Update…

We have now received all but one of our bags, for which we are thankful. And jet lag is subsiding. I got a good night’s sleep last night…

Part of the reason for the good night’s rest was that I was out of town last night with my friend Lance., a member of the missions vision team at Landmark church, our sponsoring congregation. We traveled to Geita, a small town just 80 miles from Mwanza to do some research.

80 miles is not a long trip in the states. It is much farther in Tanzania. We boarded a bus at 7:30 am. The bus would not leave until it was completely full. Not just the seats (they seated five across, not four), but the aisles as well. When we were crammed to about 100 people, about 3 hours later, we left for the ferry…

Being first class looking people, Lance and I were escorted upstairs in the Ferry boat to meet the Master (aka captain). When he found out that we were American, he asked, “oh, so you are George Bush’s people?” I have dreaded this question for years.

Things got interesting when we were trying to reboard the bus after the bus pulled of the Ferry. This time, 200 people were trying to get on. In a mad rugby scrum for position, nobody making it into the bus, we encountered two pick-pockets (actually, they encountered us.) They got into Lance’s pocket, but didn’t get anything except perhaps a dollat. They tried to get into my cargo pocket, where my camera was, but when Lance warned me to watch my pockets, the crowd and bus crew noticed, and grabbed the suspects.

They pulled me aside as well, to question me about if anything was missing. Now Lance is incredibly strong; grabbing the handles above him, he lifted himself and three women in front of him into the bus. After answering some questions, I decided that window entry would be easier than the scrum. Whereas Lance was gifted with strength, I was blessed with small hips. So up the side of the bus (named Air Jordon… all public vehicles here require a personality), and through the opening in the plexiglass window.

We watched the assembled mob escort the thieves down the road. In truth, I was scared, as thieves here are usually beaten, sometimes even burned to death. While I appreciate being in a society that doesn’t tolerate stealing, I did not want to be associated with the suffering of the two young men. I would rather my pockets emptied. Thankfully, when the bus finally began rolling, we saw the mob at the police station down the road.

While the most interesting part of the journey, it was also the easiest. The next 75 miles were over some of the worse roads in the world. Not only were our bodies being beat to a pulp (several times my internal organs bounced off my tailbone), but that window I climbed through was loose, constantly rattling in my ear. Rattle is an inadequate word; it would have rattled on American roads; it was like a jackhammer on concrete.

It took three hours or so to travel the 75 miles. We had one stop in Sengerema, where vendors were able to sell me an ear of corn, some bananas, a cold bottle of water, an egg, and a goat-kabob. Unfortunately, no ear plugs.

We passed beautiful wetlands filled with beautiful, exotic birds, green mountains, numerous witch-doctor compounds, and tiny clusters of huts populated by the poorest people on our planet.

I could not help asking myself why I was born in America, in the richest one percent of people in the world, a citizen of the richest empire history has ever known. I’m sure the people we passed ask a similar question each day. Yesterday, the question was more likely, “why is that mzungu (white person) on that bus?”.

We arrived late in the day in Geita, a place we had never been, a place where we knew nobody, a place where it was incredibly difficult to find anyone who spoke English. We walked around, observing the town, searching for ways to ask questions and meet people. We found a hotel that prohibited prostitution, with in room toilets and mosquito netting. The room, plus the full dinner we requested, set us back 8000 Shillings. Or 7 bucks. Twice the bus fare. Much more comfortable, though.

We received a wake-up call early in the morning; courtesy of the town mosque. We were able to make the earliest bus, which drove out of Geita as though a volcano had erupted behind it. Apparently, the forward momentum insured that the bus didn’t tip over when it reached near 45 degree slants on numerous occasions. We made it to the ferry in record time, overpassing everything along the road, leaving behind only dust and suspension components.

Anyways, it was an enjoyable adventure, though my body feels like it was left in a dryer for hours, and my ears are still ringing, and it was wonderful to come back home to my wife and sons. Lord willing, future trips like this will be more productive.

And we know a good place to stay in Geita.