There's a Rhythm

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   There’s a rhythm in Tanzania, Africa. It’s the morning rain which pounds on the dirt, the huts, the pavement. It’s the cluck of a chicken, the cries of a child down the way, the rumble of three wheeled Bajaj’s. It’s the strife, struggle, and celebration that takes place in a single day. Even the sun rises over the Indian Ocean with a soft, dependable beat that picks up pace and warmth and momentum until the heavens explode with a symphony of color and dusk falls over the lush landscape once again.   
   I almost missed that song.
  “Mzungu!” was all I could hear. Out of place was all I could feel. I was one of fourteen wazungu, but our tiny tribe could not ward away the reality that I was in the minority for once in my life. Our group walked down the dusty road, the bizarre surrounding us on either side. Amused, gleaming gazes were fixated on us. I was irritated with our host for bringing her dog. The Tanzanians were skittish around dogs. As she pranced out in front of the group, undeniably associated with us by a leash, she attracted as much attention if not more than we did.
    My western ways could not cope with so much attention or the perpetual proximity of strangers who smelled strange. The strain of my culture collided with the shouts of street vendors and the deep echoes of prayers from a nearby masque. For the first time, I understood that being other was not accompanied by a solitary violin or the lone beat of a drum, but a senseless din. 
   It was the interaction with individuals and the spices and textures of goat curry and chai masala that tuned my heart to begin to feel the rhythm. Even today, so many years later, the scent of cardamom can carry me back. But I am reminded that what I heard and felt was incomplete. Sometimes I long to go back, to better understand the song and maybe even to dance along with it. Other times, I laugh at my own romanticism and I have to remind myself of how difficult the majority of my experience was. But that is the beauty of it. It is the transition from the unfamiliar to the familiar. Dissonance to harmony.

    I felt the faintest pulse of that Tanzanian rhythm. So wherever I go in this wide world, I hope to hear the din that comes just before the song.

Comments

  1. UnknownSeptember 5, 2016 at 5:21 PM

    Stories that paint a picture and play a symphony in my head always have the greatest impact on me. Joan Didion's works are a great example of this. In my story, "There's a Rhythm," it was my desire to make images and music play in the reader's mind. For those of you reading this blog, I would love to hear how you have accomplished this in your writing or what works you have experienced this in. Or maybe you have a memory you would like to write about that you see could really be enhanced by adding details that awaken the eye and ear. Feel free to share!

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