The Cats are out of the Bag

We finished our last days in Bagamoyo slowly and thoughtfully, alongside the friends we had made there. It was hard to believe that it was time to leave - it felt as if we had just arrived. I was still waking up every morning surprised and sticky with sweat before at last remembering where I was. The days with the kids seemed endless, and yet the day we had to leave them jumped up on me before I had any time to prepare for it. The days were dense and the nights dark, as the village was frequently without power.

Yesterday we went to school to teach an English class to the high school and say our goodbyes to the primary kids, now demure and happy as ever under their new Tanzanian teacher, Furaha. We and Furaha had became fast friends upon his arrival. He was smart and soft spoken, spoke meticulous English and was very interesting to talk to. He felt comfortable with us and seemed to enjoy our company, which is not always the case in a place where you are so visibly socially conspicuous on the fringes of a community that is not yours. Along with the privilege that comes with being white and a debutante of the first world order also comes that constant sense of standing outside looking in. The locals keep you at a friendly but protective distance and even when you try, it seems you are always a mzungu first and a person second. And can you blame them? Visit, stay, live here if you like…you will keep on a-knocking at the door and never get past the parlor, which of course they don’t have anyway. This feeling of isolation and the longing to belong runs constant through most of my first month.  Always as if you are outside the screen windows looking in - but language and your color keep you out in the dusk with the power out inside, straining to know what’s happening behind the eyes of Tanzania. Here, you can but wont understand it all. See, you will in pieces and try to remember. Guess, go ahead and try. But know, you can never. Furaha was one of those brave exceptions to the rule. Extremely friendly like most Tanzanians, but with seemingly little or no alternate agenda. A sincere interest in who we were, where we came from. We liked talking to him, comparing cultures, comparing traditions, asking questions. He gave us little insights into his life and we listened hard.

On our last day, we asked him if we could come say goodbye to the kids and he could explain to them in Swahili that we were going away. He agreed and even helped us organize one last class picture. I felt certain that the kids wouldn’t really understand and, just as kids are, would hear the news and move right along - in kid world, permanence doesn’t register as easily and living moment to moment is so much easier as you move from one mango tree to the next. They joyously riled around the camera with giggles as Furaha herded them into a somewhat orderly line. As we took the pictures, they never seemed to get tired of waving at the camera and squealing “bye! bye!”, which would collectively excite them into such a wave of delight, cheering and energy that even Furaha stopped attempting to quiet them. Their little personalities bloomed as usual for the duration of the exercise - funny faces, one pushing the other off a chair, some hiding behind the legs of a teacher. Finally it was time to go. I hugged a few of the kids and a bunch of them mauled me as they like to do, pulling my hands and crowding around repeating “bye! bye!”. Some of them planted kisses on my arms and petted my hair. I was welling up and thought it was best to get out before the sprinklers went off. On my way to the door, there was only one threat left to my game face --my favorite little girl, Josephine, and I was wary not to look her too long in the face to keep my composition. Leaving is just like ripping a bandaid off, right? She hadn’t made a move toward me and had a blank, absorbed look on her face. I thought, all the better that way and tried not to look back.

I trudged across the sandy courtyard heavy hearted and tottering on the brink of tears. But so far so good - I was as bone dry and dogged as the hot sand paving the way home. I made it almost to the school gates when I heard Furaha calling my name, “Kathryn! Kathryn!” (Tanzanians have a hard time pronouncing Kate so I have been introducing myself with my full name to make it easier for them, which they noddingly pronounce as “Kaserin”). I turned to see him standing in the doorway - little Josephine by his side. He motioned for me to come. I was as close to running as I could while walking. May day. May day. Looking at her sad little face my esophagus shrunk at least 3 sizes and I thought my diaphragm would surely rupture to make room for my exploding heart. When I got there she was crying and repeating something in Swahili I didn’t understand, and she wouldn’t return my hug in protest. Furaha was trying to comfort her on the other side. At last he asked - “do you think it would be alright for me to lie to her? To tell her you will be coming back?” The last thread my bastard heart was hanging on to split like a hair in my chest. “Yes, yes of course.” He said something soothing to her in Swahili and at last her little head turned, chin tucked, and she obligingly went inside.

We were soon biding our friend goodbye in the teachers lounge, shaking hands and promising to keep in touch. We told him we hoped for him to come to the U.S. someday or maybe we can come back and visit Tanzania. It was the kind of talk that you hope brightly will come to be someday but that the world would mostly likely swallow up like a fly on its way to the moon. We thanked him for everything and told him to keep us appraised of how the kids were doing. “I’m sorry to call you back today. ” he said, “Josephine, when you left, she cry.” I told him sorrowfully I couldn’t understand what she was saying in Swahili, but that I was glad to hear she was doing fine come lunch time. “She’s fine now, yes.” he said. “She can sense how much you love her.”

We are on our way into town for beans and rice on our last night. As we pass the ragga-wood shop fronts, the power throngs once, wavering like a single light bulb hanging in the cabin of an old ship on its way over a wave. Then the town plunges into a familiar darkness. The shop keepers keep on without a peep, and you can hear them scuffling slowly about, retrieving their candles. The speckles of a few dim gas lamps flutter to life and obscure the streets from view by keeping your eyes from adjusting to the dark. Colors of women’s khangas sometimes flash in front of the lamplight and the smell of cassava leaves burning reaches you in the dark. You can hear the entire village moving in the dark behind them, just steps away. I am a ghost here, retracing my phantom steps, hoping that those who have seen my apparition around these parts will remember me. My heart is heavy from goodbye, but too heavy to bring along with me tomorrow on a crowded Dala Dala into Dar. So now its on down the road, an elephant in search of shade through the grasslands. It’s a searching life that is still somehow so full of finding.