MatadorU Assignment #2: From Treadmill to Tanzania and Back Again

Whiskers tickle my cheeks and the cold paws balancing on my arm hint that it’s just about time to get up. The dark, cool morning filters into my reality as I slowly and begrudgingly untangle myself from the cocoon of blankets, duvets, and pillows that embrace my unassuming California skin. My phone erupts into a vibrating fit of steel drums, lazy guitar, and the raspy smooth of Bob Marley. Akeelah announces her excited anticipation for breakfast, encouraging me to move just a bit faster. She clumsily tumbles down the stairs, overcome with kitty jubilation. I stumble behind her, overcome by the obscenity of the hour.

I spoon a lump of cold cat food into her dish. She cozies in next to her bowl to enjoy her feast as I gulp down a glass of OJ. Upstairs I slide into my gym clothes. Shivering at the cold, I remind myself its due time to stop ignoring the inevitable change in weather. I lace up my running shoes, grab my keys, and enter the icy air. The drive to the gym is chilly, as once again, I curse myself for forgetting how cold it is here.

Methodically, I head for the treadmill, the third in a line of three, just like most mornings. I give the routine, friendly nod to my fellow treadmill warriors who run beside me, silently and unknowingly encouraging me to run just a bit faster, a bit longer. Headphones in, I scroll through the list of playlists that have become the soundtrack to my life. I ramp up the speed and increase the incline. My feet begin to move beneath me as the beat of Akon’s I’m So Paid, helps me to find my pace. I notice the wind in the trees and the brightening of the sky, the glimmer of the ocean just beyond the roof tops and the lack of people on the streets below. Sweat drips off the man in the red shirt beside me. The brassy fusion of hip-hop, rap, and intoxicating Tanzanian culture fills my ears.

Bongo music is blaring from the scratchy speakers at an ear-piercing decibel. The cab of this big rig is suffocatingly stuffy, thick with exhaust fumes, and too many bodies. Perched just behind the driver’s window, I relish in what little relief the hot breeze provides and the partial view of landscape inching slowly by. The sharp tingling of a foot waking from slumber has me adjusting my awkward positioning at the expense of the two men crouching next to me. They glance in my direct, apologetic and understanding. I notice the older man’s eyes. Worn and tired. A curiously faint smile lifts the edges of the younger man’s mouth, inviting me to engage. “Jina laku nani?” I inquire. “Mimi John, na yeye Mani.”

John and Mani were travelling back home after visiting family in Kigoma. For this father and son, home for the past twelve years has been a UN refugee camp in western Tanzania. Tweleve years of living in a temporary hut. Twelve years of waiting, hoping, and praying that they’d be able to go home. Twelve years of food rations.  In the spring of 1995, John had owned a successful mechanic shop in the foothills of outside of Goma, was a happy newly wed, and was excitedly anticipating the birth of his first child. But then the Hutu rebels attacked his town. The bitter civil war that had been tearing his country apart for decades had finally arrived.

Beads of sweat have formed at my hairline, and are sliding slowly towards my eyes. I wipe the perspiration from my brow with the blue gym towel that hides the digital display of my progress. The man running next to me has sweat jumping off him, his red shirt soaked into a smelly mop clinging to his torso. The TV flashes images of too-thin, leggy blondes. “Ugh,” I think to myself at yet another example of the shallow, disturbing ideals that have come to shape western cultures.

Slight, yet strikingly strong women wrapped in colorful fabrics, bent nearly in half, work the dusty fields. Small children stand amongst them, hoe in hand, working harder than any child should have to. An imposing wire fence encloses a sea of roofs made from white tarps with baby blue lettering. John and Mani signal the driver to pull over, and with great ease maneuver over the tangle of legs and bags. I smile and wish them both well. Mani reaches for my hand, calloused and rough, his grasp resonates determination and resilience. “Merci, and God bless you.” His small, wet eyes burrow into mine. Feelings of overwhelming powerlessness and undeserved good-fortune consume me.

Unannounced, the treadmill slows beneath me, signaling that my 30 minutes are up. I make my way into the locker room. Noting the pang of yearning and sadness, I find comfort in the warm embrace of the stifling sauna.