly intensifying.

The sting of heat, mosquito bites, and cracking feet fades in light of the healing voices and hope of the girls here at Bethsaida. The orphaned girls range in age from thirteen to twenty and are here to complete their first four years of secondary school (there are seven years of secondary school in Tanzania). They study, grow much of their own food, work nonstop from 5:00 am to 11:00 pm, and leave the compound rarely – only to collect firewood or visit the hospital. They also laugh at their own jokes, love to run, speak Kiswahili, and sing more passionately than any artist on my iPod. It is fitting that the first phrase they taught me was karibu (welcome), and the second was napenda musiki (I like music).

Tanzania is far from paradise, though. The nation, albeit one of Africa’s safest, is one of her poorest. Her resources, though not mired in ethnic conflict, have been depleted by a history of colonization and more recent failed attempts at socialism. There is no divide between wealth and poverty, as I witnessed in India; here, there is simply poverty. Electricity is rationed – often and unpredictably cut off to save costs. There is concern over which the girls will finish first: their annual examinations or their limited and quickly decreasing food supply. Understandably, theft is the most common crime and a daily occurrence outside of these walls. Our compound is surrounded by barbed wire, and a guard is constantly on duty.

My role here has not yet been firmly established (nor has my grip on the girls’ names), but friendships have been almost instantaneous. I’ve begun cataloging the school library (stacks of donated textbooks coated in dust), helping instruct the Form One English class, and teaching one of the girls the basics of that mysterious, magical box no one seems to know how to operate – the dusty computer in the corner.

Though I arrived only five days ago, I can’t believe I have little more than five weeks left. However, while there’s so much more to share, it’s now 10:31 pm, and my alarm – the rooster crowing outside my window – rings early.

Usiku mwema,
Betsy