Let's Get a Visa

We passed weathered mountains that seemed to begin and end out of nowhere; towering peaks that shot up from the brown and broken dirt, piercing the clouds before retreating back into the depths of the earth. We traveled through villages where ulezi lay scattered on the ground in front of each house, drying in the dust and the sun, waiting for tired men and women to begin the process that would eventually turn it into local beer. Made our way through uncountable dirt diversions, each time closing all of the windows to to keep the dust from filling the volume of the bus, and in each case, immediately reminding us of the aromas of 60 people traveling together in a small aluminum box, perpetually baking in the sun.

And yet, what I remember most are my wrists; the image of looking down from my tiny cramped seat and seeing those two bands wrapped around my forearms. Two little pieces of black fabric strung together with elastic and dotted in the center with a tiny plastic ball. I remember pressing that little ball into the flesh on the underside of my wrists, closing my eyes and focusing on the pressure as it dug further down into my skin. Hoping that as advertised these things would suppress the caldron now simmering to a rolling boil in my stomach. Praying they would keep me from hurling the previous days’ food onto the strangers I now shared a common space with.

When I was a kid, I could conquer any rollercoaster, or spend all day on rolling oceans and not feel the slightest bit of motion sickness. Now however, I get queasy riding on the kids’ swing set. So I bought these motion sickness wristbands on a whim, my very last purchase before leaving the states. And thankfully, they kept me vomit free the entire 14 hour bus trip.

We were traveling to Dar es Salaam to visit the U.S. Embassy. Our co-director here is a man named Herman David, a Tanzanian national who has worked with the program for a number of years now. As part of his responsibility, he has been invited to attend a training conference in America this summer, a seminar put together by our home office for all of the directors of individual Children of Promise programs from around the world. In order for him to go, he had to first attain a U.S. Visa, a process that is not easy and not always successful.

We arrived in the city at night, instantly thrust into the congestion of the capital. I don’t know a single person that owns a car here in Tanzania; perhaps they are all located in this city, where the too small streets are crammed with vehicles. Cars, Land Cruisers, buses, motorcycles, Bajajis, and pedestrians fight for the small spots of remaining pavement, only to settle in and wait out the slightest movement once they arrive. The smell of diesel dominates the air and seems to permeate even your clothes, as hours later and far removed from the streets I still found it drifting into my nostrils.

Pulling into the bus station, a giant lot of concrete curbs and a mass of humanity, about 25 men in white rush alongside the bus, screaming, begging, demanding you make use of their services as cab drivers. From among the sales pitches I can distinctly recall the one yelling, “Whitey! Whitey!” an actually uncommon phrase here in Tanzania but one that served its intended purpose and instantly demanded by attention. Unfortunately for our brethren, we has prearranged our driver and met him on the other side of the screaming figures.

He navigated through back roads and what appeared to be backyards before dropping us off at our hotel. The power was out on our arrival, and we quietly and exhausting ate our dinner in the blackened courtyard, using cell phone light to be sure what we consumed was in fact a food product. Afterwards, we retired for the evening, the Visa interview looming in the morning.

The next morning I met Herman in the lobby. I’m convinced you won’t meet a better-dressed man in all of Africa, and today was no exception. Our cab driver friend was waiting again this morning and soon we arrived at the United States Embassy of Dar es Salaam. I sat down alongside the outside wall while Herman and another twenty or so people lined up at the door and began filing through security on the way to their interviews.

After 45 minutes I got a glimpse of him exiting out of the corner of my eye. He seem to plod over, shoulders slumped and eyes tracing the cracks in the sidewalk. Hesitantly I asked, “Well?” He didn’t look up, just mumbled, “didn’t make it, unqualified, can’t go.” I was mad, we had spent weeks preparing, getting everything they had wanted and said they needed. There was no one more prepared or qualified to go. “What do they want!” I asked.

And then he looked up. “I’m kidding man, I got it. We’re good." And he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed as hard as I think I’ve ever been hugged before.

So that's that. We'll all be traveling later this year to the Children of Promise Conference. We spent the rest of our time in Dar walking the Indian ocean, sweating profusely, and checking out the busy streets of the capital. The next day we picked up his newly stamped passport, found ourselves in 2 minor traffic accidents, and completed another 14 hour return ride to Babati.