My Day Not On Safari: Part III

We drove to Isanga, another preaching point nearby. Isanga is a mix of Hehe, Bena and Masai tribes, and the chapel they worship in is just a bit bigger than my bedroom (i.e., not very big at all). There were five girls there who were afraid to go back to Idodi Secondary School after the fire. That disaster had to happen when students were preparing to take their national exams. After the fire the school was closed for three weeks and students were sent back home. But there was hope at Isanga, too. We saw the piles of bricks they planned to use to build a house for the evangelist there, which is something of great need. We didn't stay too long there, but we sang, we prayed, gave gifts and recieved gifts. The whole trip seems to be one big act of humbly accepting gifts from our Tanzanian partners, whether they are tangible gifts or not.

After that we drove back to Tungamalenga for lunch at the parish hall. Alice, a primary school teacher who also helped prepare lunch, asked me, "Emmy, how many Swahili words did you learn today?" I confessed I hadn't practiced during our drive. The only person I wasn't afraid to make linguistic mistakes in front of was our translator, who was asleep most of the ride. Alice and I always practiced though. I felt kind of proud because when people would be talking in Swahili, I would sometimes understand the gist of the conversation, not just a few random words. Progress!

After we ate, Mom and I learned another language. We already knew basic greetings in Swahili, Masai and Hehe, and now it was time for Barabeig. One of our traveling companions was a young evangelist named Alex, a member of the Barabeig tribe. He came over to our table and at Mom's request taught us a few words in the language. I can't even explain how hilarious our lesson was. Alex only speaks Barabeig and Swahili, and Pastor Paulo next to us only Masai and Swahili, so we enlisted the help of Alice's husband Barnabas, clinical officer of the village dispensary, who was on the other side of the room, to translate for us. Here's how the conversation went: Alex would say a phrase (aguna maida bash bakhoda), Mom would say, "What? Say it again?" Alex wouldn't understand, Barnabas would repeat her question in Swahili, then Alex would say it again slower (a-gu-na ma-i-da bash ba-kho-da), Mom and I would say it back again (aguna maida bash...?), he'd correct us, Mom would exclaim, "Ooh, let me write this down!" and Pastor Paulo and I would look at each other, laughing and laughing. Repeat all this for maybe 20 minutes (with different Barabeig words of course), and you have one of my highlights of the trip. Alex was so nice and patient with us, too, firmly shaking our hands when we said something right. As a matter of fact, he seemed in slight disbelief that we were trying at all. It's nice to find out that language can be a bridge and not a barrier.