I've been feeling a little beat up by the village lately, it's not always easy living here. The food is monotonous and sometimes hard to get, there's no place to ride a bike, and just really nothing to do. Our two restaurants, The New Florida, and the Jesus Is Lord New Restaurant, are less than appealing and would be more aptly named Ptomaine Ptowers and The Dysentery Diner. There is no rain. The riverbed is sand. Kids die.
My students are great, but the parents can make me want to poke my eyes out. It seems word has gotten around that if a parent doesn't feel like paying school fees, in spite of being offered work at the farm, that dumb mzungu will pay, that dumb mzungu being me. So I decided to get away from the village for the weekend and go to Dar for a little time to myself when nobody, and I mean nobody, would need a thing from me. This is not what happened. This is a sad story.
I boarded the bus in Morogoro, wanting a seat on the shady side. There were none, but I noticed the last row had a window seat. The back row is the last picked, as the suspension on these buses lack any actual suspending properties and you can arrive quite bent and sore. I walked toward the rear seats and noticed what looked like a scarf or scrap of fabric on the seat, so I figured a woman had left her kanga. As I got closer, it looked as though something was under that bit of fabric. I got to the end of the bus and there was a man lying under the wrap, a young Massai man. At first glance I thought he was dead, but there was life in his skeletal face. Not much life, but life nonetheless. He looked straight at me with his sunken eyes and I was just stunned that someone should leave a man in such distress alone on the bus.
Very soon a tall young man walked up behind me and said this was his cousin, who was very sick and wanting to go home to his parents. He had become sick a while back and had recently begun refusing treatment. It wasn't helping anyway. His cousin had no English, and my Kiswahili is poor, but there was a nice Rastaman sitting nearby to translate and we all began talking.
Isaya, the dying man, was only 19 years old, from a village many hours from Dar es Salaam. He had left his village to see some of the country, as young men will do. This is not acceptable behavior among some Massai, and a family can disown a man for abandoning his family, his tribe, and not helping with the cows. He was, at this point, suffering from TB and typhoid. TB is very common in the end stages of AIDS, and many people here who die of TB are HIV positive.
His cousin said that in fact, his parents would welcome him home, they knew how sick he was.The brother, however, had been left with the care of the cows, and wanted nothing to do with him. So the young man, I think his name was Joshua, was charged with bringing him home. He thought he would be able to get Isaya home by nightfall, when in reality they would not reach his village until the next night.
Isaya was unable to sit or stand, so he was stretched out along the five back seats. Joshua had paid for three seats, one for himself and two for Isaya. But Isaya, being Masaai, was well over six feet tall, and using the entire last row by himself.
This left two unpurchased seats, and I will tell you that they would be filled before the bus departed. So I bought the two seats so Isaya could stretch out for the six hour trip to Dar. Massai are beautiful people, especially the men, tall and elegant, with stunning bone structure and a regal, dignified bearing. You cannot help but notice them.
This poor kid was a skeleton, weighing no more than his bones. There was nothing else to him. He had been having diarrhea and vomiting, and there was a blue bucket near his head should he need it. He was dehydrated. His lips were chapped and parched, he hadn't taken anything by mouth in quite some time. I bought some water, and helped lift him so his friend could slip in behind him for support. He drank the water, then started vomiting. I bought him some lollipops to take the taste away, and for a bit of sugar.
We got underway, and Isaya lay there sucking on his lollipop, and dozing. I asked Joshua where he planned to stay the night since there would be no bus until the next morning. He just looked at me, and it was obvious he hadn't even thought of this, and had no idea what to do. He wasn't much older than Isaya, and not city bred. So he said they would probably spend the night at the bus station. About this time I looked out the window and started to cry. I have three sons, and this was too much to bear. Mothers internalize, it's what we do.
He had not planned for this, and was totally unprepared a trip of this kind. He had no idea what it would take to get Isaya home. I told him I would set them up in a "guestie", a small inn with cheap rooms. They could sleep there and get the bus the next day.
We got to Dar, but there was no guest house in the bus station, so we found a cab, and planned to find a room somewhere. His friend had a hard time picking him up, he was light, but very tall and it was awkward in the very narrow bus aisle. As he picked him up it was obvious Isaya was naked under the wrap. I pulled out my brilliant pink kanga, and we covered him.
We got him into the cab and the usual african discussion ensued. There were four of us actually involved, but somehow about ten people gathered to weigh in regarding where to go, how much to pay for the cab, and whether or not to buy tomorrow's tickets tonight. At one point I looked at one man and asked what the hell he had to do with this, how he was even involved, and why didn't he just go away. Then I pointed to a hotel across the street and told the cabbie to take us there. Enough already.
So we took a two minute taxi ride to Mic Hotel, and I booked a room. It's a very modern hotel, the room was beautiful, the bed soft and clean, and we got him comfortable. He gestured me closer to say asante and then asked for a pair of captula,(shorts). Poor kid, bad enough he's dying on a bus, but he's naked but for his Massai wrap and my fluorescent flowered kanga.
I asked Joshua to show me his money, and there was not enough for Isaya to have the last row on the bus. So we got that squared away, I gave him some travel money and some extra for his shorts. In the old days, a Massai would wear nothing under his robes, but nowadays they wear shorts. I showed Joshua how to use the key card, and the toilet. It was very plush and I admit I spent a few minutes myself figuring out the shower.
So I left, and hopefully they had a comfortable night, got clean, and made it home so he could die with his family nearby. I told you this was a sad story. He may still be living, though I doubt it. Looked to me he was just holding on till he could see his Mom and Dad.
The rest of the weekend was fine. Had a few good meals, found a coffee bar with iced mochas and brownies to die for. Got some books for myself.
I'm back in Berega, getting beat up by the village again. There's just no escape, other than escape out of here, which I'm not ready to do. Still have not heard about Isaya. I hope he made it home. Hope his brother came around and was happy to see him. Hope he died comfortably, not laid out on the back of a bus in the hot african sun.
L
No comments:
Post a Comment