I recently returned from a remote village in Tanzania called Matamba. To get there you must first fly eight hours to Amsterdam, then fly another 10 hours to Dar El Salaam, then get on a bus and drive seven hours to Iringa, then drive an additional nine hours to Chamala and finally load 12 people, 17 suitcases and seven carry-on bags into two four-wheel drive jeeps to drive an hour up a mountainside with 54 switchbacks and a prayer!
I lost a bet that we couldn’t make the trek up the mountain in one trip, which leads to the joke: How many Tanzanians can you fit in a Jeep? One more! Ta da, you are now in Matamba!
The trip took three days. I was never so happy to see a living room in my life.
Of course we didn’t arrive “under the radar.” Seven Mazugus (white people) make quite an entrance. We were met in the street with dancing, singing and gifts. It was a big to-do. Even though we were all exhausted, we spent an extra hour sitting outside being welcomed and praised for our effort to come to their village. This is where we were given rooster No. 1. Two days later we all voted to have him eaten as he liked to crow at the moon.
This was a mission trip. We had 19 days in Africa and it went by in a flash. I can’t say I would head back tomorrow, as recovery has been slow for me.
I am still in culture shock as I walk through my home. We have so much. I don’t care where you live in America, I would bet it’s a palace compared to 80 percent of those living in Matamba.
For many it’s a dried brick house with a dirt floor, no running water and cooking over a campfire. I would say it’s tough to be young in a village like this, with not enough food and no toys to be seen anywhere—they used plastic bags wrapped in twine as a soccer ball—but I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to be old in Matamba.
We visited more than a dozen elderly people who have to sit on the hard ground and rely on their families and neighbors to bring them food, water and wood. One woman lay dying in a pitch-dark hut with a small choking campfire to keep her warm. Even with the door open I could only stand the smoke for a few minutes. When we left they closed the door tight and I thought of a smokehouse – only there was a person inside.
As we were walking home one evening we heard gut-wrenching cries. The priest walking with us said someone must have just died. As it turns out the family had been robbed of 20,000.00 TSH. This would be about $12.60 in American money. I thought how much money would I need to have stolen from me to have the same reaction? $1,000, $10,000…. more?
We cannot fathom what it would be like to lose $12.60 if it meant we could not feed our family for the next month. What if $12.60 meant life or death for our children or our parents? The average home in Matamba lives on less than $400 per year. That’s an average, some make much less than this.
Here’s the rub though…. I didn’t see a lot of unhappy people. Mass was attended every day at 7:00 a.m. and on Sunday the service was packed even though it lasted a good two or three hours. People brought several live chickens and eggs to us as gifts. They shared what little they had. Every celebration was formal with a head table, speeches and men dressed in suit coats and ties. We were treated to the best food—wali and kuku (rice and chicken). My favorite was pilau. I plan to make it at home. There was such an appreciation shown to all of us. It was a wonderful experience. Well worth the very, very long trip, into Africa!
Taste of Home columnist Sandy (Anderson) Holthaus lives on a farm in South Haven, MN with her husband, Michael, and their children Zoe, Jack and Ben. Her heart remains on the North Shore where she grew up with her parents, Art and LaVonne Anderson of Schroeder. She enjoys writing about her childhood and mixes memories with delicious helpings of home-style recipes.
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