One muddy mzungu

I am a city-princess. Before coming to Tanzania, my only encounters with mud were those I actively sought. With its bitumen roads and paved footpaths, it is very easy to live and work in Melbourne and only ever come across mud if one chooses to deliberately go hunting for wet dirt in their back-garden or their local park. Suffice to say, choosing to hunt for wet dirt has never been high on my list of priorities!

The other thing you need to know about me is that I’m prone to the occasional trip or stagger or tumble. Once, when I came home from school with yet another skinned knee, my mum bemoaned failing to teach me how to walk properly. I view the old bluestone gutters in Melbourne’s inner suburbs as treacherous; to misplace my (high) heel can spell disaster. I spent many hours in my former job inspecting properties. Nothing made my stomach churn more than an agent turning to me in the foyer of a 25-level CBD building and brightly asking “Do you want to see the plant room?” A plant room has all sorts of equipment that ensures a building’s lifts, air-conditioners and lights work. It is on the roof of a building and almost always has a floor made from metal gridwork, i.e. it is a perilous floor-of-death with numerous, large holes in it that force me to walk on my tip-toes whilst gaily smiling through gritted teeth.

Upon arriving in Arusha, I was forced to develop a much more intimate working relationship with mud. This matter was non-negotiable as there are no paved roads in any direction for at least 7 kilometres.

In early January, there was a lot of rain and every road or path was a sucking, squelching bog. The time it took to walk from the volunteer village to Kesho Leo doubled, at minimum. And instead of walking, I’d gingerly part-slide, part-shuffle through the mud. Greeting our neighbours became virtually impossible as all my attention was focused on where to place my foot next.

My first fall into the mud neatly coincided with my first site-tour. After showing two visitors around Kesho Leo, we were returning to the volunteer village. Our guests were duly impressed with our project and I was mentally reviewing every aspect of foodwatershelter to ensure I hadn’t left anything out. Whoops! My left foot rapidly slid out in front of me, I was suddenly on my right knee and I then gently tumbled back onto my poor little bottom whilst my right hand sunk deep into the oozing mess. Our visitors thought this was just terrific!

As January stretched into February, three straight weeks of blazing hot sun baked dry the thick, sticky mud. Before our eyes, the mud was transformed into a patchwork quilt of dusty, diamond-shaped blocks. The sun cracked open the earth and out swirled the grit.

The mud was never far from my mind, though, and I invested in a pair of gumboots. The rain returned. The mud returned. A new and improved Sarah arrived. No longer was I sliding and shuffling through the mud; I was suddenly powering to Kesho Leo, marching along the road, dominating the mud.

Or so I thought!

I recently went down for the second time. My gumboots weren’t enough to save me from losing my footing and plopping onto my rear-end. I wasn’t conducting a site-tour this time and I thought no one had seen me until I heard an excited child yell “Mzungu! Down!”

I gave a bit of a half-hearted wave in the direction of the voice only to hear an adult, who I assumed to be the child’s mother, hiss “Pole” (sorry). To me, it sounded like an attempt to instil some manners into her child. Junior yells, even more loudly, “Pole, mzungu down!” as if “mzungu down” was my name.

And on that note, I got to my feet and giggled my muddy bum the rest of the way home.