After a delightful 22 hours in Amsterdam, I made the last little jaunt back down to Tanzania.  Originally I had planned to spend a day or two in Dar es Salaam and I booked a night at the Transit Motel just near the airport to catch up on some sleep before moving somewhere more central in the city.  But the truth is, when I woke up in the morning, I was so antsy to get back to Morogoro that I decided instead to go directly to the bus station.  Fortunately, I was able to get on a bus right away and by mid-day, was on my way.

As the landscape rolled by, I have to confess I felt thrilled to be back.  It was a surprising feeling in a way.  The first time I came to Tanzania three years ago, I felt a little ambivalent about it.  I liked it, but I wasn’t immediately drawn to it in the way that I have felt in only a few other places during my life.  But it sneaks up on you.  At first, the heat and bustle can be overwhelming.  But now, I reveled in the beautiful scenery, the sounds of Swahili, the bright colors of kangas and kitenge around me.  After three hours, the green mountains of Morogoro came into view and I felt like I was coming home.

I had texted friends in Morogoro to let them know I was coming, and luckily Shantelle said she could come pick me up at the bus station.  I had two very large duffle bags with me that I could only just carry, so I appreciated the ride.  Unfortunately, I arrived a little bit early, and so as I exited the bus and waited for the bus driver to open the luggage doors, I was surrounded by porters eager to carry my bags for an exorbitant tip.  They are extremely aggressive and often pull your bags from your hands, relying on speed and the fact that you probably don’t speak Swahili and can’t protest to “encourage” you to use their service.  Then they insist, sometimes to the point of following you from the bus station, that you pay them a tip that is sometimes reasonable, but oftentimes equal to the cost of your actual bus ticket, just for carrying your bags all of twenty feet to a taxi.  I don’t mind tipping for actual services rendered and so sometimes I won’t fight this if I have a lot of luggage.  But today, having just arrived, I had no small bills and furthermore, simply needed to pull my luggage from the bus and sit on the platform until my ride appeared.  So I was having none of it.  The minute the doors were opened, I had the top half of my body completely inside the compartment pulling my bags free.  Immediately, hands on all sides descended, grabbing handles, offering assistance.  Swinging the bags from side to side, I muscled my way out of the crowd, saying “I don’t need help!” in Swahili over and over to the crowd of men around me.  I emerged from the throng, plunked one bag on top of the other, sat down firmly, and cross my arms, ready to wait.

Of course, this attracted a lot of laughter, and after the initial buzz around the bus dispersed, I found myself the object of curiosity by some of those same porters.  Soon a small group had gathered around me, eager to see how much Swahili I knew and if I wanted to exchange phone numbers and be “friends.”  I quickly realized how much I had forgotten just by being home for five weeks, but at least I was able to have a simple conversation (and avoid contracting a new boyfriend by saying I was only there for a few days).  Shortly after, Shantelle arrived.

She drove me to the language school, where we were just in time for tea.  Nearly everyone I knew was still a student or living there, and after greeting all of the teachers and staff (and being told over and over how kibonge, or fat, I had gotten while home- which given how much weight I had lost while sick was, I hope, meant to be a compliment), I found myself settled outside on the benches with a cup of tea and good friends.  It was so wonderful to see everyone again, it hardly seemed like it had been over a month since I left.