Jambo
Jambo, Bwana
Habari gani?
Mzuri sana!
Wageni, mwakaribishwa
Tanzania
Hakuna matata!

Among the first of many lessons I learned at Faraja School in Tanzania was a simple song in Swahili. In my freshman year of high school, I had a great opportunity to go on a service trip to a primary school in Tanzania for children with physical disabilities. We were going to help build a warehouse, because the area the school had been using as storage space was actually supposed to be a room for physical therapy, and help teach the students during class time. I was excited to be able to give back to the greater community and impact others’ lives on a personal level, and with the company of seventeen classmates ranging from freshmen to juniors, I thought nothing could sound better.

After weeks of preparation, two vaccinations, and sixteen hours of flying with a connecting flight in between, we finally touched down in Dar es Salaam. I can’t tell you what I did on the plane, who I sat next to, or even how tedious standing in line was--especially with the heat I wasn’t accustomed to associating with the middle of March. Nothing else mattered once I stole a glimpse of the unfathomable sky. Back in New Jersey, saying, “The skies are clear!” simply means that there aren’t any clouds. In Tanzania, without the pollution and distracting spotlights of the cities, I could see straight through the skin of the universe, sparkling with gentle, unassuming beauty. Sometimes, when I miss my friends from Faraja, I look up and remember that gorgeous African sky.

The next day, the eighteen of us split into two groups- Group A would work on the warehouse and Group B would work in the classrooms, then switch after tea time. I went along with Group A, passing fields of vegetables, a cow pen, and what looked like a small brick hut along the way. Later I learned that the brick hut was actually a chicken coup and bread-baking creation of my own school’s previous project. It felt great to continue the legacy of help and teamwork. At the work site, everyone quickly grabbed shovels. All that was left for me was a heavy, awkward pickaxe. Taking a spot in an empty area, I raised the pickaxe above my head--nearly falling backwards--and dropped the point with an unsatisfying clud. Frowning, I tried again, but only repeated my previous blunder. Retrospectively, I looked pretty funny: five-foot-two, glasses already smudged with dust, lips already gritty with dirt because I had naively chosen a spot downwind. No wonder this area had been empty- the gusts would blow everything directly into my face! Luckily, a kind African construction worker came to my rescue.

“No, Sister,” he laughed. “Here, trade.” He offered me his shovel and I gladly took it.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Asante,” he replied. At my blank look, he explained, “That is ‘thank you’ in Swahili.”

“Asante!” I repeated! We grinned at each other.

For the next week, we made a formidable team- he wielded the pickaxe (swatting low, raising the pickaxe to head height, dropping with precision, and pulling to wiggle the pieces of rock) and I shoveled rock and dirt behind him (also swatting low, rotating, not swinging, to prevent dust from wildly flying about, left hand close to the blade and right hand near the handle). I learned to position my back to the wind, wear extra sunscreen, and not take long pants for granted, even with the sun glaring down on us.

After teatime (I am still addicted to black tea with two lumps of sugar), my group made its way to the classrooms. Picking a room at random, I walked into the kindergarten class and was suddenly overwhelmed with nervousness. My vision tunneled, I remarkably started stuttering without speaking, and my friend had to drag me along to say hello to someone sitting at a desk. How was I supposed to communicate without a common language?

“Jambo,” we said.

“Jambo,” she greeted back.

“What are you doing?” I pointed at her book.

“I am learning to read,” she told us.

Having already run out of things to say, I suddenly burst into song, “Jambo! Jambo, Bwana. Habari gani…” but I forgot the lyrics and the tune and the beat. Her eyes lit up.

“Mzuri sana! Wageni,” she sang, clapping her hands and slowing down for us.

“Mwakaribishwa. Tanzania, Hakuna Matata!”

Soon, the entire classroom was singing along to this simple song about welcoming visitors. It was better than any spontaneous music moment that could have been concocted on television. Somehow, through a series of bilingual charades, funny hand motions, and drawings, I learned that my new friend’s name was Esta and that she was twelve years old. She was two years younger and nine grades lower than I was, and yet her maturity dwarfed mine. She worked hard, was a calm role model for her younger classmates, and was always eager to learn, teach, and help. I realized that community service isn’t necessarily about giving back or emulating Robin Hood, but rather about doing what you can, no matter who you are, to improve the lives of others. At the end of our five days at the school and seven days in Tanzania, I had to leave Esta behind, but I brought a little of her spirit with me.

Up next was lunch and then free time. Some days, after working in the field and teaching in the classrooms, I played soccer, basketball, tag, or just sat around in the grass. I don’t remember how exactly I met her, but free time was always our favorite opportunity to relax. Namnyaki, a fourteen-year-old fourth grader, was shier than Esta, but our silent friendship was more like a hushed embrace than a tongue-tied squeeze. Hand-in-hand, we were absolutely inseparable. My fears of communication flew away into the breeze- somehow, Namnyaki and I didn’t even need words.

The following day, as I was leaving a classroom for teatime, I noticed two kids left behind. “Come on,” I said, motioning to the door. “Let’s go!” By then, I had already learned not to feel awkward about the language barrier. Looking back, I actually appreciate the language gap for challenging me to enhance my abilities to connect with people. Whether that means squatting to be eye level with a boy in a wheelchair or adapting the way I talk so I can be understood well, I learned to communicate beyond words with posture, body language, eye contact, and tone of voice. Just then, the door opened, and another Faraja student pushed in a wheelchair for one of the remaining students to use. When she pointed at something behind me, I noticed another wheelchair in the corner of the classroom. Of course! I rolled it over, accidentally knocking over chairs and nudging desks in the process. I helped the other student to the door and watched him zoom off to find his friends.

The previous day, I had been in the field first so I hadn’t been able to watch the teatime travel, but a simple walk to the dining hall was eye-opening for me. I saw kids without arms pushing wheelchairs for kids without legs, other people moved at a snail’s pace to walk with their friends who used crutches or walkers, and everyone moved leisurely without stress. Things that would be regarded as unfortunate limitations in America barely caught any attention, and the members of the Faraja Primary School community were masters at playing off each other’s strengths and weaknesses. There was an atmosphere of inclusiveness and cohesiveness that each kid lived and exemplified. Somewhere in the mix, Namnyaki found me and we walked off together for tea and bread.

After just the first day, I realized the importance of time: I would only have four more days left with some of the most wonderful people on the planet. For perhaps the first and only time in my life, I lived second-by-second, never worrying about the future or anxious about the past. Time flies quickly when you’re looking back and slowly when you’re looking forward, but for those seven perfect days under the gorgeous African sky, the universe was timeless and infinite. I fell asleep to the symphony of the crickets, saw an elephant up close, and lived through lessons that could never properly be taught without experiencing them. I stuffed my bag full of souvenirs, but the things I wanted to take with me couldn’t be touched, only remembered and passed on. Esta’s selflessness, Namnyaki’s patience, Emanuelli’s happiness, Upendomuchi’s gentle heart, Godbless’ easy confidence, and Godlisten’s friendly smile. Tonight, the sky is inky and without character, but I can always remember our gorgeous African sky beyond the clouds.