The difference between 6:00 am and 6:20 am in Arusha is quite literally, night and day. Though the sun doesn’t take celestial stage until about 6:35, as a morning jogger I know well her anticipatory glow that illuminates an otherwise dangerously rocky soil just 15 minutes prior. Despite the darkness, I set out early on my morning run on Friday, August 17th, trying to carve additional precious penultimate minutes into preparation for our Saturday HIV Testing Day.
Without an internet or cable connection to follow meteorological suggestions in the morning I face climactic unpredictability (though coming from new England I’m convinced I am only missing out on the placebo effects of a forecast). However the view of looming Mount Meru on morning runs around the Seventh Day Adventist (SDA) compound on which our hostel is located allows me to make rudimentary wardrobe decisions. If Meru is covered in clouds I take a hoodie or shawl out with me, but if I can see her mountaintop wrinkles in the first rays of sunlight, I prepare for the heat. This morning, as I pause momentarily after an uphill sprint, the seemingly endless savannah in the cloudless distance is a clear indicator that today will be a hot one. I am not so much in awe as I am in anxiety at the depth to which I can make out far off baobab trees and herds of Hershey kiss hilltops. Although I am usually addicted to the limitlessness of a clear horizon, today the unrestricted access feels absolutely frightening.
First in as usual, I plop my self and my laptop in the hostel canteen and pour myself a chilled glass of Mama Irene’s freshly squeezed mango-ginger juice; the glass immediately begins to perspire in the morning heat. I reviewed my dress-rehearsal goals for the day – a series of double and triple checking commitments and logistics – and as I mop the condensation of my anticipation from my forehead, Bob strolls peacefully into the canteen.
Our Team – seven young wazungu volunteers - are the only guests at the SDA hostel, other than Bob, a Tasmanian (incidentally enough) member of the SDA church taking a break from his accounting responsibilities in Australia. Bob is offering his services to local small businesses for 4 weeks, pro bono, and he and I as the early risers of the hostel shared many breakfasts during our few overlapping weeks. On this unusually anxious day, I appreciate the calm he brings to the table, gently spreading peanut butter over toast as I slice up mangos into my Corn Flakes. Bob is sage yet not intimidating, and our young group has adopted him quickly and unconditionally as a father figure. We admire Bob’s curiosity of and respect for our work and hope to possess his confidence when we reach (as he says), “the 43rd anniversary of my 21st birthday”.
Reluctant to look away from my tasks, I nevertheless force myself - in preparation for a hopefully smooth transition back home – to fold up the Mac and ask him with genuine interest, “How was work yesterday?”
“Good”, he butters, “But they have such an odd costing philosophy here”, forehead crinkled.
With my small but thorough education in financial accounting, I muster my confidence and ask wholeheartedly, “Really? Why is that?”
Bob is thorough but not condescending. “Well, they set a certain profit margin. But like many businesses they realize with their overhead costs they can’t produce their product and still maintain that ideal profit margin. So they cut their overhead costs – rent a smaller place, cut a few salaries – in order to keep profits at the desired level.”
I know this is where I should be carrying the conversation, but he politely sees the need to continue on for us.
“And that’s wrong” he states, with an authority and judgment that I have yet to witness from this man of utmost cultural sensitivity.
You should know this; you should know this...loops through my brain as I look to Bob without conclusion. A patient and thoughtful witness to my struggle, Bob puts down his papaya for the brief lesson: “What you should do is just reduce your profit margin,” he states, plan and simple. I match his focus and release my grip on my glass, hands now folded in my lap, ears attentive. “As a company you have to be able to provide your product to the Tanzanian people, and by reducing your overhead, you are reducing your ability to provide that product, which is your first responsibility” His concept clinks away at my memory, and with three words of incredible clarity resonating a deafening truth, I catch his flow: “Profits are 2nd”
Reduce profits, build a foundation, strengthen your ability to provide, and eventually you will be able to increase your profit margin. Bob can sense my understanding and shifts his focus, now admiring this morning’s unique climactic clarity, as Mt. Meru poses perfectly in the window just behind my head. I turn, not offended by his distraction, to admire her as well, a few clouds whose underbellies are painted with a pastel spectrum of sunrise hovering by her feet, bowing to her majesty.
As I sensed, Bob’s distraction is actually fueling an extended metaphor. “ People my age, “ he assumes a critical tone, “We get old (he sneers at this word in disgust), and some say, ’I’m going to die eventually anyway, so why go through the extra trouble of taking good care of myself?’ But if you don’t take care of yourself, you deprive your children of a parent, your grandchildren of a grandparent.”
I join him on this plane of purpose and explain, in an oddly confessional tone, that it’s the same struggle for a young woman. “I am so obsessed with achievements (and it’s my turn to sneer) that I put my personal health on hold. But if I’m not healthy, I won’t be able to pursue any goals.” My mouth claps away, the eternal ventriloquist’s trick of parental advice.
I look up and we lock eyes,
“It’s balance,” the accountant says to me.
“The hardest balance you will ever and always have to manage is between taking care of yourself and caring for other people…and projects“, he adds for me with a smile.
In silent gratitude I wonder if Bob can log these unofficial hours as pro bono accounting, and I gulp down a few more ounces before returning my empty glass to Mama.
* * *
The Testing Day Event was an enormous learning and experience and overall success: Our students created and performed hours of AIDS-themed dramas, songs, raps, and comedies to an audience of over a thousand with instructions on how and why to overcome stigma, get tested, be leaders against AIDS. Five hundred and thirty Arushans came to be voluntarily HIV-tested, the day staffed by a volunteer squad of 30 District employees who responded to the District Medical Officer’s call to serve. Sponsors followed through, providing uniforms, food and drinks, live music, and overwhelming support. Our partner and local NGO, Chawakua, led and conducted the Day’s events in Kiswahili, making the message accessible to the community, and were awarded a week later with an invitation (that they had previously been denied in March) to join the Planning Committee for the Arusha District rollout of the National Testing Campaign. My last few days in Tanzania were patched-together moments of dizzying speed and frustrating sloth – goodbyes were reluctant and painful, yet I could not wait to be home with my family, friends, and familiarities.
Magda helped our Team transition by compiling a ”Book of Niceness” for each of us volunteers, a yearbook of anonymous comments we had authored about each other arranged on self-designed pages of personal contact information. The last time I spoke with Bob, not realizing it would be the last, as I prefer goodbyes to be, he had wandered into dinner a bit later, missing Magda’s official presentation of the Books. Bob of course humored our requests to leave his mark on our pages, but having to jet out for an evening meeting and leaving early the next morning to spend our last few days in Dar and Zanzibar, I was unable to officially thank Bob for his signature. However after reading his words, I allowed them to shape the agenda of my last precious days in Tanzania…and my first precious days back in the States.
Touched down in Boston and I found myself uncharacteristically unbothered by inefficiency. Waiting at the baggage claim– and I emphasize, still with wonder, patiently – I skipped away, not concerned that my bag did not come in on my flight. I smiled and shrugged – “Hamana shida! No problem!”- and hopped gratefully into the Cumberland-bound VX-17 minivan, overwhelmed by the sibling energy Diana and Andrew always kick into my travel weary body.
Mom and Dad helped me move into the new abode on the lower east side, and reuniting with Matthew over my first legal beer in Brooklyn completed the circle of Otto reunion, which took unarguable precedence over a class I was scheduled to take later that night. I left dinner and bounded onto my precious F train headed back to campus, without a care of being late for class. I giggled at my obvious daladala-separation-anxiety, realizing that in an otherwise empty car I had seated myself in a corner seat snuggly between two strangers.
Eager to explore my new neighborhood, I resisted the urge to “Jambo!” every passerby on a Saturday morning run to the River, and instead smiled at the Chinese men fishing off the dock, the Park employees zipping by on golf carts, the babies waddling with parents on a weekend city stroll. I accomplished pieces of the Labor Day to dos but resisted the urge to rush around and fill the holiday weekend freebie hours with school-work, apartment-work, work-work. I gratefully accepted my Godfather’s invite to travel home with him to Boston, and enjoyed a car ride of conversation, a family dinner, and a Sunday of moving the siblings into their new Northeastern homes. I am trying hard to resist the urge of anxiety that follows the question of “What am I / could I be missing out on?” the question that keeps this blessed city, and perhaps this culture, on its toes. It has certainly motivated me, sometimes dangerously so, the past three years.
No Tanzanian has ever asked me “What could you be doing instead of this right now?” No child, no family member – essentially no person whose opinion I value highly over my own – has ever asked me this. The people who matter, they are not interested in what I am missing out on in order to be present. And I am tempted to think that everything I am missing out on is also of absolutely no interest to scholarship competition panelists, potential employers, or school advisors. So why have I been so obsessed?
I hope I will not need to refer back to my Book of Niceness to realize that it is far more important to be continually valuing “What am I doing?” and not “What am I missing?”
But I’m thankful for my accountant's reminder:
“Your capacity appears limitless. So many people will be affected by your energy. The roses need smelling also.” Bob S.
02 September 2007
21 August 2007
just a jambo
As I'm sure you can imagine, it's been an absolutely, beautifully, non-stop past several days, with the Programme wrapping up after a very successful testing day on Saturday. Over a thousand showed up to enjoy student-performed entertainment, a football tournament, and of course, free HIV testing and counseling. 530 were tested, and only 4 positives.
A full update is in the works but not yet ready to publish. My instincts towards tradition urged me to at least post a weekly JAMBO! to check in with you, as I gather my closing thoughts.
Asante sana! xoxo
A full update is in the works but not yet ready to publish. My instincts towards tradition urged me to at least post a weekly JAMBO! to check in with you, as I gather my closing thoughts.
Asante sana! xoxo
16 August 2007
Hit Below the Branch
“Tanzania Bila Ukimwi Inawezekana. Kapime.”
I can’t help but giggle at the stereotypical-raised-fist politician photo of President Kikwete beneath this bold headline, proclaiming, “Tanzania without AIDS is possible. Test.” After pingpongballing between the District Medical Officer and District AIDS Coordinator in the typical bureaucracy of responsibility shifting, I managed to secure for our team unlimited free testing reagents, several testers and counselors, and 200 such National Testing Campaign posters, onto which we have scrawled the details of our HIV Testing Day on Saturday: “Pima Ukimwi Bure! (Free HIV Testing): August 18th 2007, Arusha Stadium, 10:30 am – 3:30 pm” (http://www.arushatimes.co.tz/local_news_2.htm)
After forty-eight classroom workshops, one Student Leader Conference, and endless hours of non-stop project talk – strategically among ourselves and commercially to everyone we meet (i.e. we have secured a free DJ all day after dancing onstage at last week’s Nanenane festival) - our team speeds into this pre-Event week on a wave of enthusiasm, pulling each other up as we have our moments of exhaustion, dividing and conquering the responsibilities and putting in admirable extra efforts for not only the Event to succeed, but for the entire team to be a part of this success. We each know from experience, but are learning daily here in Arusha, that sharing the load not only makes the work more enjoyable for all, but more effective and far-reaching than one could imagine.
Take for example the treasured friendship cultivated with Edward Selasini of The Arusha Times back in June, which has now blossomed into a programme partnership. Selasini, also linking us to AJAAT, spent 4 hours with our students at their Conference last Saturday mentoring young writers on AIDS coverage. In addition to publishing more student articles this Saturday and on a regular basis, Selasini assists us now without even asking, securing BBC Radio, The Guardian, Star TV, and pointing us to TVT (National television), all of who are now excited to cover the event.
My dear Dr. Tekle and Baptista, treasured Tanzanian uncles, suggest lists of potential local sponsors, and we pursue them fearlessly. For our students and volunteers, Pepsi will provide drinks, the local Lions Club a free lunch. The Rotary Club will fund the sound equipment, and Vodacom throws us 200 free t-shirts. Discounts are offered on tent rentals and shirt printing, and I am pleasantly surprised by the amount that can be accomplished when you trust your teammates to get the job done, and do not try to do everything solo. We were of course rejected and ignored by many sponsors, but we are undoubtedly better off for having faced the challenge. We have built our constituency alongside and in support of CHAWAKUA, the local NGO who trained us and who we are working with to carry on the programme upon our departure.
Nearly collapsed here at the hostel in my crumpled white button up shirt (that, like all my clothes, I haven’t properly washed in months) and backwards Vodacom baseball cap, I feel like a child basking in the warmth of yuletide anticipation; I am exhausted yet excited, I have much to do yet feel so fulfilled. Despite the long days of ‘work’ and individual challenges, of which there have been many to overcome, even our difficulties feel beautifully choreographed into a greater expression of growth and gain.
Borrowing extensively from camp counselor experience and reflections on my parents’ child-rearing techniques, I tend to cut to the chase with my volunteers. I realize in this role that it may lighten the load to share the work, but if communication ever breaks down, so will the team. So if someone expresses to me a concern about or annoyance with someone else, the necessary confrontation is held. With such a short time frame and such lofty goals I see no time for secrets, for dishonesty, or for pretending. Instead of tiptoeing around potential issues, I have tried to create an atmosphere and expectation that issues will be addressed as they arise and not left to simmer, lest they silently poison the work we have come together to do.
We can’t, after all, be hypocrites about our work, something that my continuously sharpened vision sees more of as the Event approaches and the Programme finishes up. If I am going to be encouraging discussion of and attention to one’s sexual health, if I am to field endless questions that reflect an unanswered curiosity, if I am to demand that maintaining health is not only a necessary personal commitment, but a statement of responsible citizenship, then who am I to endlessly put off doctor’s appointments in NYC, “too busy” to have check-up for things that ‘don’t necessarily pain me at the moment anyway. Why should I expect anyone to heed my health warnings if I am to continue childishly feigning an impossible invincibility?
Leaning back in a metal chair on the slick cement floor of Sekei Secondary, one of our higher language barriered schools, Alphayo has just chalked up his thoughts on the ‘cycle of stigma’ that we ask students to develop. As with the HIV/AIDS factual curriculum, most students can talk easily and fully about the dangers of stigma, but I wonder, my mind trailing from work in Ghana, how can students communicate and demonstrate their ideas in the community?
Alphayo sighs and comments under his breath, “Ukitaka kukata mti lazima ukate shinani.”
“Tena? (again?)” I ask, curious.
He repeats, attempting to explain the Kiswahili proverb in English terms. “ If you want to cut down a tree,” he motions, “and you cut the branches, it will just grow back. “ Eyes characteristically wide, he makes a large, low sweep with his arm, “You have to cut from the roots.”
Brilliant. I scribble his words fiercely into my battered notebook, folded notes and schedules stuffed in random pages, his wisdom now nestled into my orderly chaos. His words cling tightly to my brain and I wonder if we are cutting at branches or roots throughout last Saturday’s Conference, and through our KUVA Programme as a whole.
Again at Sekei, at our final session, our suave Shabani offers his guidance as he explains, “We Africans, a majority of us, our fathers and mothers don’t want to talk to children about sexual health. They fear that it will lead the child starting to make sexual intercourse.”
I want to interrupt and assure him that We Americans are just as guilty, but I let him complete his thoughts:
“Last Saturday you have done not just a small thing, you did something different. You decided to let us do dramas, singing…we have to make people understand easily – just a speech is not good – these dramas and songs will simplify things easily” Heads nod and voices buzz in agreement, and I am overwhelmed with relief that perhaps, even if we’re not at the root, we’re hitting below the branch.
“Now we can use this knowledge you gave us and educate our parents, to sit down and talk, not only parents, but our community,” he finishes, and we shift immediately into the students’ roles and responsibilities they would like to assume on Saturday. Alphayo’s eyes shine wider, full moon luminosity, when we tell him his slogan has been printed across the back of our KUVA shirts.
Thinking increasingly about East Village life as Tanzania time winds down, I laugh when I realize how much time I have spent branch cutting in the past year. Surely I am proud of my accomplishments and work, academic and professional, but not proud of the ‘too busy’ attitude I often employed in order to accomplish some of it. Who did I think I was fooling, keeping busy chopping away at short term solutions, looking busy by doingdoingdoing instead of reflecting, thinking, planning.
Branch whacking, rushing to solve a problem, means insufficient time to explore the issue’s real root. The KUVA Programme we have created, the HIV testing Day we will host, they may not be the roots, but they are designed to point people in the right direction, below the branch. Perhaps if we can overcome the stigmatization of HIV Testing, we can also begin to overcome the stigmatization of HIV positive people, a task for which the provision of medical services and the correction of social misconceptions are mutually necessary. HIV testing entwines these aspects in a measurable manner, and both goals require togetherness, an approach that, as Shabani insists, will “make people understand easily” (in which I feel an implication of honesty, comfort, security). Regarding the AIDS crisis, with such a short time frame and with such lofty goals, I see no time for secrets, for dishonesty, or for pretending.
Though we will leave the grounds on Saturday with a number of youth tested, it is not exact numbers but general community approval that has become my measuring stick of success on this short-term project. Here in this place and timeframe I am unable to compile meaningful monitoring and evaluation statistics that are the products of only thoughtful long-term investments. I ask the students if we made the right choice by using Alphayo’s words as our slogan, as they laughed (in surprise, amusement or appreciation? I hope all three) at our choice to conduct the entire day – including t-shirts – in Kiswahili. Ernestina looks up and smiles, “Yes.”
“Kwanini? (why?)”
“The people will know that we are doing good work.”
Far from my self that seeks an “A+” across papers and words of praise from professors, I have found work whose system of evaluation is far more fulfilling than a letter or a compliment. My indicators are not precise, as human opinions never quite are, but I am satisfied. Two days till short-run-showtime, and if at the least we are giving our Arusha peers an opportunity to share their expertise – through word, drama, song, art, sport – I believe we will have taken an admirable swing at the base of the tree.
I can’t help but giggle at the stereotypical-raised-fist politician photo of President Kikwete beneath this bold headline, proclaiming, “Tanzania without AIDS is possible. Test.” After pingpongballing between the District Medical Officer and District AIDS Coordinator in the typical bureaucracy of responsibility shifting, I managed to secure for our team unlimited free testing reagents, several testers and counselors, and 200 such National Testing Campaign posters, onto which we have scrawled the details of our HIV Testing Day on Saturday: “Pima Ukimwi Bure! (Free HIV Testing): August 18th 2007, Arusha Stadium, 10:30 am – 3:30 pm” (http://www.arushatimes.co.tz/local_news_2.htm)
After forty-eight classroom workshops, one Student Leader Conference, and endless hours of non-stop project talk – strategically among ourselves and commercially to everyone we meet (i.e. we have secured a free DJ all day after dancing onstage at last week’s Nanenane festival) - our team speeds into this pre-Event week on a wave of enthusiasm, pulling each other up as we have our moments of exhaustion, dividing and conquering the responsibilities and putting in admirable extra efforts for not only the Event to succeed, but for the entire team to be a part of this success. We each know from experience, but are learning daily here in Arusha, that sharing the load not only makes the work more enjoyable for all, but more effective and far-reaching than one could imagine.
Take for example the treasured friendship cultivated with Edward Selasini of The Arusha Times back in June, which has now blossomed into a programme partnership. Selasini, also linking us to AJAAT, spent 4 hours with our students at their Conference last Saturday mentoring young writers on AIDS coverage. In addition to publishing more student articles this Saturday and on a regular basis, Selasini assists us now without even asking, securing BBC Radio, The Guardian, Star TV, and pointing us to TVT (National television), all of who are now excited to cover the event.
My dear Dr. Tekle and Baptista, treasured Tanzanian uncles, suggest lists of potential local sponsors, and we pursue them fearlessly. For our students and volunteers, Pepsi will provide drinks, the local Lions Club a free lunch. The Rotary Club will fund the sound equipment, and Vodacom throws us 200 free t-shirts. Discounts are offered on tent rentals and shirt printing, and I am pleasantly surprised by the amount that can be accomplished when you trust your teammates to get the job done, and do not try to do everything solo. We were of course rejected and ignored by many sponsors, but we are undoubtedly better off for having faced the challenge. We have built our constituency alongside and in support of CHAWAKUA, the local NGO who trained us and who we are working with to carry on the programme upon our departure.
Nearly collapsed here at the hostel in my crumpled white button up shirt (that, like all my clothes, I haven’t properly washed in months) and backwards Vodacom baseball cap, I feel like a child basking in the warmth of yuletide anticipation; I am exhausted yet excited, I have much to do yet feel so fulfilled. Despite the long days of ‘work’ and individual challenges, of which there have been many to overcome, even our difficulties feel beautifully choreographed into a greater expression of growth and gain.
Borrowing extensively from camp counselor experience and reflections on my parents’ child-rearing techniques, I tend to cut to the chase with my volunteers. I realize in this role that it may lighten the load to share the work, but if communication ever breaks down, so will the team. So if someone expresses to me a concern about or annoyance with someone else, the necessary confrontation is held. With such a short time frame and such lofty goals I see no time for secrets, for dishonesty, or for pretending. Instead of tiptoeing around potential issues, I have tried to create an atmosphere and expectation that issues will be addressed as they arise and not left to simmer, lest they silently poison the work we have come together to do.
We can’t, after all, be hypocrites about our work, something that my continuously sharpened vision sees more of as the Event approaches and the Programme finishes up. If I am going to be encouraging discussion of and attention to one’s sexual health, if I am to field endless questions that reflect an unanswered curiosity, if I am to demand that maintaining health is not only a necessary personal commitment, but a statement of responsible citizenship, then who am I to endlessly put off doctor’s appointments in NYC, “too busy” to have check-up for things that ‘don’t necessarily pain me at the moment anyway. Why should I expect anyone to heed my health warnings if I am to continue childishly feigning an impossible invincibility?
Leaning back in a metal chair on the slick cement floor of Sekei Secondary, one of our higher language barriered schools, Alphayo has just chalked up his thoughts on the ‘cycle of stigma’ that we ask students to develop. As with the HIV/AIDS factual curriculum, most students can talk easily and fully about the dangers of stigma, but I wonder, my mind trailing from work in Ghana, how can students communicate and demonstrate their ideas in the community?
Alphayo sighs and comments under his breath, “Ukitaka kukata mti lazima ukate shinani.”
“Tena? (again?)” I ask, curious.
He repeats, attempting to explain the Kiswahili proverb in English terms. “ If you want to cut down a tree,” he motions, “and you cut the branches, it will just grow back. “ Eyes characteristically wide, he makes a large, low sweep with his arm, “You have to cut from the roots.”
Brilliant. I scribble his words fiercely into my battered notebook, folded notes and schedules stuffed in random pages, his wisdom now nestled into my orderly chaos. His words cling tightly to my brain and I wonder if we are cutting at branches or roots throughout last Saturday’s Conference, and through our KUVA Programme as a whole.
Again at Sekei, at our final session, our suave Shabani offers his guidance as he explains, “We Africans, a majority of us, our fathers and mothers don’t want to talk to children about sexual health. They fear that it will lead the child starting to make sexual intercourse.”
I want to interrupt and assure him that We Americans are just as guilty, but I let him complete his thoughts:
“Last Saturday you have done not just a small thing, you did something different. You decided to let us do dramas, singing…we have to make people understand easily – just a speech is not good – these dramas and songs will simplify things easily” Heads nod and voices buzz in agreement, and I am overwhelmed with relief that perhaps, even if we’re not at the root, we’re hitting below the branch.
“Now we can use this knowledge you gave us and educate our parents, to sit down and talk, not only parents, but our community,” he finishes, and we shift immediately into the students’ roles and responsibilities they would like to assume on Saturday. Alphayo’s eyes shine wider, full moon luminosity, when we tell him his slogan has been printed across the back of our KUVA shirts.
Thinking increasingly about East Village life as Tanzania time winds down, I laugh when I realize how much time I have spent branch cutting in the past year. Surely I am proud of my accomplishments and work, academic and professional, but not proud of the ‘too busy’ attitude I often employed in order to accomplish some of it. Who did I think I was fooling, keeping busy chopping away at short term solutions, looking busy by doingdoingdoing instead of reflecting, thinking, planning.
Branch whacking, rushing to solve a problem, means insufficient time to explore the issue’s real root. The KUVA Programme we have created, the HIV testing Day we will host, they may not be the roots, but they are designed to point people in the right direction, below the branch. Perhaps if we can overcome the stigmatization of HIV Testing, we can also begin to overcome the stigmatization of HIV positive people, a task for which the provision of medical services and the correction of social misconceptions are mutually necessary. HIV testing entwines these aspects in a measurable manner, and both goals require togetherness, an approach that, as Shabani insists, will “make people understand easily” (in which I feel an implication of honesty, comfort, security). Regarding the AIDS crisis, with such a short time frame and with such lofty goals, I see no time for secrets, for dishonesty, or for pretending.
Though we will leave the grounds on Saturday with a number of youth tested, it is not exact numbers but general community approval that has become my measuring stick of success on this short-term project. Here in this place and timeframe I am unable to compile meaningful monitoring and evaluation statistics that are the products of only thoughtful long-term investments. I ask the students if we made the right choice by using Alphayo’s words as our slogan, as they laughed (in surprise, amusement or appreciation? I hope all three) at our choice to conduct the entire day – including t-shirts – in Kiswahili. Ernestina looks up and smiles, “Yes.”
“Kwanini? (why?)”
“The people will know that we are doing good work.”
Far from my self that seeks an “A+” across papers and words of praise from professors, I have found work whose system of evaluation is far more fulfilling than a letter or a compliment. My indicators are not precise, as human opinions never quite are, but I am satisfied. Two days till short-run-showtime, and if at the least we are giving our Arusha peers an opportunity to share their expertise – through word, drama, song, art, sport – I believe we will have taken an admirable swing at the base of the tree.
08 August 2007
Tandem To-Dos
10,000 feet in the air and the plane door swings open, wind rushing in at every angle furiously filling the tiny cabin, and I inch eagerly towards the edge. Legs dangling, ears overwhelmed by static, eyes enraptured by heavenly clouds before me, I pull back and lunge forward, a triple somersault into mid-air, disoriented and smiling like mad. I can’t satisfy my urge to laugh, lungs struggling to find oxygen at 120 mph, but I manage to roll my eyes in self-deprecation, amused with my spontaneous decision to log skydive #2 on birthday #21. I do so tandem - comfortably registering as skydive #5,496 for Elio, my charming Venezuelan instructor – and after the rush we float carelessly through thick clouds in a few minutes of pure post-dive exhilaration. I whisper to myself in an enormous sigh “Happy 21st, kiddo.”
The euphoric peace of skydiving was one of countless birthday blessings I received over the past several days. My family here – Work the World staff (Marion and Baptista), medics living at the House, friends in Arusha and most recently and selflessly, my volunteer team – spoiled me completely with thoughtfulness and love. I returned home on Thursday to find bright balloons filling the canopy top of my mosquito net, welcomed by homemade posters and the olfactory delight of fragrant yellow roses. Despite the busy schedule I have arranged, they managed to secretly buy me gifts – Tangawizi bottle cap earrings (my favorite local soda), Ghana-colored bead hoop earrings (they’re well versed in my Accra obsessions), 2 key chains, and a photo frame carved from ebony wood, containing a handwritten recipe for my favorite Tanzanian dish, Ndizi. Knowing they would be on a pre-booked safari on my actual birthday, and aware of my last minute diving plans, they inscribed each of their names on the inside of a beaded anklet for me to wear “so that we’ll be with you!”
We trekked up to the WTW House for a birthday BBQ – medic Sarah was also celebrating – and my dear Marion, who has been fighting illness for a week, added to her already time-consuming feast creation an extravagant flower arrangement of bursting rosebuds and bold daisies, a draped and decorated veranda, and a sugary-sweet birthday cake - anything besides fruit for treats is rare here, and I had more than my fair share, savoring the sweet granules grating satisfyingly across my tongue. Prohibited from paying a cent the entire evening at ViaVia, my favorite local live music bar, we danced, laughed, and drank through our midnight countdown, when bartend Mr. Bean brought me over a special cocktail as the band serenaded our crew with a bongo-flava style “happy birthday”.
Late on Friday, a surprise ring from my KCA family moved me to tears of happiness beyond my control. I dragged out our good-byes with “Asante sana”s and “I love you”s, and after reluctantly pressing down C to end the call, I realized, a bit disheartened with myself, that I had not mentioned a single thing about the Programme, my entire ‘purpose’ of pausing from KCA to come here. No updates on work progress, lessons learned, relevant experiences. But I shook off the oncoming bout of work-a-holism and reassured myself that it was not a business call but a family check-in.
But the feeling crept back up again the next morning when, in an involuntary reaction of human foolishness, I proved how easily I receive and then tend to forget the selflessness and generosity of others. I sat down to a pile of Programme work after diligently following the strictly enforced no-work birthday policy, and immediately felt tied down by to-dos. Typing furiously, surrounded by surveys, contracts, budgets and worksheets, I gave precious Marion a cold shoulder as she (obnoxiously, I thought, at the moment) hung about me to see what I was doing on my laptop. Marion who goes out of her way for me; Marion with whom I made a birthday-slumber-party pact sharing a tiny twin bed that “people should always come first”, that we are sisters forever.
Not even 24 hours away from overabundance of love and I did my Kate thing! I made her feel like she was annoying and bothering and distracting me so that she would go away without me having to be outright rude and say it.
She read my body language and walked away, still smiling of course, and my stomach dropped out. “Lighten up!” I screamed silently at myself, immediately unable to focus on work. I know my inner instinct is to be lighthearted, but I have been unable to remove the guise I’ve been designing over the past several years, a mask of false purpose, proclaiming to the world (and anyone who blocks my progress), “This is really important work I’m doing!” simultaneously generating and excusing my aloofness and rudeness.
How selfish, I think, disgusted. I’m so obsessed with how much I am capable of doing that I forget everything that others have already done and continue to do for me. I jump out of a plane without a single care or worry, yet I can’t drag myself away from my laptop without a string of tasks still dangling from my fingers and cluttering my brain?
I apologize to Marion, and of course she is forgiving, but I make myself a promise that rather than allow my to-do list dictate my schedule, control my happiness, and consume my thoughts (How many birds can I kill with one stone?), I will understand my to-do list as humble, self-prescribed how-tos towards achieving even bigger goals than I can put into words.
I test my thesis on Sunday morning as I venture off at 5:45 am to Anna’s home in Tengeru to prepare for and celebrate her niece’s first communion. I am trusting that if I dedicate myself to Anna’s family for a day, I/the Programme will wake up Monday morning, unharmed, and I banish my to-dos out from my brain, continually reminding myself that I don’t personally check the parachute.
I basked gratefully in invisibility, quite hard to come by as an mzungu in Arusha, as Anna explained to her family that I have come to help (“Napenda kupika!” “I just like to cook!”, I assure them) and am honored to share the day with them. The teasing quickly faded away over the 6 hours spent working over three open fires in the front yard. From chilly morning through the pounding midday sunshine, I sat and peeled chandeliers full of ripe green bananas, hands covered in sticky glue that I peeled off like dried Elmer’s by the time we had filled two enormous basins. Waterlogged hands as my cutting board, I diligently sliced tomatoes, peeled carrots, skinned root ginger, chopped peppers. I listened intently and tried to follow conversations, and without a to-do in mind, I accomplished so much more than I could have ever scheduled in for the day.
One of the most common questions I field from students and project partners in Arusha and in Accra is wondering why, despite the media campaigns and education programmes in, AIDS is still stigmatized and spreading in Africa, and not such a crisis in my homeland. Though a laundry list of potential reasons and opinions continues to build in international literature, I discovered quite a few powerful anecdotes by sitting silently and cooking quietly with these batik-wrapped mamas.
Looking up from my peeling, I note the suffocated goat hanging from the rusty tin fence, his slit throat dripping blood onto the ground. Cooking here is certainly just as sanitary, everything boiled and cooked properly, but preparations are not in strict standards –machetes and knives lie about, used and reused on any item, everything is done by hand, sans blenders, toasters, electric stoves. I can make a bit more sense out of the hesitancy to share meals with people who have AIDS, eating in a place where food is prepared as such and take-out is not a back-up option, consequently leading to a social stigma that can spiral out of control.
Now and then the mamas riddle me with a few questions in Kiswahili, most expressing a shock and disapproval that I am twenty-one and not yet married. They relentlessly try to set me up with Anna’s nephew, Derrick, even introducing me to his parents as Derrick’s fiancé. (I have never met Derrick, for the record. He might even spell his name Derek, for all I know). The overbearing expectation of marriage and child rearing settles in my mind, and I think to last week’s sexual health session in schools. An overflow of curiosity in our anonymous question exercise regarding the ‘proper’ age for sex and marriage may not have factored into my Cumberland H.S. sex ed, but plays a powerful role here in the effective communication of the curriculum and concepts.
Our army of women sat crouched over bubbling pots of n’gombe na wali, ladles as tall as the stirrer, pounding ginger and spices, and scooping out lard into the stews. All of their men – including Derrick, I’m sure - gather at the other side of the yard. Some are setting up a few chairs, most are lounging and chatting. The existence of pre-determined plans and priorities for girl children (the kitchen over the classroom) create a subsequent tension in the academic atmosphere. Stereotypes and superiorities (and inferiorities) are deeply engrained, and I felt a bit more responsible and ready to work after logging these observations.
I chopped, sliced, and diced as I put aside my list of to-dos with big empty boxes next to them, taunting me for attention. But just like I hopped into that tiny plane, never once thinking anything at all would go wrong or that I wouldn’t make it safe to the ground, completely undeterred and undistracted, I hopped onto that early morning daladala without a single regret, worry, or consideration of what else I could or should be doing. I had dedicated this day to Anna no matter the length or quality of the event that I knew very little about, and remained fully present, undistracted, involved…and it was, in a somewhat comparable way, exhilarating.
Later in the evening, over dinner, I am again surrounded by the laughs and love of my team who have returned home. Between their hysterical safari stories, my brain gets lost in the implications of an unshakable analogy to my fear of underachieving: the only fool who is afraid to skydive is the one who fails to realize it’s a tandem jump.
The euphoric peace of skydiving was one of countless birthday blessings I received over the past several days. My family here – Work the World staff (Marion and Baptista), medics living at the House, friends in Arusha and most recently and selflessly, my volunteer team – spoiled me completely with thoughtfulness and love. I returned home on Thursday to find bright balloons filling the canopy top of my mosquito net, welcomed by homemade posters and the olfactory delight of fragrant yellow roses. Despite the busy schedule I have arranged, they managed to secretly buy me gifts – Tangawizi bottle cap earrings (my favorite local soda), Ghana-colored bead hoop earrings (they’re well versed in my Accra obsessions), 2 key chains, and a photo frame carved from ebony wood, containing a handwritten recipe for my favorite Tanzanian dish, Ndizi. Knowing they would be on a pre-booked safari on my actual birthday, and aware of my last minute diving plans, they inscribed each of their names on the inside of a beaded anklet for me to wear “so that we’ll be with you!”
We trekked up to the WTW House for a birthday BBQ – medic Sarah was also celebrating – and my dear Marion, who has been fighting illness for a week, added to her already time-consuming feast creation an extravagant flower arrangement of bursting rosebuds and bold daisies, a draped and decorated veranda, and a sugary-sweet birthday cake - anything besides fruit for treats is rare here, and I had more than my fair share, savoring the sweet granules grating satisfyingly across my tongue. Prohibited from paying a cent the entire evening at ViaVia, my favorite local live music bar, we danced, laughed, and drank through our midnight countdown, when bartend Mr. Bean brought me over a special cocktail as the band serenaded our crew with a bongo-flava style “happy birthday”.
Late on Friday, a surprise ring from my KCA family moved me to tears of happiness beyond my control. I dragged out our good-byes with “Asante sana”s and “I love you”s, and after reluctantly pressing down C to end the call, I realized, a bit disheartened with myself, that I had not mentioned a single thing about the Programme, my entire ‘purpose’ of pausing from KCA to come here. No updates on work progress, lessons learned, relevant experiences. But I shook off the oncoming bout of work-a-holism and reassured myself that it was not a business call but a family check-in.
But the feeling crept back up again the next morning when, in an involuntary reaction of human foolishness, I proved how easily I receive and then tend to forget the selflessness and generosity of others. I sat down to a pile of Programme work after diligently following the strictly enforced no-work birthday policy, and immediately felt tied down by to-dos. Typing furiously, surrounded by surveys, contracts, budgets and worksheets, I gave precious Marion a cold shoulder as she (obnoxiously, I thought, at the moment) hung about me to see what I was doing on my laptop. Marion who goes out of her way for me; Marion with whom I made a birthday-slumber-party pact sharing a tiny twin bed that “people should always come first”, that we are sisters forever.
Not even 24 hours away from overabundance of love and I did my Kate thing! I made her feel like she was annoying and bothering and distracting me so that she would go away without me having to be outright rude and say it.
She read my body language and walked away, still smiling of course, and my stomach dropped out. “Lighten up!” I screamed silently at myself, immediately unable to focus on work. I know my inner instinct is to be lighthearted, but I have been unable to remove the guise I’ve been designing over the past several years, a mask of false purpose, proclaiming to the world (and anyone who blocks my progress), “This is really important work I’m doing!” simultaneously generating and excusing my aloofness and rudeness.
How selfish, I think, disgusted. I’m so obsessed with how much I am capable of doing that I forget everything that others have already done and continue to do for me. I jump out of a plane without a single care or worry, yet I can’t drag myself away from my laptop without a string of tasks still dangling from my fingers and cluttering my brain?
I apologize to Marion, and of course she is forgiving, but I make myself a promise that rather than allow my to-do list dictate my schedule, control my happiness, and consume my thoughts (How many birds can I kill with one stone?), I will understand my to-do list as humble, self-prescribed how-tos towards achieving even bigger goals than I can put into words.
I test my thesis on Sunday morning as I venture off at 5:45 am to Anna’s home in Tengeru to prepare for and celebrate her niece’s first communion. I am trusting that if I dedicate myself to Anna’s family for a day, I/the Programme will wake up Monday morning, unharmed, and I banish my to-dos out from my brain, continually reminding myself that I don’t personally check the parachute.
I basked gratefully in invisibility, quite hard to come by as an mzungu in Arusha, as Anna explained to her family that I have come to help (“Napenda kupika!” “I just like to cook!”, I assure them) and am honored to share the day with them. The teasing quickly faded away over the 6 hours spent working over three open fires in the front yard. From chilly morning through the pounding midday sunshine, I sat and peeled chandeliers full of ripe green bananas, hands covered in sticky glue that I peeled off like dried Elmer’s by the time we had filled two enormous basins. Waterlogged hands as my cutting board, I diligently sliced tomatoes, peeled carrots, skinned root ginger, chopped peppers. I listened intently and tried to follow conversations, and without a to-do in mind, I accomplished so much more than I could have ever scheduled in for the day.
One of the most common questions I field from students and project partners in Arusha and in Accra is wondering why, despite the media campaigns and education programmes in, AIDS is still stigmatized and spreading in Africa, and not such a crisis in my homeland. Though a laundry list of potential reasons and opinions continues to build in international literature, I discovered quite a few powerful anecdotes by sitting silently and cooking quietly with these batik-wrapped mamas.
Looking up from my peeling, I note the suffocated goat hanging from the rusty tin fence, his slit throat dripping blood onto the ground. Cooking here is certainly just as sanitary, everything boiled and cooked properly, but preparations are not in strict standards –machetes and knives lie about, used and reused on any item, everything is done by hand, sans blenders, toasters, electric stoves. I can make a bit more sense out of the hesitancy to share meals with people who have AIDS, eating in a place where food is prepared as such and take-out is not a back-up option, consequently leading to a social stigma that can spiral out of control.
Now and then the mamas riddle me with a few questions in Kiswahili, most expressing a shock and disapproval that I am twenty-one and not yet married. They relentlessly try to set me up with Anna’s nephew, Derrick, even introducing me to his parents as Derrick’s fiancé. (I have never met Derrick, for the record. He might even spell his name Derek, for all I know). The overbearing expectation of marriage and child rearing settles in my mind, and I think to last week’s sexual health session in schools. An overflow of curiosity in our anonymous question exercise regarding the ‘proper’ age for sex and marriage may not have factored into my Cumberland H.S. sex ed, but plays a powerful role here in the effective communication of the curriculum and concepts.
Our army of women sat crouched over bubbling pots of n’gombe na wali, ladles as tall as the stirrer, pounding ginger and spices, and scooping out lard into the stews. All of their men – including Derrick, I’m sure - gather at the other side of the yard. Some are setting up a few chairs, most are lounging and chatting. The existence of pre-determined plans and priorities for girl children (the kitchen over the classroom) create a subsequent tension in the academic atmosphere. Stereotypes and superiorities (and inferiorities) are deeply engrained, and I felt a bit more responsible and ready to work after logging these observations.
I chopped, sliced, and diced as I put aside my list of to-dos with big empty boxes next to them, taunting me for attention. But just like I hopped into that tiny plane, never once thinking anything at all would go wrong or that I wouldn’t make it safe to the ground, completely undeterred and undistracted, I hopped onto that early morning daladala without a single regret, worry, or consideration of what else I could or should be doing. I had dedicated this day to Anna no matter the length or quality of the event that I knew very little about, and remained fully present, undistracted, involved…and it was, in a somewhat comparable way, exhilarating.
Later in the evening, over dinner, I am again surrounded by the laughs and love of my team who have returned home. Between their hysterical safari stories, my brain gets lost in the implications of an unshakable analogy to my fear of underachieving: the only fool who is afraid to skydive is the one who fails to realize it’s a tandem jump.
31 July 2007
Mungu at Mulbadaw
The road to Mulbadaw is a rough road to travel. Tell any Tanzanian you took a weekend excursion to this rural community in Hanang district, tucked into the dry savannah about 170 km south of Arusha, and they will laugh at you, “Oh! You survived the journey?” They know we wazungu prefer cruising down Tanzania’s largely unpaved roads in hired 4x4s en route to safari in Tarangire or to trek up Kili (both of which have been my only reason to ride these roads outside Arusha so far). Any attraction to we wageni (visitors) is relatively unimaginable.
Nevertheless, our Work the World team arose at 5 am on Friday to board the Mtei Express Coach to Mulbadaw, which creaked and clunked atop battered tires and weary axles, the driver barging down dirt paths, face masked from the billowing dust clouds with a red bandana. Acquiescing to the unbearably truthful plea of Mama Janet Wema, the manager of the Hanang Orphans Support Fund (HOSF) who I met recently in Arusha, I agreed to bring our HIV Testing programme to Mulbadaw Secondary School in her rural home, as truly, “No one comes with this knowledge to us. Everyone works in Arusha, but we are forgotten.”
And certainly not with cruel intentions, I quickly realize. Though the vehicle is six times the size of a daladala, the proportion of people per square foot (approximately 2.75) remains unchanged. We are fortunate enough to have actual seats, ripped plastic upholstery labeled with black marker, but the aisles are crowded with passengers who need to get home to Katesh (riders who know that with a small bribe to the officers who stop us along the road, disapproving of the overcapacity, they can complete their journey). A chicken squawks from under the seat beside me, a woman crushes her batik-wrapped butt against my face as she shifts heavily to allow someone to pass. The rough terrain – as so many roads in Tanzania are unpaved and undriveable - makes for a 7-hour ride, our vibrating bodies racing over roads riddled with pebbles and potholes.
Despite the discomfort I am deep into Bill Easterly’s “The White Man’s Burden” and for once, defy my desire to spend the entire trip gazing out the window to absorb atmospheric details into my brain. Preoccupied with Easterly’s analysis of Planners and Searchers, and considering its application to KUVA (Kupima Ukimwi kwa VIjana wa Arusha, the HIV Testing Programme we are conducting), my brain cannot handle the sensory overload of vast savannah horizons yawning to life as the sun rises overhead. I pause only momentarily to follow Barabaig children prancing up and down the roadside; some twirling miniature herding staffs, some busy chopping grass with machetes as long as their bodies, some biking furiously with dingy jerry cans clunking haphazardly behind. (Barabaig: the most populous tribe of the area’s Datoga ethnic group) As always my mind begins to wander along with them – where have they come from, and where are they going?
But a new sense of focus puts a vice on my wonder. Instead of absorbing the world outside the cracked windows, I am fiercely conscious of my travel companions (no, not the chicken) on my side of the glass: Magda, Mat, Katie, Lauragh and Cat: our team. I worry - is Katie eating enough? Does Mat feel as though he has been able to contribute his opinions as much as these outspoken ladies? Is Madga’s unbreakable positivity a mask for any subtle insecurity? Will clearly ‘knackered’ (I’m picking up British slang too) Cat survive this painfully jarring ride? How is Lauragh coping with missing Ben, her boyfriend, for these days away from town? After even a few intensely intimate days with the team, their incredible talents, strengths, and skills are obvious to me and I cannot help but zoom in directly past this surface image they present, into the personal difficulties I can recognize and intently track. I want the best for each of my volunteers and through their own security, the best for our team and our Programme.
I had agreed to the terms of our visit to Mulbadaw knowing full well that it would be challenging, (that’s before being greeted by over 300 students in the yard) and unlike our Arusha Programme – a more daunting language barrier, no previous relationship with the students or staff, a first dive into the curriculum we have just compiled and designed. Unlike the 8 schools at which we will work with for the next 3 weeks – where we have already conferenced with teacher-mentors and selected ten student volunteers (with English proficiency) to undergo what will be peer health educator training across six planned and practiced one hour sessions - Mulbadaw represented an opportunity to get our feet wet before taking the dive. With few expectations or regulations – besides, as Easterly describes ideal attempts at effective foreign aid, “first, do no harm” – we realized quickly the day was more like taking the dive and learning to swim once we hit the water.
Doggy-paddling through introductions and initial explanations of the programme, we tried to create a comfortable social atmosphere and soon warmed up into a steady stroke. Individual students stepped up to participate in sessions and organically began to lead themselves. Though on paper we conducted the same instructive interactive role-plays, condom demonstrations, casual discussions and mini-dramas, as I have done in America, the receiving end here in Hanang is quite different. Baraki, one of my group’s natural leaders, politely pulls me aside as I try to organize students to create a mini-drama about reaching goals and adhering to values. He whispers to me, “There might be a problem, you see: we are all of different tribes – Barabaig, Iraqi, Samburu – and we all come from different traditions, and do different drama” Baraki suggests allowing students of the same tradition work together on acting teams, instead of the groups I have otherwise arbitrarily arranged. “Kabisa!” I exclaim, a bit disgusted at my unintentionally colonial behavior, “Definitely!” I sit back and watch their masterpieces, wide-eyed, as generous Michael translates for me in a whisper. With relatively minimal motivation from our team, these students have adopted our curriculum of “life-planning” – which builds up to HIV/AIDS education and encouragement of testing – and made it their own, become peer educators without having to say so explicitly. Had we tried to force this identity upon them, we probably would have failed, our agendas void of careful cultural considerations and intangible trust in another’s abilities that were realized only by getting to know these individuals and more about their lives we were encouraging them to plan.
We could have well spent this day in Arusha, diligently planning for the Arusha programme. We certainly lost valuable planning time on the long round trip, and evident in our group debriefs, lost a lot of patience with the difficulty of the day.
We dragged our tired feet back to HOSF to spend the remainder of the late afternoon – a stunning magenta sunset melting into a calm, chirping twilight - with Mama Janet’s ‘children’, 22 orphans (many from AIDS) from little Steven aged 8 up to Mary, my big sister of 21. A few of the orphans are students at Mulbadaw, and Salome (19 and reminding me of Diana) and I hold hands and chat in all the shared Kiswahili-English we can muster. She wants to be a teacher, she shows me where some of her best friends live (which means a finger pointing into the distance), and knowing her for only one day, I feel a powerful sisterhood between us, two young women, two strangers, who clearly each have some void yearning to be filled, finding fulfillment in one another.
After arrival at Mama’s modest home, the children performed two songs for our team as a welcome, and I find myself wrapped somewhere within the plait of bold, rhythmic harmonies, sweetly intentional melodies, and the beauty of their gracefully unified sway: I am overwhelmed with happiness at their unconditional hospitality. (We were never once asked to pay for food or accommodations, but certainly left a large gift with Mama) Feeling so fulfilled by the peace I have found in Salome and her siblings, I wondered if perhaps this trip was an unconsciously selfish abuse of my programme manager powers, as I am always eager to escape Arusha and see more of Tanzania. My volunteers are still so new – was it right to take them on this difficult journey only a few days into their arrival? Will I be tainting their experience of Tanzania by bringing them down this rough road?
As is customary, there is an announcement issued by Mama before we dig into the delicious chakula (food). Our traveling companion, legendary Oddo of CCF who initially introduced me to Janet, translates her welcome: “We give you pole (‘sorry’/apologies) for the long journey - bad road, a lot of dust”. Her soft, careful voice pauses to collect her next, seemingly heavier, bundle of words, “Happy are those who have a good heart for they will see Mungu (God)… One way of seeing Mungu is visiting these orphans. They wish you to see Mungu.” Just before I think I can hold myself together, she concludes:
“May Mungu give you back anything you may have lost in coming here”.
My eyes well up involuntarily, my heart acting without warning my brain, at Oddo’s poignant translation of Mama’s well wishes. What have I possibly lost comparable to the loss of parental love and attention that each of these children suffer? Uncramped legs? A clean nasal passage?
Sure we have lost some time, for which there is always an opportunity cost. Our team collectively (though still considerately, I must add!) lost patience at certain points. But I rack my brain and cannot think of what else I could have possibly ‘lost’ on this trip, realizing how much I feel I have gained so much since we arrived.
On the continuum of pain that loss incurs from inconvenience to tragedy, sensitive and responsible human interaction becomes increasingly more important as we progress down the line…yet is increasingly less available, oftentimes. In NYC I lose my keys. This is an inconvenience. I can get my brain together and find them, call Vicky and borrow her set until I find mine, or quite easily call a landlord or locksmith. In Hanang, hundreds of children have lost their parents to AIDS. This is a tragedy. These orphans cannot replace their parents nor the love, security, and confidence of which they have consequently been robbed. For 22 of them, a Mama Janet might come along and transform their future. A team of wazungu might pass through and share a meal and some songs. But few people take the rough road out to Katesh, and the human interactions necessary to solve our generation’s biggest tragedies are left unsupported and as Mama said, ‘forgotten’.
At Mulbadaw Secondary, we had to create opportunities to lose parts of ourselves in order to better define and find those parts. I had to (gasp) allow sessions to run overtime to realize what the most important and crucial sections of the curriculum should have been implemented in that time. Cat had to lose a sense of security to find her creativity when sub-group session discussions grew spontaneously and had to stay solo. It’s not that the loss is necessarily the tragedy. It’s when one – whether unwilling or resource constrained - is unable to find after having lost.
A rough road should never been interpreted as necessarily having a disappointing destination, a loss never as an automatic synonym for sadness. Although the loss causes sadness, the unpredictable ways in which we will fill the loss, or be given it back, can bring the greatest fulfillment.
And so I emphasize that the road to Katesh, Hanang, is a rough road to travel. Students of Mulbadaw live 3 bumpy hours away from the nearest hospital when can raise the fare to go for an HIV test - if transportation faster than donkey or foot is even available. Mama Janet is in the midst of building a new compound on donated land to avoid currently debilitating rent payments, but must turn away Hanang’s hundreds of orphans until she has the facilities to house them and resources to support them. I correct Mama, but only in my heart, May Mungu give your children everything back they may have lost. Rather, may you and the children have every opportunity to which I am privileged to ‘find’.
Nevertheless, our Work the World team arose at 5 am on Friday to board the Mtei Express Coach to Mulbadaw, which creaked and clunked atop battered tires and weary axles, the driver barging down dirt paths, face masked from the billowing dust clouds with a red bandana. Acquiescing to the unbearably truthful plea of Mama Janet Wema, the manager of the Hanang Orphans Support Fund (HOSF) who I met recently in Arusha, I agreed to bring our HIV Testing programme to Mulbadaw Secondary School in her rural home, as truly, “No one comes with this knowledge to us. Everyone works in Arusha, but we are forgotten.”
And certainly not with cruel intentions, I quickly realize. Though the vehicle is six times the size of a daladala, the proportion of people per square foot (approximately 2.75) remains unchanged. We are fortunate enough to have actual seats, ripped plastic upholstery labeled with black marker, but the aisles are crowded with passengers who need to get home to Katesh (riders who know that with a small bribe to the officers who stop us along the road, disapproving of the overcapacity, they can complete their journey). A chicken squawks from under the seat beside me, a woman crushes her batik-wrapped butt against my face as she shifts heavily to allow someone to pass. The rough terrain – as so many roads in Tanzania are unpaved and undriveable - makes for a 7-hour ride, our vibrating bodies racing over roads riddled with pebbles and potholes.
Despite the discomfort I am deep into Bill Easterly’s “The White Man’s Burden” and for once, defy my desire to spend the entire trip gazing out the window to absorb atmospheric details into my brain. Preoccupied with Easterly’s analysis of Planners and Searchers, and considering its application to KUVA (Kupima Ukimwi kwa VIjana wa Arusha, the HIV Testing Programme we are conducting), my brain cannot handle the sensory overload of vast savannah horizons yawning to life as the sun rises overhead. I pause only momentarily to follow Barabaig children prancing up and down the roadside; some twirling miniature herding staffs, some busy chopping grass with machetes as long as their bodies, some biking furiously with dingy jerry cans clunking haphazardly behind. (Barabaig: the most populous tribe of the area’s Datoga ethnic group) As always my mind begins to wander along with them – where have they come from, and where are they going?
But a new sense of focus puts a vice on my wonder. Instead of absorbing the world outside the cracked windows, I am fiercely conscious of my travel companions (no, not the chicken) on my side of the glass: Magda, Mat, Katie, Lauragh and Cat: our team. I worry - is Katie eating enough? Does Mat feel as though he has been able to contribute his opinions as much as these outspoken ladies? Is Madga’s unbreakable positivity a mask for any subtle insecurity? Will clearly ‘knackered’ (I’m picking up British slang too) Cat survive this painfully jarring ride? How is Lauragh coping with missing Ben, her boyfriend, for these days away from town? After even a few intensely intimate days with the team, their incredible talents, strengths, and skills are obvious to me and I cannot help but zoom in directly past this surface image they present, into the personal difficulties I can recognize and intently track. I want the best for each of my volunteers and through their own security, the best for our team and our Programme.
I had agreed to the terms of our visit to Mulbadaw knowing full well that it would be challenging, (that’s before being greeted by over 300 students in the yard) and unlike our Arusha Programme – a more daunting language barrier, no previous relationship with the students or staff, a first dive into the curriculum we have just compiled and designed. Unlike the 8 schools at which we will work with for the next 3 weeks – where we have already conferenced with teacher-mentors and selected ten student volunteers (with English proficiency) to undergo what will be peer health educator training across six planned and practiced one hour sessions - Mulbadaw represented an opportunity to get our feet wet before taking the dive. With few expectations or regulations – besides, as Easterly describes ideal attempts at effective foreign aid, “first, do no harm” – we realized quickly the day was more like taking the dive and learning to swim once we hit the water.
Doggy-paddling through introductions and initial explanations of the programme, we tried to create a comfortable social atmosphere and soon warmed up into a steady stroke. Individual students stepped up to participate in sessions and organically began to lead themselves. Though on paper we conducted the same instructive interactive role-plays, condom demonstrations, casual discussions and mini-dramas, as I have done in America, the receiving end here in Hanang is quite different. Baraki, one of my group’s natural leaders, politely pulls me aside as I try to organize students to create a mini-drama about reaching goals and adhering to values. He whispers to me, “There might be a problem, you see: we are all of different tribes – Barabaig, Iraqi, Samburu – and we all come from different traditions, and do different drama” Baraki suggests allowing students of the same tradition work together on acting teams, instead of the groups I have otherwise arbitrarily arranged. “Kabisa!” I exclaim, a bit disgusted at my unintentionally colonial behavior, “Definitely!” I sit back and watch their masterpieces, wide-eyed, as generous Michael translates for me in a whisper. With relatively minimal motivation from our team, these students have adopted our curriculum of “life-planning” – which builds up to HIV/AIDS education and encouragement of testing – and made it their own, become peer educators without having to say so explicitly. Had we tried to force this identity upon them, we probably would have failed, our agendas void of careful cultural considerations and intangible trust in another’s abilities that were realized only by getting to know these individuals and more about their lives we were encouraging them to plan.
We could have well spent this day in Arusha, diligently planning for the Arusha programme. We certainly lost valuable planning time on the long round trip, and evident in our group debriefs, lost a lot of patience with the difficulty of the day.
We dragged our tired feet back to HOSF to spend the remainder of the late afternoon – a stunning magenta sunset melting into a calm, chirping twilight - with Mama Janet’s ‘children’, 22 orphans (many from AIDS) from little Steven aged 8 up to Mary, my big sister of 21. A few of the orphans are students at Mulbadaw, and Salome (19 and reminding me of Diana) and I hold hands and chat in all the shared Kiswahili-English we can muster. She wants to be a teacher, she shows me where some of her best friends live (which means a finger pointing into the distance), and knowing her for only one day, I feel a powerful sisterhood between us, two young women, two strangers, who clearly each have some void yearning to be filled, finding fulfillment in one another.
After arrival at Mama’s modest home, the children performed two songs for our team as a welcome, and I find myself wrapped somewhere within the plait of bold, rhythmic harmonies, sweetly intentional melodies, and the beauty of their gracefully unified sway: I am overwhelmed with happiness at their unconditional hospitality. (We were never once asked to pay for food or accommodations, but certainly left a large gift with Mama) Feeling so fulfilled by the peace I have found in Salome and her siblings, I wondered if perhaps this trip was an unconsciously selfish abuse of my programme manager powers, as I am always eager to escape Arusha and see more of Tanzania. My volunteers are still so new – was it right to take them on this difficult journey only a few days into their arrival? Will I be tainting their experience of Tanzania by bringing them down this rough road?
As is customary, there is an announcement issued by Mama before we dig into the delicious chakula (food). Our traveling companion, legendary Oddo of CCF who initially introduced me to Janet, translates her welcome: “We give you pole (‘sorry’/apologies) for the long journey - bad road, a lot of dust”. Her soft, careful voice pauses to collect her next, seemingly heavier, bundle of words, “Happy are those who have a good heart for they will see Mungu (God)… One way of seeing Mungu is visiting these orphans. They wish you to see Mungu.” Just before I think I can hold myself together, she concludes:
“May Mungu give you back anything you may have lost in coming here”.
My eyes well up involuntarily, my heart acting without warning my brain, at Oddo’s poignant translation of Mama’s well wishes. What have I possibly lost comparable to the loss of parental love and attention that each of these children suffer? Uncramped legs? A clean nasal passage?
Sure we have lost some time, for which there is always an opportunity cost. Our team collectively (though still considerately, I must add!) lost patience at certain points. But I rack my brain and cannot think of what else I could have possibly ‘lost’ on this trip, realizing how much I feel I have gained so much since we arrived.
On the continuum of pain that loss incurs from inconvenience to tragedy, sensitive and responsible human interaction becomes increasingly more important as we progress down the line…yet is increasingly less available, oftentimes. In NYC I lose my keys. This is an inconvenience. I can get my brain together and find them, call Vicky and borrow her set until I find mine, or quite easily call a landlord or locksmith. In Hanang, hundreds of children have lost their parents to AIDS. This is a tragedy. These orphans cannot replace their parents nor the love, security, and confidence of which they have consequently been robbed. For 22 of them, a Mama Janet might come along and transform their future. A team of wazungu might pass through and share a meal and some songs. But few people take the rough road out to Katesh, and the human interactions necessary to solve our generation’s biggest tragedies are left unsupported and as Mama said, ‘forgotten’.
At Mulbadaw Secondary, we had to create opportunities to lose parts of ourselves in order to better define and find those parts. I had to (gasp) allow sessions to run overtime to realize what the most important and crucial sections of the curriculum should have been implemented in that time. Cat had to lose a sense of security to find her creativity when sub-group session discussions grew spontaneously and had to stay solo. It’s not that the loss is necessarily the tragedy. It’s when one – whether unwilling or resource constrained - is unable to find after having lost.
A rough road should never been interpreted as necessarily having a disappointing destination, a loss never as an automatic synonym for sadness. Although the loss causes sadness, the unpredictable ways in which we will fill the loss, or be given it back, can bring the greatest fulfillment.
And so I emphasize that the road to Katesh, Hanang, is a rough road to travel. Students of Mulbadaw live 3 bumpy hours away from the nearest hospital when can raise the fare to go for an HIV test - if transportation faster than donkey or foot is even available. Mama Janet is in the midst of building a new compound on donated land to avoid currently debilitating rent payments, but must turn away Hanang’s hundreds of orphans until she has the facilities to house them and resources to support them. I correct Mama, but only in my heart, May Mungu give your children everything back they may have lost. Rather, may you and the children have every opportunity to which I am privileged to ‘find’.
23 July 2007
Internalizing Externalities
“I think Africa is good for Kate!” proclaims a beaming Dr. Tekle, “You look great!”
I take a seat in his cramped office beside a bookshelf that simultaneously boasts, “Oral & Maxillofacial Surgery” and “Everything you Ever Wanted to Know about being an Alcoholic but were too Drunk to Ask”. I smile at this reflection of Tekle’s quirky sense of humor that persists through an otherwise uncompromising professionalism. His compliments renders my speech sloppy, as I begin to retort, “I think Kate is good for Africa!” quickly realizing that this is wrong and he has already said what I want to say. I am at a loss for a proper response, so my eyes turn down and I smile.
I have finally made time to check in with Dr. Tekle, who I befriended early on in my time here (the man who teased me upon first meeting when I asked him –perhaps too sternly – what time we would be meeting next. “You Americans”, he laughed, “always so concerned with time!”). A devout Ethiopian Seventh Day Adventist Christian with a charming obsession with cheesy chain e-mail inspiration, Tekle is one of many local experts against whom I check myself every time I think I have a fantastic idea. He makes sure my bases are covered as he pushes me to be on top of my game.
“You speak such good Kiswahili now!” he gushes, half in pride and praise (for he started my vocabulary back in May), and half pulling my leg – I’m approaching comfortable conversational but far from fluency! I thank him but know I still rely heavily on he and others as translators, both linguistically and culturally.
So I get down to business like a good American and catch him up with progress made on the Programme: the creation of what will be a community Event and secondary school peer education and public health initiative…(trumpets blare, drum roll, gong echo please!): “Kupima Ukimwi kwa Vijana wa Arusha”, or KUVA 2007, a youth-initiated campaign to encourage HIV Testing in Arusha.
I constructed the framework for this Programme so that my five Work the World Volunteers (WTWV) and secondary school student participants will be the true architects, and I explain the concept as I flip through loose sheets of A4 (I maintain the most glorious nature of chaotic order in so much of my work); the school workshop schedule, a copy of the Teacher-Mentor Dinner invitation, Stadium rental receipt, and a sponsorship form I threw together on a whim and need to tighten up. KUVA 2007 is no (Red) campaign, it’s no PEPFAR, it is no brilliant big plan or eternally sustainable cure for AIDS in Arusha. KUVA is a modest community led initiative to promote the recently launched Tanzania National Testing Campaign. It is an effort to translate this national brilliant big plan into action on a small scale.
[As a small child, I recall afternoons when my mom would lug the 4 Otto kids into a CVS, and once in a while (those rare days when Matthew wouldn’t bully us, Andrew wouldn’t insult a checkout woman, Diana and I wouldn’t be bickering) offer to buy us something small, something fun. I always reached for books of connect-the-dots, my favorite exercise. I’m not sure I have ever grown out of this appreciation.]
Our goal in Arusha is to link up local youth with healthcare services, specifically VCT, that exist but are underutilized. WTWV will be trained by local peer educators in a locally developed sexual health and life planning skills curriculum, and work with a Headmaster-appointed Teacher-Mentor and ten student committee at seven secondary schools and one street children’s home to train youth as peer health educators and plan KUVA into an Event on August 18th.
My first volunteer, Lauragh, arrived on Wednesday, and Tekle’s comment is not the first time this week I’ve noticed or considered personal changes. Lauragh unknowingly stood for two days as a ruler against my two months here, measuring where I began, buzzing in off my NYC high, and where I now stand, still buzzing, but in Arusha tempo.
An immediate realization as she tags along is my tendency to detour, as she playfully point out on our trip to collect pre-Programme student surveys. We walked up the long ruddy dirt road to Bishop Durning High School in Sanawari, and from the sidelines of storefronts that lined the barabara (road), a voice squeaked out loudly from atop her hill, “mZUUUngu!!” I skip up the wooden slat steps to greet baby Barbara, a child I befriended on my first attempt at finding this far-off campus. “Sema Dada Kate! (call me sister Kate!)”, I insist, but she is more stubborn than me and insists on calling me her mzungu. We buy her some caramel sweets and she giggles relentlessly as we head back on our way up the hill, waving “Kwaheri! (Goodbye!)” to her chubby smile.
I try to pay attention the rest of the day to my reactions, my mannerisms, and my assumptions, identifying behavioral luxuries that, as my role changes, I may have to give up. The Programme begins today, and my role has already changed to leader, care-taker, and customer service department as I have welcomed my team of WTWV into Arusha: Lauragh, Magda, Cat, Katie and Mathew.
I have moved out of the WTW House down to a local hostel with the team, and although I don’t mind the new inconveniences – as I type, tiny ants scramble across my keyboard, a gecko wriggles in our laundry sink, and electricity is not presently available – I remind myself that I have the added comfort of not having to mind. I am being paid, while these volunteers are paying, and have been promised certain conveniences.
I spent yesterday my afternoon chasing my landlord – loving and hospitable Mama Orpa - who does not understand an iota of my newly-developed (and uncomfortable) urgency. She chastises me, not understanding I am upset because she does not have the room availability she promised me in June. “Don’t worry! You are worried, I know your face, this is not you!” I’m not worried, Mama Orpa, I say to myself, a busy-Kate is worried, I sigh. But the problems at hand are manageable (I winced as my demand made Orpa forced a very angry Kenyan man to move out of his room) and more so than this Programme, for whose joyous challenges I am prepared to tackle for 5 weeks, I am afraid I will switch back to this busy-Kate once I leave the peaceful energy of this town (“He tries to say he will sue me,” Orpa tsks, unconcerned, “Those Kenyans are so busy busy busy…we Tanzanians, we love peace.” Imagine Orpa in Manhattan!)
The thought occurred to me late last week, that with a changed role, busy-Kate is now more likely to pass people by than Kate who is not chained to a third party schedule. [Although I do continually remind myself that this schedule is my summer job and an incredible blessing.] So with a “live-like-there’s-no-tomorrow” spirit I deliberately stopped to accept some sugarcane – despite being on my mission to pick up more surveys at Jaffery High School - from Johan, who at first I did rush by (“Hapana, asante – no thank you”). 200 shillings (about 10 cents) is an amazing deal and refreshing boost under the midday sun, and I crunched down on the cane, sucking in sticky juice as a toast to my final day ‘alone’. John flashes me a brown stained smile, clad in a faded denim shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, a dusty red polar fleece vest, and flimsy dress pants, and I use every word in my vocabulary to attempt a meaningful conversation. At age 15 he is not in school, he has a brother Albini and a sister Pensioza who live in Moshoto, and he wants to be a pilot when he grows up. Unnecessary and unrelated to the Programme, I find glorious satisfaction in absorbing such details.
Later that day, I begin to walk away from Sekei Secondary school once I realize the teacher will be very late to our meeting to pick up surveys– ‘too late’ for my schedule – but I nevertheless stay when welcomed to share some wali na maharagwe (good old rice and beans) that teachers Happiness and Rosie have graciously offered to me in the stuffy staff room, and I even get a Kiswahili lesson out of it as she refuses to speak in English, but graciously speaks slowly and repeats sentences to me to help me learn.
I am praised in many ways in NYC for being able to balance a busy schedule. A full resume, a daily life of academic and professional purpose, somewhere to be, something to do. But what’s so praiseworthy? I can’t help but wonder. Lofty plans, as personal as my endless to-do lists or public as UN Millennium Development Goals, are admirable efforts, but at the end of the day, are the easy way out. Check, check, check. But there’s so much behind those to-do list items, those grandiose Goals. So what if I can check off “surveys collected” for our school peer education Programme, but have neglected opportunities to explore why Johan might never take such a survey, or what Happiness as a Tanzanian teacher thinks of the Programme? The positive externalities of a detour, as long as the destination is kept in mind, are unpredictable and incredibly valuable. To maintain both an undeterred focus and a 360-degree view of one’s environment is more challenging and more praiseworthy.
“From before when we first met you are now so different,” Tekle raises his eyebrows, searching my face for specifics. I hope he means that working in Africa has conditioned me to be less focused on checking off an item and more interested in the item itself.
“What’s the difference?” I prod.
“Beauty.”
I am apprehensive that I may have less time for detours now that the Programme is beginning and I am no longer just responsible for myself but for others. I worry even more that I will become ‘efficiency’-obsessed again once I hit the pavement on 2nd and A, and no longer make time for detours, intentionally. I imagine this must be somewhat like getting married or starting a family – it’s not that you aren’t madly in love and live for the relationships, but when a bit of you gets locked into others it is no longer reserved for yourself. And I suppose it is part of growing up, learning to share not only what you have, but who you are.
“Let’s not waste any time,” Tekle says, switching gears back to expert advisor.
“Oh really?” I toss back at him, “You’re sounding American on me now!”
I take a seat in his cramped office beside a bookshelf that simultaneously boasts, “Oral & Maxillofacial Surgery” and “Everything you Ever Wanted to Know about being an Alcoholic but were too Drunk to Ask”. I smile at this reflection of Tekle’s quirky sense of humor that persists through an otherwise uncompromising professionalism. His compliments renders my speech sloppy, as I begin to retort, “I think Kate is good for Africa!” quickly realizing that this is wrong and he has already said what I want to say. I am at a loss for a proper response, so my eyes turn down and I smile.
I have finally made time to check in with Dr. Tekle, who I befriended early on in my time here (the man who teased me upon first meeting when I asked him –perhaps too sternly – what time we would be meeting next. “You Americans”, he laughed, “always so concerned with time!”). A devout Ethiopian Seventh Day Adventist Christian with a charming obsession with cheesy chain e-mail inspiration, Tekle is one of many local experts against whom I check myself every time I think I have a fantastic idea. He makes sure my bases are covered as he pushes me to be on top of my game.
“You speak such good Kiswahili now!” he gushes, half in pride and praise (for he started my vocabulary back in May), and half pulling my leg – I’m approaching comfortable conversational but far from fluency! I thank him but know I still rely heavily on he and others as translators, both linguistically and culturally.
So I get down to business like a good American and catch him up with progress made on the Programme: the creation of what will be a community Event and secondary school peer education and public health initiative…(trumpets blare, drum roll, gong echo please!): “Kupima Ukimwi kwa Vijana wa Arusha”, or KUVA 2007, a youth-initiated campaign to encourage HIV Testing in Arusha.
I constructed the framework for this Programme so that my five Work the World Volunteers (WTWV) and secondary school student participants will be the true architects, and I explain the concept as I flip through loose sheets of A4 (I maintain the most glorious nature of chaotic order in so much of my work); the school workshop schedule, a copy of the Teacher-Mentor Dinner invitation, Stadium rental receipt, and a sponsorship form I threw together on a whim and need to tighten up. KUVA 2007 is no (Red) campaign, it’s no PEPFAR, it is no brilliant big plan or eternally sustainable cure for AIDS in Arusha. KUVA is a modest community led initiative to promote the recently launched Tanzania National Testing Campaign. It is an effort to translate this national brilliant big plan into action on a small scale.
[As a small child, I recall afternoons when my mom would lug the 4 Otto kids into a CVS, and once in a while (those rare days when Matthew wouldn’t bully us, Andrew wouldn’t insult a checkout woman, Diana and I wouldn’t be bickering) offer to buy us something small, something fun. I always reached for books of connect-the-dots, my favorite exercise. I’m not sure I have ever grown out of this appreciation.]
Our goal in Arusha is to link up local youth with healthcare services, specifically VCT, that exist but are underutilized. WTWV will be trained by local peer educators in a locally developed sexual health and life planning skills curriculum, and work with a Headmaster-appointed Teacher-Mentor and ten student committee at seven secondary schools and one street children’s home to train youth as peer health educators and plan KUVA into an Event on August 18th.
My first volunteer, Lauragh, arrived on Wednesday, and Tekle’s comment is not the first time this week I’ve noticed or considered personal changes. Lauragh unknowingly stood for two days as a ruler against my two months here, measuring where I began, buzzing in off my NYC high, and where I now stand, still buzzing, but in Arusha tempo.
An immediate realization as she tags along is my tendency to detour, as she playfully point out on our trip to collect pre-Programme student surveys. We walked up the long ruddy dirt road to Bishop Durning High School in Sanawari, and from the sidelines of storefronts that lined the barabara (road), a voice squeaked out loudly from atop her hill, “mZUUUngu!!” I skip up the wooden slat steps to greet baby Barbara, a child I befriended on my first attempt at finding this far-off campus. “Sema Dada Kate! (call me sister Kate!)”, I insist, but she is more stubborn than me and insists on calling me her mzungu. We buy her some caramel sweets and she giggles relentlessly as we head back on our way up the hill, waving “Kwaheri! (Goodbye!)” to her chubby smile.
I try to pay attention the rest of the day to my reactions, my mannerisms, and my assumptions, identifying behavioral luxuries that, as my role changes, I may have to give up. The Programme begins today, and my role has already changed to leader, care-taker, and customer service department as I have welcomed my team of WTWV into Arusha: Lauragh, Magda, Cat, Katie and Mathew.
I have moved out of the WTW House down to a local hostel with the team, and although I don’t mind the new inconveniences – as I type, tiny ants scramble across my keyboard, a gecko wriggles in our laundry sink, and electricity is not presently available – I remind myself that I have the added comfort of not having to mind. I am being paid, while these volunteers are paying, and have been promised certain conveniences.
I spent yesterday my afternoon chasing my landlord – loving and hospitable Mama Orpa - who does not understand an iota of my newly-developed (and uncomfortable) urgency. She chastises me, not understanding I am upset because she does not have the room availability she promised me in June. “Don’t worry! You are worried, I know your face, this is not you!” I’m not worried, Mama Orpa, I say to myself, a busy-Kate is worried, I sigh. But the problems at hand are manageable (I winced as my demand made Orpa forced a very angry Kenyan man to move out of his room) and more so than this Programme, for whose joyous challenges I am prepared to tackle for 5 weeks, I am afraid I will switch back to this busy-Kate once I leave the peaceful energy of this town (“He tries to say he will sue me,” Orpa tsks, unconcerned, “Those Kenyans are so busy busy busy…we Tanzanians, we love peace.” Imagine Orpa in Manhattan!)
The thought occurred to me late last week, that with a changed role, busy-Kate is now more likely to pass people by than Kate who is not chained to a third party schedule. [Although I do continually remind myself that this schedule is my summer job and an incredible blessing.] So with a “live-like-there’s-no-tomorrow” spirit I deliberately stopped to accept some sugarcane – despite being on my mission to pick up more surveys at Jaffery High School - from Johan, who at first I did rush by (“Hapana, asante – no thank you”). 200 shillings (about 10 cents) is an amazing deal and refreshing boost under the midday sun, and I crunched down on the cane, sucking in sticky juice as a toast to my final day ‘alone’. John flashes me a brown stained smile, clad in a faded denim shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, a dusty red polar fleece vest, and flimsy dress pants, and I use every word in my vocabulary to attempt a meaningful conversation. At age 15 he is not in school, he has a brother Albini and a sister Pensioza who live in Moshoto, and he wants to be a pilot when he grows up. Unnecessary and unrelated to the Programme, I find glorious satisfaction in absorbing such details.
Later that day, I begin to walk away from Sekei Secondary school once I realize the teacher will be very late to our meeting to pick up surveys– ‘too late’ for my schedule – but I nevertheless stay when welcomed to share some wali na maharagwe (good old rice and beans) that teachers Happiness and Rosie have graciously offered to me in the stuffy staff room, and I even get a Kiswahili lesson out of it as she refuses to speak in English, but graciously speaks slowly and repeats sentences to me to help me learn.
I am praised in many ways in NYC for being able to balance a busy schedule. A full resume, a daily life of academic and professional purpose, somewhere to be, something to do. But what’s so praiseworthy? I can’t help but wonder. Lofty plans, as personal as my endless to-do lists or public as UN Millennium Development Goals, are admirable efforts, but at the end of the day, are the easy way out. Check, check, check. But there’s so much behind those to-do list items, those grandiose Goals. So what if I can check off “surveys collected” for our school peer education Programme, but have neglected opportunities to explore why Johan might never take such a survey, or what Happiness as a Tanzanian teacher thinks of the Programme? The positive externalities of a detour, as long as the destination is kept in mind, are unpredictable and incredibly valuable. To maintain both an undeterred focus and a 360-degree view of one’s environment is more challenging and more praiseworthy.
“From before when we first met you are now so different,” Tekle raises his eyebrows, searching my face for specifics. I hope he means that working in Africa has conditioned me to be less focused on checking off an item and more interested in the item itself.
“What’s the difference?” I prod.
“Beauty.”
I am apprehensive that I may have less time for detours now that the Programme is beginning and I am no longer just responsible for myself but for others. I worry even more that I will become ‘efficiency’-obsessed again once I hit the pavement on 2nd and A, and no longer make time for detours, intentionally. I imagine this must be somewhat like getting married or starting a family – it’s not that you aren’t madly in love and live for the relationships, but when a bit of you gets locked into others it is no longer reserved for yourself. And I suppose it is part of growing up, learning to share not only what you have, but who you are.
“Let’s not waste any time,” Tekle says, switching gears back to expert advisor.
“Oh really?” I toss back at him, “You’re sounding American on me now!”
15 July 2007
Summit II: July 8 – July 15
I write to you in endless gratitude after a challenging and exhilarating week on Mount Kilimanjaro. The terrain became less forgiving every day, transforming from lush rainforest below the cloud line, to barren heath and moorland above 3000 m, all the way up to the glacial Uhuru Peak, which my team and I reached around noon on Friday, July 13th. I have never before relied more upon prayers or more powerfully felt the presence of loved ones from afar – I cannot find a more sincere and true way to say that you were with me the entire way. As promised I brought a list of names up to the top with me and thanked you, tears freezing on my cheeks, for giving me the strength to reach our goal. THANK YOU!!! I will report back with a final count on funds raised for KCA by the week's end, and remind you that it is never to late to join in this effort!
Chizme - or “Cheeseman” as we playfully called one of our nine faithful porters – woke me in my pup tent on Summit morning as he did every morning, with a plastic cup of hot, black tea and a bowl of warm water for washing. 4 am, and I shivered in delirium after another night of tumultuous slumber, fumbling for my daypack and dressing quickly. I uneasily stuffed down a small bowl of porridge, head pulsing a bit from the altitude (4600 m), stomach churning from a combination of swallowing malaria meds, pounding a liter of water, and easing tense nerves. 4:30 am, headlamp clicked on, lighting only a small patch by my feet, and we’re off: myself, Suzie and Liz, led by our guide Bongo and faithful Cheeseman.
After we had emerged above the cloudline after Day 1, at 3500 m, we were witness to delightfully freezing 6 am wakeups with the sun; she peeked over Kili, and as she rose, chased us up the hill on our daily ascents. We retreated back to our tents every night after a delicious meal of rice or pasta and vegetables, hot soup, and fruits, prepared by our cook Nesto, beneath a dazzling galaxy, every tiny star so prominent at this high altitude. Each day seemed more enjoyable than the last the farther away I hiked from Arusha, from work, from life. The ascents all seemed impossible at first glance, up toward Lava Tower, down into Karanga Valley, up and over Barranco Ridge – but with my second-hand bartered boots, warm thermals, cargo shorts, sunglasses, wide brim hat and trusty Red Sox tee, I waked for about 8 hours a day, uphill, one foot in front of the other, over and over. I was shocked at how whole and fulfilled I felt at the end of each day, as I normally thrive on multitasking and juggling responsibilities, deadlines and tasks. All I had to do was eat, sleep, and walk, for 5 nights and 6 days.
Day 5, Summit day, was the final stretch. The moon hung as a bright silver sliver, but up in that heaven, the entire sphere was visible, faded craters like dimples on her smiling crescent. In the harsh morning wind, I prayed that my poor circulation would not keep me from the top, and in those few early hours it was the warmth of those who were wishing me well that kept me distracted. I imagined Diana and Andrew sprinting across the field at MBC to dive onto a makeshift slip and slide; I thought of Leigh and the KCA crew laughing with Sandile and Simphiwe at Ikageng; I hoped Matthew, Katie and Erin were not letting the hustle of NYC catch them up and were enjoying the sweltering city summer. My body was clutching clammy rocks and maneuvering up a steep stone obstacle course, but my mind was reeling from soul to soul, and soon enough a fiery orb appeared on the horizon, spreading her flame across the ocean of cumulonimbus below. I had made it to sunrise, and although my blood began to defrost, our path was no longer hidden in the night. Kili towered above us as we approached the snowline, Uhuru Peak feeling farther away than ever.
This summit presented an entirely unique challenge. We walked past and were passed by fellow trekkers of all ages, sizes, and physical abilities. I think that anyone can handle the physical pressures of Kili. Summit Day is intense, aside from a relentless uphill hike where the peak seems to tease you and rise higher with your every step, aside from the shortness of breath and lack of oxygen, aside from thirst and aching. Because you can keep lifting your legs and digging in your walking poles, you can monitor and keep steady your breathing by singing or praying rhythmically and you can take a break. What makes it so intense is the mental fortitude absolutely necessary to reach the peak.
I imagined Mom and Dad at either side of me, lifting me up, and whether it was mild altitude sickness or true answered prayers, I became lighter, and I kept marching up. I heard my Papou bragging about his granddaughter who made it to the top (“She gets her athleticism from me”), I heard my Yiayia telling me to be a “tough cookie”, I heard Dee Dee’s questions that always transform my trips into adventures, I whistled through pursed, chapped lips like Pop Pop used to do. I kept going.
The hours dragged on, the terrain a monotonous blinding snow (from which I sustained my only ‘injury’, a wind and sun burnt face, exposed below the cheeks). Liz stopped to heave and vomit, Suzie to nurse a pounding headache. I breathed with a religiously steady pace and thanked Bruce Calvert and dearest G for demanding such breathing diligence through years of swim practices and chorus rehearsals. I found myself the only one of the trio to have kept my health at this altitude, now over 5000 m, and assumed position at the back of the line, trying to soak up some of their struggle with every breath in and channel out positive energy with every breath out. The crew collapsed at Stella Point, an hour’s hike from our final destination, where many hikers call it quits from altitude sickness and are forced to retreat. But Bongo bolstered our spirits, and step after step, a last grueling uphill stretch, chanting an Agios o Theos out loud and imagining an army of loved ones pushing me from behind, shoving with the wind…we did it.
A continent spread out below us, but all I could do was thank you for helping me reach this height. Twenty minutes of rest, during which Liz spun into further delirium and Suzie into fatigue, and we were off the peak, and all to suddenly my journey seemed to have come to a close.
The mad scramble down to give the girls proper altitude to recover before their condition worsened was a mix of concern and comedy, slipping and sliding through pebbly alpine desert dirt, practically skiing, avoiding boulders at all costs. Gravity was almost a nuisance, pulling me down so forcefully – sure, I was getting to my destination faster, but I had no time to absorb the beauty around me, no mind space to think beyond my next quick step. I immediately preferred the natural gravity that existed between the peak and my heart, so full of loved ones all helping me ascend. It was a force I had a large part in creating and although it was more difficult, I had to find energy, focus, and determination in faith – it was infinitely more fulfilling.
I couldn’t help but think the entire 5 hour descent on Saturday (5 days up, 5 hours down!), how much this necessarily speedy descent twirled me back to my transition back from Ghana last year – the same fears, confusions and discomforts emerging as I planted foot after foot with effortless momentum, pounding my toes painfully into my boots, which as my feet de-swelled from altitude, had more room for banging around. I started thinking about work. About the insane amount of calories and carbs I had consumed in the past week. About silly things that did not matter when I had my goal, my journey so clearly on the horizon. I felt distracted, alone, and unmotivated. I slid and slipped down, disheartened.
We finished a day ahead of schedule and had the option to return home to Arusha on Saturday night. Liz took the offer and rode off in a 4x4, but I needed to stay and sort myself out. How could I allow my mentality to change so quickly? I let myself fall into confusion last summer, but I refuse to do this again!
I woke up to a pattering of rain at 3:30 am and read another chapter in my book Nouno gave me by headlamp light. Nesto prepared a final breakfast of fruits and porridge for us, but Suzie and I looked at the line of women and children waiting to load construction supplies onto their head at the park gate, getting maybe 6,000 Tanzanian shillings ($5) for this day’s work, sloshing uphill in this rainy mess sans boots or raincoats. Our stomachs dropped in unison and our hunger disappeared. We asked Bongo if we could give all the rest of our food to these workers and he helped us distribute the meager portions out to grabbing hands. Suzie and I bit our chapped lips, trying to not let useless tears cloud our last visions of Kilimanjaro. But we were back down from heaven, back into reality, and now had to handle this injustice in our minds (“Justice delayed is justice denied”, rings through my head from Nairobi) as well as with our hands. I realized what a vacation from reality Kili was, allowing me to build my strength – my calves and my patience – to develop focus and concentration, to prove that persistence and prayer does produce results. There is still so much work to be done.
6 weeks left in Arusha, the last 5 dedicated to carrying out the HIV Outreach Programme with volunteers who arrive this weekend. I feel reenergized and full of potential, and incredibly thankful for the help up. I know I can accomplish nothing without the energy of others, many others, and I imagine how our secondary students in Arusha and British volunteers can mutually benefit from this small partnership in public health. On this steady breath I look forward to the Programme ahead, looming like Kili on the horizon.
Chizme - or “Cheeseman” as we playfully called one of our nine faithful porters – woke me in my pup tent on Summit morning as he did every morning, with a plastic cup of hot, black tea and a bowl of warm water for washing. 4 am, and I shivered in delirium after another night of tumultuous slumber, fumbling for my daypack and dressing quickly. I uneasily stuffed down a small bowl of porridge, head pulsing a bit from the altitude (4600 m), stomach churning from a combination of swallowing malaria meds, pounding a liter of water, and easing tense nerves. 4:30 am, headlamp clicked on, lighting only a small patch by my feet, and we’re off: myself, Suzie and Liz, led by our guide Bongo and faithful Cheeseman.
After we had emerged above the cloudline after Day 1, at 3500 m, we were witness to delightfully freezing 6 am wakeups with the sun; she peeked over Kili, and as she rose, chased us up the hill on our daily ascents. We retreated back to our tents every night after a delicious meal of rice or pasta and vegetables, hot soup, and fruits, prepared by our cook Nesto, beneath a dazzling galaxy, every tiny star so prominent at this high altitude. Each day seemed more enjoyable than the last the farther away I hiked from Arusha, from work, from life. The ascents all seemed impossible at first glance, up toward Lava Tower, down into Karanga Valley, up and over Barranco Ridge – but with my second-hand bartered boots, warm thermals, cargo shorts, sunglasses, wide brim hat and trusty Red Sox tee, I waked for about 8 hours a day, uphill, one foot in front of the other, over and over. I was shocked at how whole and fulfilled I felt at the end of each day, as I normally thrive on multitasking and juggling responsibilities, deadlines and tasks. All I had to do was eat, sleep, and walk, for 5 nights and 6 days.
Day 5, Summit day, was the final stretch. The moon hung as a bright silver sliver, but up in that heaven, the entire sphere was visible, faded craters like dimples on her smiling crescent. In the harsh morning wind, I prayed that my poor circulation would not keep me from the top, and in those few early hours it was the warmth of those who were wishing me well that kept me distracted. I imagined Diana and Andrew sprinting across the field at MBC to dive onto a makeshift slip and slide; I thought of Leigh and the KCA crew laughing with Sandile and Simphiwe at Ikageng; I hoped Matthew, Katie and Erin were not letting the hustle of NYC catch them up and were enjoying the sweltering city summer. My body was clutching clammy rocks and maneuvering up a steep stone obstacle course, but my mind was reeling from soul to soul, and soon enough a fiery orb appeared on the horizon, spreading her flame across the ocean of cumulonimbus below. I had made it to sunrise, and although my blood began to defrost, our path was no longer hidden in the night. Kili towered above us as we approached the snowline, Uhuru Peak feeling farther away than ever.
This summit presented an entirely unique challenge. We walked past and were passed by fellow trekkers of all ages, sizes, and physical abilities. I think that anyone can handle the physical pressures of Kili. Summit Day is intense, aside from a relentless uphill hike where the peak seems to tease you and rise higher with your every step, aside from the shortness of breath and lack of oxygen, aside from thirst and aching. Because you can keep lifting your legs and digging in your walking poles, you can monitor and keep steady your breathing by singing or praying rhythmically and you can take a break. What makes it so intense is the mental fortitude absolutely necessary to reach the peak.
I imagined Mom and Dad at either side of me, lifting me up, and whether it was mild altitude sickness or true answered prayers, I became lighter, and I kept marching up. I heard my Papou bragging about his granddaughter who made it to the top (“She gets her athleticism from me”), I heard my Yiayia telling me to be a “tough cookie”, I heard Dee Dee’s questions that always transform my trips into adventures, I whistled through pursed, chapped lips like Pop Pop used to do. I kept going.
The hours dragged on, the terrain a monotonous blinding snow (from which I sustained my only ‘injury’, a wind and sun burnt face, exposed below the cheeks). Liz stopped to heave and vomit, Suzie to nurse a pounding headache. I breathed with a religiously steady pace and thanked Bruce Calvert and dearest G for demanding such breathing diligence through years of swim practices and chorus rehearsals. I found myself the only one of the trio to have kept my health at this altitude, now over 5000 m, and assumed position at the back of the line, trying to soak up some of their struggle with every breath in and channel out positive energy with every breath out. The crew collapsed at Stella Point, an hour’s hike from our final destination, where many hikers call it quits from altitude sickness and are forced to retreat. But Bongo bolstered our spirits, and step after step, a last grueling uphill stretch, chanting an Agios o Theos out loud and imagining an army of loved ones pushing me from behind, shoving with the wind…we did it.
A continent spread out below us, but all I could do was thank you for helping me reach this height. Twenty minutes of rest, during which Liz spun into further delirium and Suzie into fatigue, and we were off the peak, and all to suddenly my journey seemed to have come to a close.
The mad scramble down to give the girls proper altitude to recover before their condition worsened was a mix of concern and comedy, slipping and sliding through pebbly alpine desert dirt, practically skiing, avoiding boulders at all costs. Gravity was almost a nuisance, pulling me down so forcefully – sure, I was getting to my destination faster, but I had no time to absorb the beauty around me, no mind space to think beyond my next quick step. I immediately preferred the natural gravity that existed between the peak and my heart, so full of loved ones all helping me ascend. It was a force I had a large part in creating and although it was more difficult, I had to find energy, focus, and determination in faith – it was infinitely more fulfilling.
I couldn’t help but think the entire 5 hour descent on Saturday (5 days up, 5 hours down!), how much this necessarily speedy descent twirled me back to my transition back from Ghana last year – the same fears, confusions and discomforts emerging as I planted foot after foot with effortless momentum, pounding my toes painfully into my boots, which as my feet de-swelled from altitude, had more room for banging around. I started thinking about work. About the insane amount of calories and carbs I had consumed in the past week. About silly things that did not matter when I had my goal, my journey so clearly on the horizon. I felt distracted, alone, and unmotivated. I slid and slipped down, disheartened.
We finished a day ahead of schedule and had the option to return home to Arusha on Saturday night. Liz took the offer and rode off in a 4x4, but I needed to stay and sort myself out. How could I allow my mentality to change so quickly? I let myself fall into confusion last summer, but I refuse to do this again!
I woke up to a pattering of rain at 3:30 am and read another chapter in my book Nouno gave me by headlamp light. Nesto prepared a final breakfast of fruits and porridge for us, but Suzie and I looked at the line of women and children waiting to load construction supplies onto their head at the park gate, getting maybe 6,000 Tanzanian shillings ($5) for this day’s work, sloshing uphill in this rainy mess sans boots or raincoats. Our stomachs dropped in unison and our hunger disappeared. We asked Bongo if we could give all the rest of our food to these workers and he helped us distribute the meager portions out to grabbing hands. Suzie and I bit our chapped lips, trying to not let useless tears cloud our last visions of Kilimanjaro. But we were back down from heaven, back into reality, and now had to handle this injustice in our minds (“Justice delayed is justice denied”, rings through my head from Nairobi) as well as with our hands. I realized what a vacation from reality Kili was, allowing me to build my strength – my calves and my patience – to develop focus and concentration, to prove that persistence and prayer does produce results. There is still so much work to be done.
6 weeks left in Arusha, the last 5 dedicated to carrying out the HIV Outreach Programme with volunteers who arrive this weekend. I feel reenergized and full of potential, and incredibly thankful for the help up. I know I can accomplish nothing without the energy of others, many others, and I imagine how our secondary students in Arusha and British volunteers can mutually benefit from this small partnership in public health. On this steady breath I look forward to the Programme ahead, looming like Kili on the horizon.
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