the big city

Stepping off the bus at the Ubungo Bus Stand in Dar Es Salaam, I’m immediately assaulted by thick moist air flavored with car exhaust, heated by the equatorial sun and millions of sweating human bodies. Screaming men greet me with cries of “Arusha!” or “Nairobi! Nairobi!” As the men try to grab my bags and direct me towards busses heading to all sorts of places I don’t want to go, I focus on keeping my wallet in my pocket and my temper under control. My track record is pretty good--I’ve never lost my wallet and only slapped a bus agent once. Upon arrival, my first thought (after “where’s the nearest bathroom?”) is usually, “why did I think this was a good idea?”

Over the past two weeks, I’ve traveled from my village to Dar twice. That puts me pretty firmly in the crazy category. Even before the insanity of arrival, it takes two days and up to four cars, vans, or busses to just get there. More often than not I’m basically sitting on my neighbor’s lap (if I sit on their lap completely, I might get to ride for free like the children). I’m frequently holding a child or a chicken or both.

Busses are bad, but nothing compares to the mental and emotional whiplash I’ve experience traveling between the multiple worlds that exist within this country.

I don’t know where I belong in Dar. I’m not like most aid workers, driving big white Land Rovers and checking email on my smartphone between meetings. I’m certainly not any kind of Tanzanian. I wear a khanga but I’m not a village girl. I wear jeans but I’m not a city girl. I wear a backpack but I’m not a backpacker. I’m not a tourist or a short-term volunteer, wandering around with eyes wide with pain at the first glimpse of an unfair world. I’m not a fashionable expat wearing big designer sunglasses and a bored expression.

Everywhere I go, I feel underdressed and tactless. My clothes feel frumpy and my Teva sandals just plain ugly. At up-scale restaurants and clubs, I feel like an mshamba (Tanzanian equivalent of hillbilly) who shouldn’t have been allowed out of the village. At the grocery stores I feel like a doe-eyed idiot salivating over the multiple cereal options. I can’t shake the feeling that everyone is staring at me and judging, but I’m also shocked and a little disturbed by the fact that a large number of people are totally ignoring me. I’ve grown accustomed to my fishbowl.

This year, Peace Corps celebrates 50 years of turning Americans into unclassifiable freaks in capital cities around the developing world. This month, I celebrate one year of joining the freak show and loving it. None of those years has been easy, but nothing worth doing ever is.

Yesterday I had the privilege of meeting the newly arrived Peace Corps Trainees (or if I may, the future freaks). Talking to them, answering their questions, hearing their concerns, I realized just how far I’ve really come. One year ago today, I was going through the same thing they are—freaking out about everything from squat toilets to Swahili to how to get my host Mama to stop feeding me so much. One year ago today, I was going through the most intense emotional rollercoaster of my life. Though the ride hasn’t gotten any calmer, I no longer require a barf bag and I’m comfortable throwing my hands up and letting out a triumphant scream.

I presented to the new trainees on the topic of diversity, which was incredibly relevant because this class could not be more representative of America. There’s an 80 year old man serving his second tour, a man who applied for Peace Corps on the same day he became an American citizen, energetic kids fresh out of college like me, people of every shape and shade you can imagine. They also seem incredibly cool, if a little shell-shocked. Before we started our session, my fellow presenter Katie turned to me and said something like, “Isn’t it weird that in a few months we’re going to be best friends with some of these people?” I really hope that’s true.

But for now it’s time to go back to my village. The grant money for my appropriate technology training program just came through and the secondary school will be opening up again in a few days. I’m ready to go back. I have to admit, before this little vacation I was losing steam. The cynicism that PCVs are famous for was setting in and I had forgotten why I came here in the first place; just going through the motions without my characteristic energy and passion. Celebrating the 50^th, celebrating my 1^st, meeting returned volunteers and hearing their stories, listening to the impassioned speech that our very own Dan Waldron gave at the party, meeting the newbies and feeling their energy and excitement, I remember again why I’m here. As awkward as it feels for me to praise the government, the mission of Peace Corps is something I really do believe in. Promoting world peace and friendship is a bizarre and daunting task, but there’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now, and no where I’d rather be doing it.

People keep telling me that I must be changing lives here, but the only thing I know is true is that my own life is changing. I’m only halfway to the person I’ll be when this is over. I’m looking forward to one more year living in the most loving village in Tanzania and fifty more years of unclassifiable freaks changing the world one village, one life at a time. Here’s to the future.