Our first full day in Tanzania…

It’s late in the night, no longer Saturday but now Sunday, and I am sitting on a foam-cushioned couch in our temporary home. I occasionally scan the room for the mosquitoes flying about—the mini-sized malaria vectors with stealth-like qualities, appearing then disappearing, engaging in psy-ops of the most advanced kind.

They seem to enjoy the sound cover provided by the “Hot Pot” bar down the lane. Every pop song—currently Shania Twain—blasted with volume at both ends of the spectrum: low frequency bass causing the kitchen contents to hum along, and high frequency that musy have a dog whistle effect, as every dog in Tanzania has been summoned to our neighborhood, beckoning them to form a chorus of howls and barks that would put any kennel to shame. Even the dogs here sing majestically.

If only the power company would have rationed the power a little longer, perhaps the night would be still.

The evening cooking fires are smoldering, providing more smoke than heat, but the smell—distinctly African—wafts through the open windows (with screens, of course, to trap the mosquitoes in). The breeze also carries in the dust, aerial dirt that has Charity wishing that she had packed cases of Kleenex in our luggage.

On that subject, we are still waiting for our luggage. Our six bags apparently were less determined to get here than us. Visiting the airport today was hardly confidence-building. Nor was visiting a travel agent in town. He repeatedly said words like “maybe” and “take a chance” and went bug-eyed when I said “six”.

Other highlights of the day included spotting a green mamba snake (google for a picture) between the glass and the screen of our house. Not wanting to put the bizarre promise found in the un-original ending to the Gospel of Mark to the test, we found a Tanzanian, who could swing a two meter pole with the accuracy and power of Barry Bonds at the peak of his cranium-swelled career. “AEYAAAH” he shouted as the wounded mamba rebounded toward him. A shorter stick finished the job. By the time I found Josiah to show him the snake, the mamba was already discarded over the fence, a warning to other trespassing snakes, I suppose.

I have moved under mosquito netting to play with Elijah, confused as a night nurse about day and night. Mosquito netting is our green zone, if you will, offering protection for us, the privileged few. Bono was here recently promoting nets—as he reminds the world often, Africa experiences a tsunami a month, hundreds of thousands dying of preventable illnesses; Malaria being chief.

While I missed Bono’s visit, I did get here just in time to meet Jill. I call her “Hallelujah Jill”. She found us at a restaurant today—us our teammates, the college interns, and Steve, our American friend who works in Mwanza as well.

She found Steve first. Yelled to him from outside the gate. “Are you American? So am I!” (not that her yelling through the gate left any doubt that she was anything other than an American visitor.) “I am here on a crusade… What are you doing tomorrow? Come to church with me!”

Steve is much more mature than I. In fact, he is one of the most Christ-like people I know. Not only is he well-studied (a PhD in intercultural studies after seminary), but he has served in Africa for twenty years, loving and serving his friends here. Everyone feels as I do about Steve; everyone, that is, who has actually taken the time to converse with him before trying to convert him. “I would love to, but I am preaching tomorrow.”

“Hallelujah, a preacher!” (actually Steve trains and equips pastors). Then she boasted (sorry, in my opinion, boasting+a bunch of hallelujahs=boasting… actually, worse than boasting) about the 65 people she saved yesterday (hallelujah!) while praying at a future church site (hallelujah!). And she’s just getting started… 19 days left to go. She would have saved all of us if someone had not beaten her to us (hallelujah!).

Kinda makes me wonder why I am so stressed about learning the language. “Hallelujah Jill” didn’t need to practice cultural sensitivity or learn any Kiswahili, just speak in really loud English.

She did take a break from her crusade to impart her wisdom gained from her three days in Africa with our interns. She concluded with “you will never be the same after your time in Africa.” I wisely added, “And you will never be the same either, after you leave, Jill. Africa, however, will be exactly as you found it”.

Okay, I must admit, these words didn’t come out, but they wanted to. Not only was such a comment mean-spirited, unfair, and not completely true, it also would have prolonged our visit with her.

However, I can not help myself from being skeptical. Because in August I will meet “Praise the Lord” Larry and in September I will meet “Thank you Jesus” Tom. Heroes in a week. Saving some of the same people over and over again. But saving from what? Rwanda was 90% saved before the genocide. I imagine many of the people in the “Hot Pot” right now are saved, spending money on beer and sex instead of school fees for their children. As are the people beating their wives, spreading HIV through casual sex, or returning to the witch doctor to determine who has cursed them, in order to exact revenge against whoever caused their misfortune.

But it is in this reflection that I find my deepest fears. I am not afraid of Malaria, though I am determined to kill that mosquito. Nor am I concerned about our bags or the adjustment to life here, though I know it will be tremendously difficult. What I am afraid of is being a ten-year version of “Hallelujah Jill”, allowing Africa to satisfy my need for significance, without truly helping those around me in a way that will last when I am gone. And I don’t think I will make people cringe the way Jill made me cringe, and I am even more confident that I will not make the impact of Bono, not be considered for a nobel prize or anything. I will end up somewhere in between the two. Just where will be determined in the next ten years. We will keep you posted.