African Hospitality

By Megan Zapanta
Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

There’s a group of Princeton students who usually volunteer at the orphanage, but their program was touring Zanzibar, so last Friday, Julie and I returned alone. We sat down with the kids and taught them to sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” each with a few little children crawling on our laps. But within a half-hour, a woman brought in a huge round tray of pilau (a mix of spiced rice, meat, potatoes) with vegetables on top. She sat down to eat with us. We had just eaten lunch, but realized we could not reject the offering and ate heartily. It was the best food I had eaten in Tanzania. I even tasted the meat for the first time in 2.5 years. It was a bit tough, but well flavored. When I paused, the woman asked me if I was on a diet so Julie and I ate until most of the plate was cleared. I’m still wondering where the meat comes from. The woman says the kids eat meat 3-4 times a week, which is very rare in this country. All the same, many of the kids are HIV positive and have the extended of bellies of malnourishment. A few little kids sleep on the floor all afternoon, often sick with malaria.

While we ate, we talked to the woman who brought the food in Swahili. Dressed in cloud pajama bottoms, with a yellow khanga wrapped around her waste, she seems to work as a nurse. She is a Muslim (it’s a Muslim orphanage), but she explained to us that in Tanzania, Muslims and Christians live peacefully together. She told us how she loved Tanzania, love the first president, Julius Nyerere and the current president, Kikwete. I envied her simple faith in her country, despite its shortcomings and poverty, but I could never feel the same way about my own, despite the privileges of living there. I wonder if I could ever believe in anything as fully as Tanzanians believe God and their country.

We went to church on Sunday in a square white building across the street from the campus mosque. We didn’t understand the sermon, but I loved the sheer Tanzanianess of the service. The choir sang several times, and for while the children’s choir came up and sang a few songs. With synthesized beats behind the songs, joy and hope in God filled the service. I loved watching people walk in dressed in brightly colored khangas and kitenges. I hope in a few months, I’ll be able to go and understand the words, but last week it wasn’t necessary, to appreciate the hope.