(Part 2: Africa)

After Australia, I booked another ticket.
Destination: Tanzania, Malawi, South Africa

The plan?
Volunteer in wildlife conservation.
Save animals.
Find peace.

What I got instead:
Leaky boats.
Three hundred kids packed into a classroom.
A baby monkey named Sully.
And God—always there… even when I wasn’t looking for Him.

Tanzania: Bucket Showers & Leaky Boats

My first stop: Tanzania, Mafia Island.

But before the island came Dar es Salaam—my first African city.
I checked into a small hotel to rest before the next day’s flight.
Just as I was dozing off, a loud call echoed across the city.

I jumped out of bed, heart pounding, ready to run. Later I learned it was the Muslim call to prayer.

For someone who had lived her whole life in a Christian bubble—Christian school, Christian friends, even a largely Catholic country—it was jarring.
And maybe a little sad.
I wasn’t really talking to God then (read my Faith Series and you’ll understand why). But deep down I knew: this isn’t the truth.

The next day, I boarded a tiny plane. No boarding passes, no scanners—just a first-come-first-serve lineup of passengers. The pilot turned around, grinned, and said, “Okay, off we go! Any emergency, exits are your windows.”

Adventure had officially begun.

Mafia Island was as raw as it gets.
My room? Straw walls.
My shower? A bucket under the trees.
Mosquito net? Decorative at best.
Laundry meant hauling water  for every rinse, scrubbing until my arms ached—so I learned to call laundry days “special occasions.”

My first day volunteering, I climbed onto a boat that looked like it had floated straight out of the Old Testament.
“What should I do?” I asked.
A local man handed me a plastic bowl.
“Just scoop the water out.”

So there I was—bailing water out of a sinking boat while the rest of the team distracted tourists with whale facts.

It was chaotic.
It was ridiculous.
And it was beautiful.

At night, I lay under a wide, African sky.
No traffic.
No phone buzzing.
Just the sound of waves, the chatter of the crew, and the ocean breeze sneaking through the walls.
For the first time in years, I slowed down enough to notice the quiet.

At the time, I thought the simplicity was healing me—the rhythm of the island, the raw beauty of the ocean, the chance to just be.
But now I know: it wasn’t just simplicity.
It was God’s grace, cleverly disguised as scarcity.
He stripped away the noise and showed me that peace doesn’t come from control—it comes from trust.

When I left Tanzania, I thought I was starting to understand simplicity.
But Malawi had even bigger lessons waiting.

Malawi: 300 Kids, 1 Classroom, and a Monkey Named Sully

Next stop: Malawi.

My title? Monkey nanny.
My job? Feed, clean, and babysit rescued monkeys until they were strong enough to return to the wild.

One of my favorites was Sully, a tiny Vervet monkey rescued from someone trying to sell him. Just before I left, I watched him bond with a foster mother who accepted him as her own—a small, quiet moment of grace I still carry with me.

But the moment that marked me most wasn’t with monkeys—it was with children.

We visited a school with one classroom, three hundred kids, three teachers, and barely enough supplies.
They sat on the floor, windowsills, or each other.
And yet—they listened. They smiled. Their eyes sparkled with curiosity.

By our standards, they had nothing.
And still, they were joyful, engaged, and grateful.

At first, I felt almost embarrassed handing out small, used pencils as gifts. But their joy humbled me.

Lesson learned:
Gratitude doesn’t wait for comfort.
Joy doesn’t need ideal conditions.

South Africa: Sharks, Pencils, and Perspective

Then came South Africa—where mornings were for working with sharks (yes, actual sharks, yes mom was thrilled) and afternoons for community projects.

One of my favorites was the Recycle Swop Shop, where kids traded plastic waste for school supplies.

I’ll never forget one boy who spent thirty minutes choosing a single pencil from the few available.
Not because he was indecisive—because he understood its value.

Back home, I’d buy pencils in bulk, lose half in my car, shrug it off.
But this boy held his choice like treasure.
That moment reframed how I saw everything I owned.

When Less Became Enough

Africa didn’t give me clarity.
God did.

He used Africa—its people, its stillness, its beauty—to strip away my comfort, my distractions, and my noise.
And in that stripped-down space, He showed me what enough really feels like.

Enough air in my lungs.
Enough joy in the ordinary.
Enough of Him—even when I wasn’t looking for Him.

There’s nothing wrong with wealth.
But there’s danger in needing it.

James says riches fade like flowers in the sun.
Jesus said life isn’t found in what we own.
Yet we cling so tightly—convinced more will finally be enough.

Maybe it’s when we loosen our grip that we finally see the truth:
We already have everything we need.

True riches don’t always look like gold or security.
Sometimes they look like a plastic bowl bailing out a boat.
Or a classroom bursting with kids who have no enough chairs but endless joy.
Or a boy clutching a single pencil like treasure.
Or a tiny monkey taking his first step toward freedom.

Even in scarcity.
Even in the middle of nowhere.
God is still there.