When someone dies in my village three things happen: the drums beat around town, the villagers gather to sit at the house of the deceased’s family, and the dala (small bus that goes to town and back) does not go to town and back. This information came to my attention at 6:40 a.m. yesterday morning when my house girl, Agnes, knocked on my door to tell me that there would be no car to town. I’d heard the drums at 5 a.m., but didn’t think twice before covering my head with the pillow and falling back to sleep. Bags packed and sunscreen applied, Katelyn (my closest PCV neighbor) and I were ready to head into town to say goodbye to two PCV’s from our training class who are ETing (early termination) today. It’s a 10 km hike out of my town to the main road where there is the possibility of catching another dala on the main road to Njombe, another 40km away. At 7a.m. we started to walk.
It was a beautiful morning and the town was quiet in mourning. There was cloud cover, a cool breeze off the north hills, and song birds and roosters were greeting the day. After a pleasant hour and fifteen minute hike we reached the main road(a red dirt road that is big enough to accommodate one and a half cars). There was no dala so we turned left towards Njombe. The road to Njombe winds up and down the highlands, through small forested areas, and many Kibena villages. A half an hour down the road found Kaitlyn and I giddy with endorphins from the simple act of walking up and down, greeting Kamwene after Kamwene. A dala honked it’s horn, and we turned to face the man hanging out the door, motioning us to get into the car. The bus was coming at us fast, kicking up dirt behind it. Kaitlyn and I looked at each other, and waved the bus on. “Let’s walk to Njombe” we said almost simultaneously. And so we walked.
We walked for three hours, dodging children screaming “Wazumgu pipi!” (whities give us candy- and here I must make a plea, if you ever go to a third world country, I beg of you, do NOT give the children candy, it’s gives them a sweet tooth and a sharp tongue). At 10 am we stopped for a 30 minute chai break in another volunteer’s village. We estimated we would arrive in Njombe by 1 p.m. At 10:30 we started trucking back down the road to Njombe. Our spirits were high and were practically skipping down the road singing Busted flat in Baton Rouge and Take a load off Fanny as we went. We were like happy little campers on a weekend trip in some wonderful foreign countryside.
At 1p.m. a COSing (completion of service) volunteer whose village we had had chai in, came biking towards us on his way to town. He stopped and walked with us for a few kilometers, informing us in the matters of AIDs, poor road conditions, the isolation of monsoon season, the failing economy, corrupt government, and the fall of Rome- it was exhausting. “So, I would estimate that at this clip, you guys should get to Njombe in another two to three hours.” He said, preparing to mount his bicycle. Kaitlyn and I stopped, “wait, you’re kidding right? Right?!” we demanded. “Nope, you’ve still got another 18 kilometers to go, oh, and the kids will stop asking for candy the closer you get to town, but people will start harassing you and swearing at you. See you in town!” he said cheerfully, and road off, leaving us in his dust. My knees started to ache.
After he left, we were silent for a few kilometers. The cloud cover had cleared and it was a beautiful day- beautiful and hot. The sun was kali, and we were ill prepared. I had half a small nalgene of water, and thankfully a whole tube of sunscreen. We found a duka, bought water, and stretched a bit before hobbling back out to the road. There were a good amount of cars at this point in the day and we were becoming clumsy on our feet as the speeding vehicles would honk 50 times, forcing us to jump off the side of the road, and cover our face as the dust kicked up, got caught in the wind, and forced up our noses. Another hour passed in this manner, us inching slowly closer and closer, making fewer and fewer friends along the way as the “Kamwene”s turned to “Umechoka?!”s (you are tired).
I got a walking stick and squirmed as my left knee threatened to give way every time I hopped off the side of the road. I could hear my mothers voice in my head, pitiless, telling me that walking 50 kilometers in the middle of the day in Africa for no reason was silly, and I deserve a bum knee- this based off the conversations we’d have in college when I’d call Sunday morning hung over looking for a mother’s comfort, only to be met with a lecture about alcohol abuse.
We were tempted by the devil- a cabby who stopped during hour seven and offered us a ride. “Hapana!” I said firmly several times, leaning on my stick. Kaitlyn’s temper never wavered. She’s so good natured and stubborn: she met everyone with a pleasant greeting, and never missed a step. She’s run the Chicago marathon twice, and has convinced me to train for the Kiliminjaro marathon with her (though I don’t think my knees will make more than the ½).
The eighth hour was difficult. The landscape changed from beautiful rolling hills punctuated with wooded shade oasis to dry, dusty cornfields, stretching over small hills to the horizon. We’d eaten only mandazi (fried bread), and hadn’t peed all day. We attempted to sing again, but the heart wasn’t in it. We had scattered conversations with sarcastic, bitter undertones. We refused to rest. We refused to eat. We had our sights set on the prize, a prize that had once seemed shiny and attainable, but now, bumkneesunburndehydration blurred Njombe into a far off, deceptive meaningless notion. The only thing that mattered was putting one foot in front of the other.
The final stretch into Njombe is a steep down hill, landing us next to a large waterfall where children bath naked, and women wash clothes. Then, a sharp uphill which took us right into the heart of Njombe, at 4:30p.m. We weren’t as excited to arrive as you might imagine. We didn’t jump up and down, or collapse with satisfaction. We bumbled up the hill, high fived, and ate in silence; arrived at the guest house, watched five minutes of a Vanilla Ice video with the other volunteers, didn’t shower, sat in the lounge and had a drink. It was glorious, in it’s own understated way.
Now in the second month at site, I feel like I’m at a stand still. It’s going to take months, at least, to make any sort of noticeable progress with my village. It’s difficult to spend eat day doing the same thing- visiting, learning Swahili, surveying my village’s resources- without seeing any kind of end result. Kaitlyn and I both needed a challenge we could see all the way through, and get some sort of feeling of achievement. We had a day, half a bottle of water, and a road with a destination. We made it.
