Time Travel

You can’t rush things in this country, no matter how hard you try. It’s a lesson I learn over and over again. The bus from Arusha to Morogoro takes a minimum of 11 hours. Given the time that I had spent driving around in a car these past days and the relative low cost of local flights I thought I would treat myself to the luxury of a plane ticket. After all, I am not 18 anymore and I was sure my back would be grateful for my decision. My plan was to catch a flight of about 2 hours to go to Dar es Salaam. From there there is a brand new train line that promises to get you to Morogoro within another 2 hours. In total that would be 4 hours. Obviously, this plan already sounded too good to be true, but I was determined to try anyway. What I had not anticipated was that you needed a Tanzanian phone number and mobile payment system to book the ticket. Before I had time to find a work-around the tickets had sold out online. Oh well, maybe I could still go to the train station and get a ticket there. The way this day started was already an indication of how it would unfold. I had asked the driver to pick me up at the lodge at 6 in the morning to go to the airport. At 6.20 he still hadn‘t arrived. After some back and forth phone calls he finally arrived, 45 minutes late, and we were off to the airport. The check-in hadn‘t opened yet, so I stood there waiting, when a young lady motioned for me to take a seat on the bench next to her. I thanked her and engaged in a bit of small-talk. Her name was Debora and she was from Arusha. We got talking about the purpose of our travel and that‘s when I found out that she actually worked in the same field as me! What‘s more, she even worked for a project funded by the same German Ministry as me. How funny is that! We were soon rambling on about foreign politics and she was telling me about her experience working for USAID. She said that she made the switch two years ago, just in time before USAID was terminated. However, many of her ex-colleagues were still out of jobs. Our conversation went on and I told her about my trouble booking a train ticket. „Don‘t worry,“, she said „my husband has a contact at the train station“. She quickly typed a message into her phone. Shortly after she shook her head. "I am sorry, but the train is fully booked today“, she said. Nevertheless, she let me book the train ticket for my journey coming back from Morogoro on her phone, so at least that would be sorted. Despite this little set-back I was delighted. Not only had I met a wonderful young lady to talk to but she was also so kind and helpful supporting me with my journey!

The tiny plane was packed with other tourists who obviously weren‘t up for long bus trips either. The plane made a quick stop in Zanzibar before reaching our destination in Dar es Salaam. Dar es Salaam was hot and humid as usual but the oppressive heat struck me nonetheless. After getting some food with my new friend Debora it was time to say goodbye. We exchanged phone numbers and she told me to get in touch if I needed any more help along my travels. What a sweet lady - this is what solo female travellers need: the support of other women! I hailed a taxi from the airport and told the driver to take me straight to the coach that would take me to Morogoro. Now, back when I was in Tanzania last time there was one big coach station called „Ubungo“. Debora had already prepared me that this bus station no longer existed. Instead, all the different stops and coach providers were now scattered along a long multi-laned road. My taxi driver was slowly making his way through the thick traffic of Dar es Salaam. Despite the heat it felt good being back in the city! While some junctions are equipped with traffic lights they seem to serve as suggestions only, especially for motorbikes and bajajis (tuktuks). It took quite some time for us to find the correct bus stop and the right destination but my taxi driver was very patient and wouldn’t let me leave the taxi before we found the right place. By the time I sat down with my ticket I was already exhausted. It was hot and dusty and the clamour of the bus stop also did not help. After a short while of waiting, the coach finally arrived. Everything and everyone was piled into the vehicle and I was sat right at the end inbetween an elderly Arabic man and another slightly younger guy. Neither of them spoke any English. While we set off, I was trying to make some small talk in Swahili and to my surprise I got on quite well. Soon, the roads got bumpier and bumpier and we had to strap in the elderly man next to me, as he had clearly forgotten to do so himself and enjoyed frequent bumps up to the ceiling. At first we were making good progress and I still considered a 4-hour journey on the coach a win compared to 11-hours. However, towards the afternoon the coach came to an abrupt halt. I hadn’t noticed anything wrong but looking out at the window behind me I could see multiple cars that had stopped and at least 25 men angrily shouting and arguing. The man next to me explained that we had rammed another car. Sure enough, soon the police arrived and more and more men joined the party, eager to add their opinion. I wondered whether anyone would be interested in hearing my opinion, too. It took ages before we were ready to continue our journey. By that time it was dark and it got later and later. My bum already hurt from sitting around and my legs were stiff. I tried to make out any landmarks in the dark but all I noticed were many buildings I did not recognise, hotels and office buildings. After 7 hours we finally arrived at the bus stop in Morogoro. It looked remotely familiar but now, there was an entrance hall that I did not remember being there in the past. I took a taxi straight to the hotel. On our drive I didn’t recognise anything. Once I had settled in at the hotel I was absolutely exhausted, I didn’t even fancy dinner anymore. In total I had been on the road for a little over 15 hours.

The next morning I woke up early. Today I was going to visit the Amani Center, the orphanage I used to volunteer at. After breakfast I gave my old driver Deo a call. Back then we would always have our personal motorbike drivers to take us to work. I befriended my driver, he used to pick me up every morning. Not only did he drive safely, he was always reliable and ever such a nice guy. So, whenever I needed to go anywhere he would get the job. Even after I went back to Germany we stayed in touch. So, obviously I wanted to say hello while I was in town. He had since switched to a bajaji and when I saw the black little tin can rumble around the corner I felt a wave of happiness. “Hello my friend! It’s been a long time”, he laughed. Indeed, it’s been a long time. While we were catching up, he drove me into town to the market. At least I recognised this part of town. I wanted to get a few things for the kids at the Amani Center. While Deo waited, I entered the busy market hall in Morogoro. In this two-story building vendors offered everything, from grains to vegetables and fruit, to clothes and kitchen appliances. A white girl entering the market is sensational though. Like a flash I had three porters offering their help, asking me what I was looking for. With their help I quickly gathered all the things I was looking for. Bananas, oranges, sweets… the porters carried all of my bags out for me and even loaded them into my bajaji. I call that service. The next stop was the Amani Center. The city had truly changed, there were way more buildings now and the streets looked different. I felt a wave of sadness, Morogoro somehow did not quite feel like my hometown anymore. However, turning off the main road on to the red dust road that led up to the Amani Center everything still looked exactly the same. You can tell that this part of the town is much poorer than the others. The bajaji came to a halt outside the brightly painted door I knew so well. First off, I made my way to the office of Father Beatus. Beatus runs the Amani Center and if I am being honest, I never really liked him. He ushered me into his office and happy greetings were exchanged. Of course he emphasised that he still remembered me but I doubt that. I asked about the work and he said that they had recently opened another orphanage. The Amani Center now consisted of the Center in Morogoro which included a daycare, physiotherapy, home visits, and the orphanage, a school for deaf children in Mvomero, a school/ orphanage for older kids with disabilities in Mikese and this new Center in Magubike. He also said that the Amani Center still worked with the Norwegian foundation that has been funding them for many years, not without stressing that they hoped for partners in Germany again. I didn’t say anything but just nodded. I motioned to some photographs hung on the wall, one girl I recognised as Sofia. “Ah, yes. These poor children have passed”, Beatus said. Even though I had prepared myself for the possibility that not all kids might still be alive, I was shocked. I remembered Sofia, she was one of the older girls, ever such a sweet girl. “What did she die off?”, I asked. “Sickness”, Beatus shook his head. I knew better than to ask further. It was such a shame about Sofia though. I asked about some of the other kids I remembered from back then. Eventually, Beatus’ secretary entered the room. At that point I hadn’t even mentioned the fruit and sweets I had brought. The secretary slid a book in front of me, the donation register. Well, good thing I hadn’t come empty handed, I laughed to myself. After some more grateful words between me and Beatus I left the office. Right in front of the office stood Constance, a teacher from the orphanage. As soon as she saw me her face lit up. Clearly, Constance still remembered me. “What are you doing here?”, she exclaimed. We hugged each other and it was so lovely to see her again. She had not changed much, only a few more of her teeth were missing. Then, Beatus’ secretary led me out to the courtyard and towards the daycare. I peeked through the door and said hello but obviously I didn’t know any of the kids. We then went and visited the physiotherapy. Three times a week the Amani Center offers physiotherapy, so mothers can bring in kids that need exercise. I sat with the mothers a little and talked to the physiotherapist. I didn’t know him, he told me he had joined the Amani Center only a few years ago. Nevertheless, it was funny to see that nothing much had changed in the past 10 years.

After a while, it was time for lunch. I sat down in the cafeteria of the Amani Center and I couldn’t believe it. Nothing had changed, it all looked exactly the same as I left it. Even the plastic chairs and the stains on the wall were the same. While I sat and waited for my food a wave of nostalgia hit me. Every day I had lunch here, preferably “chipsi mayai” and a cold lemonade. All of a sudden it was as if a younger version of myself sat opposite me at the table. Eighteen years old, just finished her A-levels, full of curiosity and ambition. “I want to study medicine”, she reminded me. “Well, we won’t get to study medicine”, I explain and I see the shocked expression on my younger version’s face “But we will study psychology instead”, I go on. “We will become a cultural psychologist, learn about really cool stuff, like how different cultures and worldview shape humans into who they are. And eventually we will start a career in international development! And along the way we will experience so much, meet so many new people, and we will even move to two new countries!”, I elaborate. I can see my younger self's eyes widen in excitement. I reminisce about all the things that happened in the past eleven years. I had moved out from home, started university, I found a lovely shared flat, made new friends, lost some friends, did different jobs, tried out new hobbies, went on holidays, spent some semesters abroad, said goodbye to loved-ones, moved house, moved to different countries and cities, got my first job... There is so much that has happened in the past eleven years, it was hard to wrap my head around it. It was truly like travelling back in time, a weird and somehow magical sensation. "What effect will Tanzania have on us?", my younger self wonders. “Tanzania will shape us immensly. I think, many of our life decisions will be influenced by the experiences we made here", I reply. And while I sat there quietly engulfed in my little inner monologue with my younger self both of us agreed to the following: that it had been the best decision to go to Tanzania after my A-levels! "I am proud of you for what you have achieved", my younger self says. “And I am proud of you that you had the courage to embark on this adventure in the first place", I say and we both smile.