Efficiency, Improvisation, And The Space Between

By the time this trip began, Tanzania was no longer a destination—it was a relationship, one that had already tested my patience, my ethics, and my understanding of what collaboration actually requires.

I wasn’t arriving with answers. I was arriving with unfinished work, people I cared about, and a growing suspicion that efficiency, my most trusted tool, might not survive the journey.

I used to think efficiency was about speed. Get in. Get out. Don’t miss the flight. Don’t miss the meeting. Don’t miss the point.

That illusion usually starts cracking for me sometime between packing my bags and saying goodbye to my kids. November 2013, it cracked right on schedule.

By Wednesday night the familiar nerves arrived—quiet at first, then loud enough to reorganize my checklist three times. Passport. Inventory. In‑country action plan. Time with the kids. I was ready, or at least ready enough. My husband, seasoned traveler and calm counterweight to my spirals, orchestrated my ride to Houston International with surgical precision. What others might call a ridiculous close call, I called confirmation: I rolled in with not a minute to spare, cleared security at a pace that suggested divine intervention, and arrived at the gate just as the flight attendant announced boarding for rows nine through twenty.

Efficiency, I decided. Theme confirmed.

I boarded with my jaw set and my mind locked forward, ready to muscle through whatever came next. Then Amsterdam happened. Somewhere between takeoff and the first tray of wine, I was upgraded from the sardine section to economy comfort and gifted an empty middle seat. I glanced at the Holland Herald and felt the familiar tug—less about the route, more about my dad, whose Dutch roots still surface unexpectedly, like a song you didn’t realize you memorized. My eyes closed, fluttered. Nostalgia doesn’t ask permission.

The woman beside me, sweet‑voiced, unmistakably Dutch, caught my eye when the attendant confirmed the empty seat. We exchanged a conspiratorial thumb‑up, the universal sign for small mercies. She spoke effortlessly in two languages; I listened, humbled and oddly energized. That charge of anticipation, the kind that refuses sleep, ran straight through me. I ordered a glass of red in the name of jet lag prevention and leaned into the quiet.

Travel, for me, is often lonely by design. I pave my own road and then walk it attentively watching how people roll up their sleeves, how they hold humor under pressure, how they keep going without applause. I let the experience be sensual, not just strategic. I reflect, sometimes cry, sometimes clench with anxiety. Productivity comes not from control, but from full engagement. It’s not innovative. It’s not superior. It’s just honest. A tale that insists on being lived rather than optimized.

By the time we landed in Tanzania, efficiency had already begun to unravel. The heat met me on the tarmac; dry, assertive, unmistakable. My nerves quickened my steps until I spotted familiar faces waiting. Relief washed through me, not because I doubted, they’d come, but because Tanzania has taught me how quickly plans dissolve. Once greeted, ritual took over: a welcome back night out, local rhythms, the swift erasure of jet lag by music and movement.

Hours later, I collapsed onto the white sheets at the Sal Salinero Hotel, whispering my mantra—efficiency—like a spell. My mind, uncooperative as ever, spun instead. Efficiency, I realized, is a contradiction here. Environment dictates pace. Improvisation is not a backup plan; it is the plan. Navigating Tanzania means reading emotional weather, social cues, invisible histories. Time—real time, not scheduled time—is the only ingredient that matures anything worthwhile.

The album we were building was no different. Recording was the easy part. Distribution, royalties, fairness, those were the real tests. We paid royalties in cows at the time. Literal cows. It made perfect sense locally and absolutely none elsewhere. Still, the goal remained simple: create something that earned more than it cost, so artists could climb without being handed a ladder built by someone else. Experimentation wasn’t a phase; it was the work.

By May 2014, I knew better than to expect clean lines.

Moshi greeted me with rain, power outages, and a near‑silent hotel. I slept deeply, grateful for the quiet before Monday’s meetings. At Union Café, Dr. Ole—my representative for the choir—updated me with his steady optimism. Handshakes, affirmations, progress. A new sales distributor followed. Terms agreed. Hands shaken. Small victories.

Then Dr. Ole arrived with his daughters, both studying to become young professionals. We talked entrepreneurship. Legacy. Possibility. The conversation lingered longer than planned, as meaningful ones tend to do.

Tuesday unraveled promptly. Errands multiplied. Volunteers needed rides. Arusha entered the itinerary without my consent. By the time I found myself stranded by someone else’s logistics, my patience wore thin. I whined. Not proudly. A friend rescued me from the airport, returning me to Moshi and my dignity.

Immersion, I’ve learned, is a double‑edged sword. It teaches everything and consumes time indiscriminately. The challenges of those around you become yours. Staying on task means saying no without severing trust, balance I don’t always strike gracefully.

By Thursday, restlessness pushed me toward Arusha. Cars were changed. Errands layered. Friends piled in. The African Tulip Hotel welcomed me with composure I borrowed. Dinner turned into dancing. Via Via pulsed with youth, ambition, alcohol. Alcohol does what it always does: it reveals who came to dance and who came to perform importance. I danced hard—my only reliable fitness in Tanzania—until sweat erased the noise. On my way out, a man stopped me, exchanged cards, and I disappeared before missing my ride.

Friday unfolded gently: Ethiopian food, Danish business talk, a bar with a recording room attached. Music exchanged. Thumbs‑up approval. The small‑world magic struck again. I retreated early, honoring fatigue.

Saturday stitched together repairs, tea, local TV in a closet‑sized room, and music swaps. Voice of Maasai followed by Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler.” Thumbs‑up all around. By nightfall, Bob Marley pulsed through Le Patio. Crowds hummed. Introductions multiplied. An invitation to a lodge materialized. I danced again, then rested.

Sunday morning, I craved contrast and wandered into Mount Meru Hotel. Tight security. Red carpet. Presidential arrival imminent. I looked down at my mud‑rimmed jeans and laughed quietly at the absurdity. I’d never stood this close to a president—any president. Tanzania excels at sudden shifts in scale.

Memory tugged again. On a previous trip, sick and defeated, I’d checked into this same hotel and heard “The Gambler” playing live. Now here I was, again suspended between affirmation and risk. No conclusions offered.

That evening, conversations collided. The man from Via Via. The lodge manager. Whiskey. Possibility. By morning, plans were set.

The drive to Tarangire delivered its own lessons. Police stops negotiated. Villages paused for beer and bathrooms. Goats wandered into fate’s path. I tried to understand the rhythm—the decisions made without logic, guided by momentum and consequence.

At the lodge, Maasai welcomed us with washcloths and apple juice. Luxury stunned me silent. Perspective fractured. At sunset hill, five strangers became something else entirely—witnesses to the same light, the same pause.

Safari the next day began in a fog of fatigue and mild regret. Whiskey will do that. But energy is contagious. Curiosity revived me. May offered quiet roads, empty gates, and an intimacy tourism usually erases. I learned from those four companions—their restraint, attentiveness, careful language. Their presence reminded me why I stay teachable.

I am passing through Tanzania. A visitor. Not everything to everyone. But sometimes—briefly—useful to someone. That is enough.

By 2017, the lessons sharpened. Alex and I sat for hours talking words, worlds, and customs. Napkins are for babies, he explained. Calendar planning doesn’t mean what you think it means. When I proposed visiting the radio station, I paid—because proposals carry responsibility. Gas was expensive. We hit a goat. I sat with the discomfort, again unable to make sense of it.

Life’s rhythm, I’ve learned, isn’t musical. It’s sensory. Growth isn’t about stronger branches or deeper roots—it’s about allowing both.

By 2023, I recognized myself differently. Older face. Softer heart. Sharper boundaries. Less desire to be seen. More willingness to walk away. My loyalties leaned toward the risk‑takers, the resistors. The work ahead felt uncomfortable—and mine.

By 2024, consistency revealed its quiet power. Letting go of control became practice. The music industry remained impossible—like trying to lick your elbow—but I kept trying. I built family imperfectly. Chose substance when style wavered. Protected platonic closeness. Questioned ownership disguised as love.

Why do this work? Unpaid. Risky. Repeatedly questioned.

For a long time, I tried to answer that question with values. Humanity. Collaboration. Fairness. All true, but incomplete.

What I’ve learned instead is that creativity is not a virtue—it’s a practice. One that demands repetition, restraint, and a tolerance for discomfort. It asks you to show up even when recognition is absent, progress is uneven, and outcomes refuse to behave.

I keep doing the work because practice changes the practitioner. Because staying in relationship—long enough to listen, to adapt, to fail without retreating—builds something sturdier than intention. Over time, loyalty grows roots. Skills sharpen. Trust compounds.

Efficiency, I finally understand, isn’t about speed at all.

It’s about returning, again and again. Staying long enough for something real to take shape.