INTERLUDE II

ROOM 104

It was cool and dewy when we deplaned in Nairobi, but that was hardly surprising at 3:30 a.m. The half–dozen dozing customs clerks on duty snapped fully awake amazingly quickly, but it took nearly a half–hour before someone arrived to issue visas to us non-citizens of the Commonwealth. For the third straight time mine was half price; I guess they feel sorry for me when I tell them I'm going on to Arusha the next day.

I had worried a lot about taking a taxi into town at that time of morning, had even tried unsuccessfully to be met, but I need not have. The older man and woman staffing the taxi office in the airport were most considerate, and I was soon being driven competently by another older man in a vehicle of almost matching age; it was clear he would easily outlive it. The two of us exchanged small talk for a few minutes, and then he asked where I live. His English seemed inadequate for the customary “upper left hand corner,” so I took some care to locate Seattle for him.

He then asked, “Are there Indians there?” “Yes.” “How many?” Well, I thought for some time before voicing a guess, which will remain unreported here, of their number in Washington State. He paid no attention to my reply but immediately asked, “Do they share?” Unconvinced that I had understood him correctly, I asked for and received verification. So I told him what little I think I know, and I certainly hope I was right, about their dual lives on and off their reservations and assured him that proceeds from the former were indeed community property. He then blurted out, “Our tribes don't share.” In reply I could only murmur that their leaders did seem to put much of the money into their own pockets. We drove the rest of the way to town in silence.

The three successive weekends I had spent in Salinas, Bellingham, and London during my visit home had more than reawakened my appetite for Western culture–the movie version of Much Ado about Nothing in the second was exciting but no match at all for the play at Queens in the last–and as the hour for surviving the van ride back to Arusha approached, I became totally convinced I simply didn't want to return. But it's much too long a haul from Seattle to Arusha simply to turn around and go back, so I spent my darker moments working out contingency plans for a pair of group walking safaris that still had had space a few days before I left Seattle. The UK in early autumn and Spain before Christmas also appeared in my thoughts.

If those few days in the organized world had taught me anything beyond an enhanced appreciation for its culture, it was the realization that I desperately need to settle down someplace for a few months simply to assimilate what I've seen. More than two years will have passed between taking and viewing the slides of my last treks in Nepal, for example, if I do finish out another school year in Africa.

When I left Victoria House after a cumulative stay of 107 days–and the poached eggs were absolutely divine that last day–not all of which were in residence, I gave some thought to the room I wanted on my return. Martin planned to join me on the night of August 12, since an all-Volunteers conference was scheduled nearby for August 16-18, and we needed several days to steel ourselves for that dreadful event, so we checked out the available double–two beds–rooms together. Room 112, where I first stayed, had only one major disadvantage and one minor one, except when there was a party in the adjacent lounge: the shower curtain runs diagonally across and well outside its rectangular enclosure, which is only a couple of inches high, so the floor of the bathroom is quite wet between shower time and maid-service time. Also, its verandah is quite small.

Room 102, where I had spent most of my stay, has already been described. It has a lovely large verandah but it lacks an inside power outlet and that extra little room with a shelf. So we settled on room 104. Its verandah is small, but it has both the extra room and power outlets inside and also the best view of the southern sky of all of the front rooms. On some August days the hotel was already fully booked by a tourist agency, but no matter according to the manager, room 104 was mine from August 12 until eternity if I so wished.

I was very pleased when reaching the Norfolk at four that morning to find my room ready, with the beds turned down, and I was charged for only one night and at the special Peace Corps rate, which about equals my monthly PC allowance for expenses. The next day's ride to Arusha was smooth, and the van was filled mainly by young Europeans. The English couple across the aisle wanted to ride trains to the Cape, and the dozen or so from the Netherlands were starting up Kilimanjaro the next day. Their leader had lost a crown, and we all howled with delight when the bus driver recommended a “good dentist” next to the Maasai camp.

My mood remained quite negative during the morning drive south, but after crossing the border about noon, I found life much improved. The weather brightened, Mt. Meru came into view, and the crossing of its shoulder provided many lovely views; my resolve not to stay on was clearly weakening. Even Arusha did not look all that bad with many colorful flowers in bloom. And on arrival at the Mt. Meru Hotel, I accepted the overpriced offer of the first taxi driver who accosted me. He was well dressed and had a stylish 505; only I knew about the three heavy bags he would have to transport from the van's roof.

The first two guys who saw me at Victoria House came running and screaming to the taxi. “Babu, Babu.” They could hardly contain their enthusiastic laughter. Between them they operate the Nyama-Choma Bar, one at the bar itself, the other beside the grill, so I was not surprised that they raced out first to greet me. I was surprised that no one else came; finally I was told that the manager and the office staff had all been replaced. How sad. Later on the owner saw and greeted me with warm respect.

So it turned out that room 104 was not available; no one in the office had heard of me, but they did have one double room left, 112. A table and chair had been added, the power flickered off only momentarily at shower time the first morning, and by the second I had discovered a way to pin down the shower curtain and keep the floor dry. The water was temporarily off, however, when Martin arrived the second night. When available the water is really hot; the mossies are not too numerous, and it doesn't really matter where the power outlet is located.

I quickly unpacked a few things, donned a pair of shorts–the afternoons here are becoming quite warm–and walked over to the PC Training Site. Stanley was up at Ilboru enjoying a farewell lunch hosted by Mr. Mtui, along with everyone else from the Site, so I left a note asking that he stop by on his way home, which he did. Martin had told him that the missing box had not gone out on June 10, but was on its way and should arrive by the end of August. Guaranteed airfreight? We then talked about all manner of PC affairs: the coming conference, where my friends were staying the night before, the complete turnover in the American staff occurring in the next few weeks, and finally Ilboru itself. “What do you really think, Stanley? Should I stay on another year?” “You're still a Peace Corps Volunteer,” was his quiet reply.

After his departure I opened the packet of mail he had brought and was very pleased to find a half dozen personal letters. There were also two official envelopes from the embassy; each of these contained a single check from the SSA, one for June, the other for three unspecified months. Since they are dated two months apart, I assumed the May check was missing. Sure enough, two days later Stanley delivered it to me with apologies for having misplaced it. I am undecided as to which is more unreliable, Box 8082 or Box 3014; perhaps correspondents should alternate between these addresses.

On August 3 in Seattle I had received a form letter, dated July 29, from the Baltimore office of the SSA; it informed me that starting with the August payment, checks would be sent electronically to my checking account at home, something that I already knew. It would have been very reassuring to know then that the payments sent to Africa were coming via the Embassy and Peace Corps courier to Arusha. Could not someone in the Seattle office have told me that? My life-long liberal leanings are collapsing quickly.

At breakfast the next morning, Friday the thirteenth, “Vance,” called a woman I had not met before as I walked by her table; such is my notoriety among PC officials here. Sharon only recently left a position in Sacramento but has already brought substantial organization to our efforts in Tanzania. Of greatest importance to me is her total unconcern at the highly individualized way in which I do my job; she actually accepts it as the only way for a Volunteer to be effective. Greatly buoyed by her support, I set out for Ilboru with a much less negative attitude.

About halfway up the last stretch, an unmaintained dirt road from the Nairobi-Arusha highway to the school and beyond, I heard an a capella choir singing a few notes I thought I knew. A truck drove by drowning out the choir, but after it passed the last few bars were clearly audible. Amazing Grace it was, an old hymn that played an important part in my enjoyment of the very first visit to East Africa. I realized then and there that I would teach again at Ilboru.

I continued up the hill, turned right at the T-junction, and started down the driveway to the school parking lot. After crossing the stream it rises again past the end of one side of a U-shaped complex of offices and classrooms; the headmaster's office is at that end. My head was down and filled with its own thoughts when suddenly I became aware of a strange sound. Looking past the office, I saw a half dozen of my students smiling broadly and waving frantically. I made my way to the headmaster's office and learned that Mr. Mtui was at the PC Site and then I was engulfed by a mass of students. Fortunately Mr. Mnjokava also spotted me, and after nearly crushing me as he lifted me off the ground in a welcoming bear hug, he was able to clear a little breathing space.

Just before leaving campus in late May I had been strolling toward this same classroom when Mr. Mtui emerged from his office. We had essentially avoided each other for several weeks, but this time there was no escape for either of us. He turned sideways to me and looked out over the schoolyard as I slowly approached. I reached out, put my hand on his shoulder, and quietly asked, “Old friend, you haven't been yourself lately; what's wrong?” He turned to me and responded sadly, “We're out of money. I wish the authorities would let me end the term two weeks early.” I commiserated briefly and asked, “What do you think of my returning for another year?” “Oh, I don't have any problem with that.” “Can we be friends again?” “I don't see why not,” he responded quickly, and then he relaxed and smiled.

He returned from the Site about an hour after I arrived, and I went in to see him. He looked very fit and robust, a little heavier I thought, and he was exuberant in his welcome. “I think it's a miracle that you've returned.” We discussed housing and my assignment, and then I left to visit each of my three classrooms. When they learned that I would again live on campus and teach them, they literally jumped with joy. I was treated like a hero.

The promise for the coming year is great, and I hope it can be fulfilled. I can't know that for certain, but I do know that on Saturday, the fortieth anniversary of our wedding day, I will go back up the hill to Ilboru again.

W. Vance Johnson

15 Aug 93