I can remember it well. It was a time when my worldly naivety aroused my curiosity and my local mindset was constantly interrupted by thoughts of "what else" and "what next". Year after year, as time goes by, my need for celebrating Thanksgiving becomes stronger. I crave the sense of family and friends surrounding me on one special day when food brings people together and full stomachs relax the soul. Its a day when we share, laugh, debate and reflect on what it means to be thankful. In 1989, I set out on an adventure of a lifetime that has forever changed my every Thanksgiving since. I joined a volunteer group in Minneapolis, packed a single army pack and jumped on an adventure to Tanzania to help those less opportune. It was my first time out of the country, I had just turned 21 and I wasn't at all prepared for what was about to come. 17 hours later, and surely a day past, we landed in Dar es Salaam to begin our road trip. Hot, dry, loud, confusing, suspicious; Dar (as the locals call it) was nothing that I had imagined. After a brief shower at a day hotel, we piled into a rover and headed west into the late afternoon sun. Arriving, after several engine breakdowns, at a German mission, we gathered with candlelight and dinner and headed to bed. At day break we arose anxious to head to our next destination. In fact, I don't remember any of us complaining about the chipped away roads or worried of another tire flattening. We just wanted to get to our "jobs" as volunteers. Now, I must remind you, I grew up in a small town. Traveling through the plains of Tanzania was, well, amazing. Who knew from Hibbing? Herds of zebra and springbuck and water buffalo along with elephant crossings and giraffe running at full speed yet still appearing to float all seemed, well, sureal. It was a long journey or, as the locals say, safari. We touched hands with the Masai, we had our bananas stolen by baboons right out of our hands and truck, we played with children that would appear from nowhere out of the bush. 200 miles and 7 hours later, yes, 7 hours, we arrived in Iringa for a good nights rest. The next day, we made it to our destination, Pommern, Tanzania. A big, strong ( I say that loosely) German mission house greeted us with open doors and windows. Our bathroom or to be more descriptive, our hole was tucked behind three walls of straw across the road with a snake warning for those who dare venture there after sundown. Our kitchen, um, dirt floored closet was located a few doors down next to the grain and animal room. Okay, no electricity or running water, unless you count the drips of water that dribbled from the single, village pump and obviously very little if any privacy in and out of the house. I sometimes thought a villagers hut would have been a nicer accommodation.
I was there for two weeks. In that time, I painted a school room, took water samples to the larger town of Iringa for analysis, taught directional tools to the children, toured dispensaries and worked as a day liaison between patient and doctor, visited and read to people suffering into their last days living and dying from AIDS and attended both modern and traditional weddings in neighboring villages. Also, during my time there, Thanksgiving was about to be celebrated back in the USA. I remember that day in Pommern so clearly as if I am still standing in the roundabout of our house with the giant, purple flowered Jacaranda Tree protecting me from the hot sun. I remember saying to my colleagues that we should celebrate Thanksgiving, here, our way, with some of the key villagers as guests. It was a moment I will never forget. When Molly and I went to tell our other 6 volunteers of the idea, each of us headed to our backpacks and one by one we each pulled out something that was indicative of the holiday. I had turkey stamped, paper napkins. Molly had chicken bouillon, one had a jar of chestnuts, another had two jars of gravy. It was amazing, we all anticipated that we would celebrate Thanksgiving in the mountains of Tanzania. So, the cooking began and the invitations were announced. We bought, or maybe just found, two chickens. We had bread and spices for stuffing and rice on hand as it was our staple. We had tomatoes for a side dish and peanut butter for dessert. I was in charge of setting the table as the stuffing was being buried underground to cook and the chickens were being plucked for boiling. I set out my turkey napkins, candles and lanterns, mismatched plates and silverware and cups for fanta and/or tea and coffee. I forged for flowers in the bush and came out with bright orange protea that I placed in water cans and canteens. Dinner was served in the pitch black of night. So dark, in fact, even with candles aglow on the table, it wasn't easy to see your neighbor across the table. The village children came into our home and sang us a song and we began our feast. The night lasted until the sunrise the next morning. No one tiring out, no one rushing to get anywhere. Chewy chicken, pebble strewn rice, mushy stuffing with a grit of ash and sour tomatoes; it was, without hesitation, simply the most outstanding Thanksgiving dinner I have ever had. I grabbed a cup of hot coffee and wrapped myself in a blanket to head outside and watch the sun come up over the horizon that morning. I cried. I smiled. I thought to myself how thankful I was. Again, this past Thursday, I remembered my time in Tanzania 21 years ago. As the sun rose over the Chicago skyscrapers in the eastern sky Thanksgiving morning, I, with my coffee in hand and wrapped in a blanket, stepped outside to say thank you. I cried quietly and I smiled loudly.
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