Waiting for a Train

I wonder if I'll end up like Bernie in his dream,
A displaced person in some foreign border town
Waiting for a train, part hope, part myth
While the station changes hands.

Bruce Cockburn
How I Spent My Fall Vacation

I can say without a doubt that the verb that best describes my three-and-a-half weeks in Tanzania is not "to thirst" or "to hunger". It is not "to work" or even "to sing". It is not even "to perspire", although that is a close second. No, the dominant verb in my life at the moment is "to wait".

I wait for the dala dala to arrive. Once I am on it, I wait for that standing, sweaty version of public transit Twister to end, hoping against hope that the circulation returns to hands and feet. I wait in line at the currency exchange house when I wish to cash in traveller's cheques, and I wait even longer while the clerk processes them. Sometimes, I wait for the rains to come. Most days, I wait for the students to come up with questions that I can help them with. Rain or shine, weekday or weekend, I wait.

This is a new experience for me, and I must confess that I am not always comfortable waiting. I suppose that is natural since I am the guy who used to work 14 hour days and not take breaks. Sometimes I really enjoy my waiting time because it gives me a chance to think about things I would otherwise not think about. Other times, I feel that this is what prison must be like, although without the gang fights and sodomy to liven things up. Most of the time, though, I just sit and wait like Bernie in his dream.