“This is a reconstruction. All of it is a reconstruction…It
is impossible to say a thing exactly the way it was, because what you say can
never be exact, you always have to leave something out, there are too many
parts, sides, crosscurrents, nuances; too many gestures, which could mean this
or that, too many shapes which can never be fully described, too many flavours,
in the air or on the tongue, half-colours, too many.”
– Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’sTale
Although the above quote references the re-telling of living
in a totalitarian Christian theocracy, I find it highly relatable with regards
to recounting tales of life abroad.
Whenever I travel, I always wish that the people I love could be with me
simply because I know that my stories will never do the experience justice. Furthermore, people generally add their own
nuances as they listen along and consequentially the experience can come across
as larger than life when really it was all just living.
[I wish I could describe the smells- smokey, rotten and
sweet. I wish I could explain the way the sun turns everything gold and the
dust makes everything sepia-toned. The way the primary school children smile in
their socks and wool sweaters despite the 30 degree heat. The way the banana
leaves rustle in the wind and it sounds like rain.]
I’ve now been in Tanzania for a week. It’s Monday night and
I am sitting at my host mama’s dining room table sipping a cup of camomile (to
ease the side effects of my Malaria pills) and swatting at mosquitos with an
electric tennis racquet (Roger Federer get at me). The past week has been rather PG- nothing
spectacular or life changing or monumental- but I’ve only just arrived in
Mwanza and I anticipate that things will pick up soon.
The upcoming week will be filled with meetings with our
local partner organizations and private Swahili lessons. The maid that works in
my homestay does not speak a lick of English and thus I have major motivation
to communicate properly with her as she is the one cooking my meals. I don’t miss home yet but I definitely miss
the food. A summation of my Tanzanian diet thus far: flour, salt, sugar, oil,
fat. After being bedridden for the
weekend, with only Margaret Atwood and Sun Tzu to keep me company while I lay
in the fetal position, today I opted for fresh squeezed
papaya/banana/carrot/avocado juice (with a side of fresh veggie pizza) for
lunch and more papaya and banana (with a liiiiittle piece of deep fried bread)
for dinner.
I’m looking forward to discovering more of Mwanza. I rode in a dala-dala today (a Tanzanian rite
of passage) and ate at a restaurant that was set up by an NGO to employ
street-youth. I saw Brad Pitt’s young Tanzanian doppelganger and read under a flowering
tree. I've stood at the top of a hotel in the city center and taken in the aerial view of the lake and the hustle and bustle of the dusty streets below. I find the local Mosque's call to prayer comforting. I realize (again...again and again) that quality of life is relative and most people have zero interest in travelling to Canada. I realize (for the first time while abroad) that home is where the heart is- so my heart will forever be stuck in suburban Ontario, much to my own chagrin.
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