At Home In Usa River

After a harrowing morning at the Amsterdam airport (luggage and check-in difficulties meant that we arrived at the gate five minutes before the scheduled departure - fortunately they held the plane for us) and a nine-hour flight, our intrepid group of twelve arrives at Kilimanjaro airport. ¨Ah, the smell of Africa - burning garbage,¨ says one of the other chaperones, who had visited a number of other times. While we are all impatient to actually experience Tanzania, the first thing we do on arrival is wait in line to be fingerprinted and show our visas. Fortunately, we do not have any international super criminals in the group, so we make it through without incident. Then more waiting to pick up luggage (and report that three of the bags were MIA, though they do show up later in the trip).

Finally, Sharon, one of the other chaperones, gathers us up saying, ¨there are some people who are very anxious to meet you.¨  Outside there is a large group of faculty (and friends of Sharon's from a previous journey) to greet us, presenting each of us with two roses and placing a homemade lei around our necks. Our new friends commandeer our luggage, despite our best efforts to hold on to it, pray a prayer of thanks and climb into the van to join us on the forty minute ride to the guest house.

We are quiet on the ride, trying to take it all in despite the darkness - looking at the signs in Swahili, businesses and vegetation. Close to the airport the roads are paved, but as we approach our destination we switch over to dirt roads. The guest house is gated and the narrow angle always requires some negotiation on the part of our driver and the guard (we make it through only once in our stay on the first approach).

At our new home, we are met by group of students with closely shorn heads (boys and girls both) and navy uniforms. We gather on the porch as they sing and dance, ¨hey, hey visitors. We like to welcome you, we like to welcome you to our special school, to our school¨, and subsequent verses about working, learning and helping each other. I have never felt so welcomed in my entire life.

The students and teachers disperse, with promises to meet again at the school the next day, and we begin the process of settling in. Mama Kiara, who runs the Meru Diocese Guest House (but also has other diocese duties) greets us with a light meal of cucumber soup, bread and baobab flower juice (apparently the baobab only flowers at night). We divide into our respective rooms. The students, including our recent college graduate, are in a more hostel-style building, with bunks. The chaperones are in the main building. Sharon and I share a room, while Tim is solo.

Each bed has a mosquito net that we learn to tuck in between the mattress and bed frame. While it is not mosquito season, each building seems to have a pesky one or two stragglers buzzing around. Above the bathroom light switch is a switch for the hot water heater, which we only turn on 15-20 minutes before shower time. Sharon, Tim and I regularly have hot showers. The other nine members of our group, who share a hot water heater with the only other visitor at the guest house, are not usually quite so lucky (unless they are first in line). After returning home, one of the guys, not used to sharing a bathroom with seven young women lamented, ¨so much hair!¨

Mama Kiara is an older woman, who was brought back from retirement for her current job. She has a beautiful smile and warm demeanor as she announces, ¨karibu, you are welcome.¨ Her hair falls a few inches below her shoulders and is always braided and covered with an African print kerchief. Over the course of our two week stay, she makes this place feel like home, to the extent that after two nights away for safari, most of our group announces at various times, ¨I miss Mama Kiara. It will be nice to go home,¨ meaning the guest house - not our Seattle homes.

Typical scene during downtime at the guest house - cards, books and music

Mama Kiara carefully plans out each meal to try to avoid waste and will add leftover vegetables from dinner to the pancake batter the next day, a savory combination that I enjoy, but most of the teens find to be strange. After first helpings, she also circles the table, either asking us if we would like more or discreetly adding food to our plates before we can object (we ate a lot under her care and not wanting to offend her or disappoint her, I ended up with seconds or thirds a number of times). Before each meal, she announces, ¨let us pray¨ and then either leads the group in a prayer in Swahili or directs to one of the group, ¨you will pray¨. She's very soft-spoken, so sometimes we need to shush or nudge one another when she announces prayer time.

Each breakfast includes a freshly blended fruit juice, while each lunch or dinner includes a freshly made vegetable soup - her favorite is cucumber soup, but we also have tomato, potato, pumpkin and carrot throughout our stay. Our meals include Western-inspired items, like French Toast, scrambled eggs, or spaghetti, but also ugali and chapati, along with a delicious sauce, which is to become of favorite of our group (and does not resemble Indian chapati in the least). Breakfast includes tea or Africafe, the local instant coffee, with hot milk. At lunch or dinner, she circles the interior of the tables arranged in u-shape to get our soda requests. While most of us are converted to Tangawizi, Coke's ginger beer, which sadly is not available in the U.S., we also have a large Fanta-contingent. Each meal is followed up by a fruit course - mangoes, super-cute tiny bananas, pineapple or watermelon - and we eat plenty of vegetables - a particular favorite is the avocado served with red onions and vinegar.

After dinner each night, we gather as a group to work on a reflection sheet with highlights and impressions of the day. Sometimes we get a bit off topic or minds wander, but it also leads to discussions about how we've changed as a result of what we've experienced together. One night's conversation covers the impact of the used clothing market, while another concerns feelings of guilt at expecting our lives to be changed by experiencing life in a country with lower relative income - is it voyeuristic? Are we taking advantage? Jumping off points on the reflection sheet include: impressions, culture insights, high points, challenges, ¨I laughed when...¨, ¨I see God's work in...¨ and ¨I hope I never forget¨.

While the one other visitor at the house dines with us, he does not typically stay for the entire reflection, though in our discussion of guilt, he offers up that the local families are healthy and happy and not to be pitied. Dr. Jim (the Nobel Peace Prize winner for his work on landmines) is an orthopedic surgeon operating at the local hospital. On his last evening with us, he offers to show a Power Point presentation (previously given at Geneva for the U.N.) about landmines, the Red Cross and Doctors without Borders. This turns out to be fascinating.

Our neighborhood is surrounded by cows and chickens, maize crops and tons and tons of children. When our bus gets a few blocks away from the guest house, the yelling and waving begins and the kids run after our vehicle. ¨Be careful,¨ we wince. There is usually an hour or so after our return before dinner begins. Often, this time is spent either playing soccer or Frisbee with the neighborhood kids (or for our introverts, who are beginning to miss privacy and time alone to decompress, reading and writing).

One little one follows us home...

The power goes out nearly every single day. While there is a gasoline-powered generator, Mama Kiara typically only runs it until shortly after she leaves for the day, which means that often at 8 p.m. it is pitch dark (sunrise and sunset are both at about 6:40). While we have small solar powered lights at our disposal, on these nights, we often go to bed early. Electric light at 9 or 10 p.m. becomes a luxury that we seize to stay up ¨late¨.

Another luxury - washing machines. While the kindly Ailanga School Project Board back in Seattle has purchased a washing machine for Mama Kiara, unfortunately the guest house is not set-up yet in manner where it can be hooked up (not sure if it is the water or the power that is the problem...). All washing is done by hand in buckets in the yard and hung to dry.

Laundry day

Our last tea with Mama Kiara, Rebecca, our driver and the guard results in a few tears. This time Sharon, Tim and I serve the table. I enjoy emulating Mama Kiara's hospitality - saying ¨karibu¨, distributing Tangawizi and trying to get someone to take the last roll.

Now that I'm at my Seattle home, I miss her sweetness, as well as the fellowship of our group meals. Somehow, eating with just two people at the dinner table seems empty, though I enjoy seeing Trent again.

Still to come: school life and safari.