A Letter from America
This week I received a letter from a friend in the states. Recently she had spent some time in Tanzania doing volunteer work in the agriculture sector. Thus, I enjoy hearing from her because she’s a remembrance of my former life who can relate to my experiences here.
One of the things that struck me so vividly in her letter was her comments on coming to love her rural placement despite her suburban upbringing. Somehow that hit a chord in me. Regardless of all that I miss in America I do have a deep appreciation for my surroundings here. I have come to know the details of this place: details that didn’t exist, or I was too preoccupied to notice, at home.
There are so many things I love about my village which I’ll never have when I return to America. I love the sound that the rain makes on the tin roof- a ballad emulating renewal of freshness and life; a show from nature that drowns out everything modern. In such a storm there is no hope of using a radio or watching television; nature’s reclamation of the earth.
I love my runs, in the bush, surrounded by people’s livestock. I feel reverence for how the sun sets over the dam- mirroring the mountains- its fading light in beat with my fading energy. The water rippled by fishing birds; occasionally a heron wades on long legs in the shallows. Here I can be truly alone and untroubled with my thoughts as my muscles propel me down the dirt path and fatigue gradually creeps into my body. I’m free to review my day or make up tales of my future without the interruption of traffic and congestion. The only noises: the chattering of children, the tête-à-tête of animals, and the reverberation of the wind.
I adore being able to recognize seasonal changes here: how long the sun stays above the horizon, it’s changing position as it sets in accordance with the time of year. How, now, the mangos are ripe on the trees and tadpoles grace puddles with their scurrying. How green everything is: a salad of emeralds, jades, olives, and lime. The dam has risen, yet somewhere hidden just beneath the surface small islands and peninsulas plot their comebacks for the drier season. In just a few weeks the maize will begin to ripen in the garden and the food intake of the community will change.
People here take life in stride; the early morning will be spent tending the garden and later neighbors and families will gather under the shade of trees as the sun fries the earth. Here they will gossip and laugh: complain of their suffering in the heat, and each person that passes the yard will be greeted.
I always figured myself as a city person. I’m starting to have my doubts…
One of the things that struck me so vividly in her letter was her comments on coming to love her rural placement despite her suburban upbringing. Somehow that hit a chord in me. Regardless of all that I miss in America I do have a deep appreciation for my surroundings here. I have come to know the details of this place: details that didn’t exist, or I was too preoccupied to notice, at home.
There are so many things I love about my village which I’ll never have when I return to America. I love the sound that the rain makes on the tin roof- a ballad emulating renewal of freshness and life; a show from nature that drowns out everything modern. In such a storm there is no hope of using a radio or watching television; nature’s reclamation of the earth.
I love my runs, in the bush, surrounded by people’s livestock. I feel reverence for how the sun sets over the dam- mirroring the mountains- its fading light in beat with my fading energy. The water rippled by fishing birds; occasionally a heron wades on long legs in the shallows. Here I can be truly alone and untroubled with my thoughts as my muscles propel me down the dirt path and fatigue gradually creeps into my body. I’m free to review my day or make up tales of my future without the interruption of traffic and congestion. The only noises: the chattering of children, the tête-à-tête of animals, and the reverberation of the wind.
I adore being able to recognize seasonal changes here: how long the sun stays above the horizon, it’s changing position as it sets in accordance with the time of year. How, now, the mangos are ripe on the trees and tadpoles grace puddles with their scurrying. How green everything is: a salad of emeralds, jades, olives, and lime. The dam has risen, yet somewhere hidden just beneath the surface small islands and peninsulas plot their comebacks for the drier season. In just a few weeks the maize will begin to ripen in the garden and the food intake of the community will change.
People here take life in stride; the early morning will be spent tending the garden and later neighbors and families will gather under the shade of trees as the sun fries the earth. Here they will gossip and laugh: complain of their suffering in the heat, and each person that passes the yard will be greeted.
I always figured myself as a city person. I’m starting to have my doubts…
posted by Cait at 10:54 AM
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