“I have begun to notice something in my work.” Reverend Kaaya purses his lips and mulls over his point, searching for the proper words with squinting eyes. “The rich men of the village never want to give to the poor. They are afraid that if they give to them, they will become poor as well. Everywhere I go, I see it: the poor giving to the poor.”
Kaaya chews on this point after our six hours of hill hiking, delivering home based care to HIV positive members of his village on Mount Meru. Attending to not even 20 of his 150 HIV+ ‘clients’, his words sucker-punch me, a near KO for KO, as the weight of my thoughts tips dangerously atop wobbly legs. I see his point everyday (don’t you?) and my overloaded cerebrum isn’t sure how to intercept his unintended accusation – for I am a rich woman in our global village.
I fall to defense mode – I do give to the poor - but am reminded of a Bible story (or was it an Economics lecture?) of the rich man damned for giving a dollar and beggar woman rewarded for giving a penny. (Luke 21:1-4). It’s the proportion given that matters not the amount, and proportions are easily distorted when they depend on undisclosed data of total stock. (That is, do I really think any poor person has ever believed me when I say “Sorry, I don’t have any money today.”? I have money everyday. “Sorry, I do not want to give you my money today” would be more accurate and respectful.)
All day long I burst with questions, eager to partake in Kaaya’s intimate relationships with his clients. With specific consideration of the language barrier, I note the importance of asking pointed questions and following up if the answer isn’t clear; from experience, rephrasing and offering clarification can mean the difference between potentially enormous misunderstandings and moments of true revelation. *
Otherwise drained by the hardships of orphaned children and sickly widows, Suvya’s situation left me feeling feisty. Suvya, a healthy looking HIV+ widow, was being evicted by her landlord as we yelled a respectful “Hodi!” of arrival into her home. Unemployed but skilled in batik printing, she had potential to pay back the $60 due since January under more forgiving financial circumstances (anyone- never mind a woman – securing a small business loan is a laughable effort). So I sat with Ibrahim the landlord for a few minutes and proposed a plan: could he hold off on collecting her rent until December and give her a small loan to start a batik business, in return for a repayment with generous interest in a year’s time? Smiles passed all around our circle until we clarified the terms and Ibrahim suddenly realized the loan would come from his pocket and not ours.
Although I had not expected a successful negotiation, frustration still hit as I watched a chance for everyone to be better off – or at least be decent – float away up into the mountain fog. But Ibrahim cannot wait to collect interest when he needs cash for the short run (and neither can Suvya, she as she begged for $60 from us to help her out ‘for now’). And so the story goes, we measure the promised rewards of our present sacrifices against the weighted risk we may never reap those rewards, and usually play it safe.
The following morning I opened my eyes to a smoky pink dawn of 6:00 am, as my body has programmed itself here, still a bit fatigued from a heavy hike. Skipping clumsily around the house, I hung my fully soaked underwear on the line outside (as the hand-washing of a ‘load’ took me two hours last time, I wait until I absolutely have to wash to wash!), collected the leftover foods and meds of yesterday’s hike, and grabbed my kanga – a chilly morning (asubuhe baridi!) – to race down Themi Hill and jump on a daladala into town. In typical Tanzanian fashion, I was invited to church by Anna and Jane, of TUPO, and ended up spending nearly 12 hours with my surrogate mothers and their children, grandchildren, and neighbors.
The afternoon was a warm embrace, startlingly different than yesterday’s vibes of isolation. Family and friends had gathered to celebrate a baptism. We all sat beneath a tent – makeshift from recycled UNHCR tarps, branches and rope - where a woman began to clap and sing and everyone became the choir. A clergywoman blessed the child with a sermon of our collective responsibility for her life, and wrinkled faces of the bibis (grandmothers) shouted rapid-fire “lelelele!”s of approval. We shared cold drinks with warm sentiments – I am addicted to Tangawizi ginger soda - and paraded by the baby with a donation on our way to be served lunch, plates as overflowing with delicious chakula (food) as this family was with unconditional love for their girl.
Despite the language barrier I am attached to Anna and Jane because of their maternal grasp on me. Singing along in church, I felt a very pure happiness that could only root and flourish in the absence of the usual agenda and to-do lists. I was OK taking the risk: committing only a morning to Anna may turn into an afternoon or an entire day. And no, I cannot back out or go home. I accept the hospitality graciously and finish what I started.
Joining voices with her congregation, I realize that I am often like Ibrahim in my inability to commit to solving problems in the long run. I cannot underestimate or devalue the positive impact that short trips like Mission Mexico and RealBreak in Guatemala had on my choices to pursue a career in international public service. (Or the hopeful value of this short 5-week HIV Outreach Programme I am running here!) Although I potentially had a positive effect on a few individual people in this world – whether a home or a hug –I made zero impact on poverty in rural Tijuana, did nothing to secure a bright future for orphans in Guatemala City and will not eliminate AIDS in Arusha.
Like Ibrahim, until I can make a long-term commitment – invest my time to one cause and one project for years – I will never accrue the interest necessary to make a significant impact. (It’s like the inherent illegitimacy of a post-2004 BoSox fan – if you’re not willing to ride through the ups and downs, you lack substance.)
I frame the controversy in my mind as quadrants of longevity and proportion. Dumping lots of money (even proportionately lots) onto a problem without a detailed, long run vision won’t work. Crafting a genius long run plan without the courage to risk investing yourself fully won’t work. And certainly, piece-meal funding and band-aid projects will do nothing, if not have a negative effect.
It seems we invest proportionately fully – if even foolishly – in people who we feel responsible for, namely ourselves. I’m paying $950 to climb to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro when I simultaneously have the opportunity to fund the secondary school education of two street boys at CCF. Is either more valuable in the short or long run? Whose standards define the value? What risk is involved in assessing the value of each being reached fully? Who’s manning this calculator?
The poor giving to the poor isn’t the conundrum that Kaaya makes it out to be. The tendency is simply a next best alternative, since living hand to mouth offers no concept of investment for the future. There is no guaranteed future. Immediate individual value extracted from collective efforts is greater than that sought in a long-term, independent pursuit of wealth. In the same way, wealthy world politicians (and everyday folks) continue to make compelling speeches (and blogposts) full of beautiful long-term visions, and fail to commit proportionately fully to the goals set out.
And so the poor give to the poor, and the rich give to the rich. The poor like Ibrahim rarely risking a long-run investment (Will she really pay me back? I’ll just take what’s due now.), and the rich like me rarely risking a proportionately heavy investment (What better things could I be doing with my time? I’ll just do a few months of this now.)
Can we find an overlap between the reigning realms of capitalist and communal mindsets? What is the identifiable common denominator between lives lived so differently? Clearly, and sadly, in our history it is not enough to all be human, to all feel pain, to all be capable of love. But I see hope in the quadrant where a rich person’s ability to design effective, long term visions crosses a poor person’s ability to commit fully to a plan. So now, who takes the first step out of their box?
*[A classic and comedic example to share; my need to speak more clearly. A conversation with Jonas, ANGAZA receptionist (local Voluntary Counseling and Testing (VCT) Center), in pursuit of site manager Beatrice:
“Jambo, Jonas! Habari yako?”
“Nzuri Sana, Keti (Kate)! Habari asubuhe?”
“Salama! Asante! Natafuta Beatrice”
Jonas: confused look. “They are not here. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Beatrice isn’t here?”
“No, sorry, not here”
“Will she be back?”
“I don’t know”
“Ni nasubiri. I will wait.” I wait. I decide instead of frustration I may as well have a fun wait. “Jonas, want to see the Programme?” I begin to explain the Arusha Youth Testing Day concept. He looks so excited, he smiles, “You must show Beatrice!”
“Is she here?”
“Yes she’s just in her office now, let me go get her”
?!?!?]
27 June 2007
19 June 2007
Carrying On
In urban Arusha, where many have (although limited) access to the utilities, transportations, markets and conveniences that rural communities like Olekitayemuni lack altogether, the bustling city chaos can make it easy for one to walk by disabled and destitute kaka na dada (brothers and sisters) when traveling down the town’s main streets.
Jana (yesterday) I was hospitably escorted through the back-roads from LeMara Secondary School to Themi Secondary by a chatty pair of 17-year old young men (obedience, as they demonstrated in respect to the instructions of their headmaster, seems in comparison a lost value on myself and my peers). A nearly high-noon sun reflected in jagged rays off the rush of the Themi River, where a multitude of women gathered barefoot, bent at the waist, scrubbing plastic bins full of dirty batik wraps, kanga cloths, and dingy tees. Looking straight down from our walk over a railway bridge – ugly metal poles slashing though an otherwise Edenesque riverbed of rainbow blossoms and bursting banana trees – I saw truth: African women are the backbone of this continent.
My peripheral glances, as I kept tripping over bumps in a record number of “Pole!”s (sorry!) as my eyes tried to absorb the entire 360 degrees, gave an even more accurate view of daily life in Arusha. Nyumbas (homes) of windowless crumbling concrete lined the ‘main road’ (the strip of potholes paralleling the railroad track) – the many cramped clusters extending far into the land behind this front row were even more dilapidated. Women who have never gone to school flanked by children who may never have a chance, selling small piles of neatly arranged fruits and vegetables in transactions I have yet to witness.
A walk along the main roads of Arusha Town will not reveal the fullness of the backstreets, just as a glance at a morning headline or feature photo misses the back-story. The stereotypical western perception of Africa is not entirely wrong, but rather, incomplete. After one week of beginning to shape the HIV Outreach Program I have been asked to create (from July 23 – Aug 24 with incoming British volunteers) I am beginning to build a fuller picture of Arusha and the community’s response to HIV/AIDS. Sans podium or news broadcast at their disposal, the individuals I have recently met - through external guidance and internal spontaneity - are incredible heroes living improbably generous and selfless lives.
Making plans in Tanzania is an oxymoron in and of itself, and requires far more patience and flexibility than I am asked to expend in New York.
“You Americans are always so concerned about time!” a doctor laughs at me, dismissing my pace as futile.
A limited availability of resources (or at times, entire lack thereof) has conditioned a continent into resourcefulness – from the smallest impressive norm of carrying of goods on heads to the gravest disturbances of using cardboard boxes for sharps disposals, or carrying on surgeries without anesthetics. I’ll let you imagine the breadth of the continuum.
And so I psyche myself up, to be prepared to make constant and unanticipated amendments, concessions, and decisions. Most importantly, to meet all challenges with an enormous smile, if not for the endorphins alone, for a smoother acceptance into local communities as an mzungu. With the smile, I managed to avert the painstakingly slow pace of bureaucracy and secure a permit from the Regional Education Offices to work in public schools last week. With the smile, I also managed to find myself on the backseat of a puttering motorbike with Richard, speeding down Nairobi Road, chasing a lead on his AIDS organization, or more specifically, destination unknown.
We slid off the bumpy tarmac road and down an even rockier dirt path, passing surprised schoolchildren who waved, some shyly, some aggressively, at the mzungu. Their turf, unlike the main roads of Arusha town where safari tourists and great white adventurers boost the local economy, is not as used to my pale skin. Richard skids to a stop besides his office hidden below low tree branches, sun filtering through the leaves, and after a brief, broken attempt at conversation, we somehow decide to return to town to meet his organization’s treasurer and chairman, who can accommodate my KiIngereeze (English).
Richard is the founder of the Tumaini Positive Test Club (TUPO), and leads a group of 120 members (88 women, 32 men) and over 50 children in an effort to support people living with HIV/AIDS (PLHA) in Arusha. Anna, the treasurer, let us join her bustle between bank trips and clinic visits, and I buy them kuku (chicken) and Cokes, afraid that at their uncharacteristically urgent pace in this climate, they might not have thought to stop for lunch. Later on we find Emmanuel, the chairman, finishing his lunch of ugali (stiff maize flour porridge) and samaki (fish) outside of a delicious local spot, Barcelona Gardens.
I introduce myself and my desire to learn more about AIDS in Arusha, and Emmanuel cuts to the chase. “AIDS is not the problem,” he states matter-of-factly,
“Stigma is the problem.”
And in an hour I come to understand how this group of passionate, relentless individuals are changing the culture of a community and addressing the needs of their fellow PLHA. Started with 15 members in March of 2005, under the leadership of Emmanuel, Richard and Anna, TUPO has grown to 120 members and manages a widows group, football team, and choir, whose members serve as community educators; a jewelry-making income generation group, whose members save profits for rent and a food fund that will buy fruits and vegetables missing from the mostly unbalanced diets of their peers already struggling through physically rigorous anti-retroviral therapy. TUPO daycare and kindergarten services take care of children whose parents are in the hospital or who have passed away. Home-Based Care (HBC…what used to always be palliative is now, thanks to greater drug availability and adherence, can be a step towards recovery) and TUPO members care for 10-12 families a week.
“As a culture here”, Emmanuel explains, “ you always go to someone’s home with a gift, but we often have to go empty handed” “ But they still carry on. They wash, monitor diets and drug adherence, and generously supply love and attention to those otherwise shunned from the community. “If one person is sick the entire family can suffer” echoes in my mind as I wish our leaders could understand a bit better the weakest link concept.
I inquire about the relevancy of my hope to host a Youth Testing Day in August, and he nods in agreement. “Many don’t test because they think they will get HIV and die”, he says, as he explains misconception. This has been reconfirmed in the past week, like the young girls I met at a local testing center who joked with each other while waiting for their results that, “If I am positive I will have to run away!” Stigma is the problem.
[PLEASE honor this entry by celebrating and sharing June 27th, 2007- National HIV Testing Day in the states –with your family, friends and coworkers. www.testing411.org makes it incredibly simple – please do that now.]
Another lead and a phone call later, I find myself sipping a warm Coke in a deserted bar with Oddo – concrete floor littered with empty, flimsy plastic chairs, two of which we occupy. “Our children – they need love,” Oddo says, explaining his organization, Children for the Children’s Future (CCF). As Project Manager of the street children and orphans program of CCF, Oddo confirms that it is not only secondary school students but also his clientele who are capable of being peer educators. His program philosophy – “no force” – speaks through the child’s autonomy throughout the process: identifying oneself as an ally to street children, offering food and showers at a Drop-In Center (30-40 children), offering housing and education at a Residential center (60-80 children), and offering home visits and legal aide to facilitate home reintegration. Friendships are formed gradually on the streets, on their turf. Trust is built and terms are set mutually. In the midst of abusive relatives, alcoholic fathers, evil stepmothers (literally – some become jealous of an elder boy’s inheritance rights and kick him out to keep the goods), Oddo encourages a 4-6 month turnaround time.
On our way out a lanky child runs towards us, hands waving and lips flying, pointing Oddo towards a young man slumped over across the street. Oddo limps with determination (and without cane, “The missionaries in my home village were good to me as a child with polio”) and makes a phone call to get this boy help. Oddo’s work is far from happily ever after – this young man was slumped in the exact some spot when I passed a few days later – but he still carries on.
The fiercest warrior of the week is also the most foolish (but perhaps this is always the case?). Approaching me with a saintly peace through bumper-to-bumper chaos, Reverend Kaaya introduces himself s a one-man HBC machine, delivering aid to the neediest PLHA in Nkoanrua, an area of 5,000 people where he individually visits over 100 “clients” and cares for nearly 50 AIDS orphans. Foolish because he himself has a wife and two children, who he must sustain through the same donations, he receives for the ‘program’ (a word that overestimates the practicality of his work). I am reminded fondly of my precious Nouno, who so many times in his life has chosen compassion over practicality, and saved so many lives because of this risk taking.
I hesitated to criticize, but praise seemed contradictory.
I cautiously asked to explain my hesitation over the drink I offered him (he chose the simplicity of soda water): get a job, support yourself and your family, then you can improve and strengthen your services. He seems unable to shake an engrained responsibility to his neighbors, despite the incredible sacrifice he and his family must make to serve them. The Christian church was not as good to him as they were to Oddo – he was sent to seminary in Nairobi and trained to work as a pastor, and realized upon homecoming to Arusha that pastoral jobs are generally unpaid voluntary positions. I suggested teaching as an alternative; he promised to look for jobs.
He explains, with obvious spiritual battle ongoing behind his words, how difficult it is to turn down requests from the church for building donations. “I ask instead for money to feed the children,” he laughs uneasily and looks up, “Some things can wait.”
What makes my eyes squint in frustration the most is the community reaction. “I get lots of stigmatization, and little to no support form the community,” he admits, head down, “in fact, most people in my community criticize the work I do.” But he still carries on.
I am blessed with much to look forward to this week – (smiling and patient) visits to headmasters, delving deeper into TUPO, shadowing Oddo for a day, and making rounds with Reverend Kaaya, backpack full of sugar, flour, PB, painkillers, butter, fruits, bread.
“Karibu,” these heroes say to me.
Asante.
“Nitakutembeza!”, they smile, “I will take you there.”
Their insistence to share their work with me is the positive side of this human condition. Of the many words that have already lodged themselves in my digestion process, Reverend Kaaya’s echo: “Many clients are trying to transmit HIV to others.”
Illogical?
“They don’t want to die alone.”
Oh.
In a nation with a life expectancy of 48, I’m nearly middle aged. And as much as I am first thinking of the Programme development and doing my job well, something deeper creeps through, and all these conversations reinforce what I continually find. As humans we all yearn to belong, to be part of something, a team, family, community, and isolation is perhaps the most vicious pain that could be inflicted upon someone.
These heroes are not well-dressed men in shiny shoes driving bright white 4x4s; spare tires adorably adorned with labels, logos and well wishes of international organizations. These are folks struggling themselves to make a living, but make a living by giving back to their community. They do not hide behind luxuries – not that they’ve ever been available to them – maybe they are so fearless because just that – they have nothing to hide behind. They are not curing AIDS or eliminating child abuse, but they know a lofty goal would be a useless goal. Many have learned this via lofty promises floating away into empty promises. I store this neatly and accessibly at the front of my mind.
Bravery – facing the reality that you may not win the war, but you will nevertheless get up every day and fight the battle with hope. They still carry on.
Jana (yesterday) I was hospitably escorted through the back-roads from LeMara Secondary School to Themi Secondary by a chatty pair of 17-year old young men (obedience, as they demonstrated in respect to the instructions of their headmaster, seems in comparison a lost value on myself and my peers). A nearly high-noon sun reflected in jagged rays off the rush of the Themi River, where a multitude of women gathered barefoot, bent at the waist, scrubbing plastic bins full of dirty batik wraps, kanga cloths, and dingy tees. Looking straight down from our walk over a railway bridge – ugly metal poles slashing though an otherwise Edenesque riverbed of rainbow blossoms and bursting banana trees – I saw truth: African women are the backbone of this continent.
My peripheral glances, as I kept tripping over bumps in a record number of “Pole!”s (sorry!) as my eyes tried to absorb the entire 360 degrees, gave an even more accurate view of daily life in Arusha. Nyumbas (homes) of windowless crumbling concrete lined the ‘main road’ (the strip of potholes paralleling the railroad track) – the many cramped clusters extending far into the land behind this front row were even more dilapidated. Women who have never gone to school flanked by children who may never have a chance, selling small piles of neatly arranged fruits and vegetables in transactions I have yet to witness.
A walk along the main roads of Arusha Town will not reveal the fullness of the backstreets, just as a glance at a morning headline or feature photo misses the back-story. The stereotypical western perception of Africa is not entirely wrong, but rather, incomplete. After one week of beginning to shape the HIV Outreach Program I have been asked to create (from July 23 – Aug 24 with incoming British volunteers) I am beginning to build a fuller picture of Arusha and the community’s response to HIV/AIDS. Sans podium or news broadcast at their disposal, the individuals I have recently met - through external guidance and internal spontaneity - are incredible heroes living improbably generous and selfless lives.
Making plans in Tanzania is an oxymoron in and of itself, and requires far more patience and flexibility than I am asked to expend in New York.
“You Americans are always so concerned about time!” a doctor laughs at me, dismissing my pace as futile.
A limited availability of resources (or at times, entire lack thereof) has conditioned a continent into resourcefulness – from the smallest impressive norm of carrying of goods on heads to the gravest disturbances of using cardboard boxes for sharps disposals, or carrying on surgeries without anesthetics. I’ll let you imagine the breadth of the continuum.
And so I psyche myself up, to be prepared to make constant and unanticipated amendments, concessions, and decisions. Most importantly, to meet all challenges with an enormous smile, if not for the endorphins alone, for a smoother acceptance into local communities as an mzungu. With the smile, I managed to avert the painstakingly slow pace of bureaucracy and secure a permit from the Regional Education Offices to work in public schools last week. With the smile, I also managed to find myself on the backseat of a puttering motorbike with Richard, speeding down Nairobi Road, chasing a lead on his AIDS organization, or more specifically, destination unknown.
We slid off the bumpy tarmac road and down an even rockier dirt path, passing surprised schoolchildren who waved, some shyly, some aggressively, at the mzungu. Their turf, unlike the main roads of Arusha town where safari tourists and great white adventurers boost the local economy, is not as used to my pale skin. Richard skids to a stop besides his office hidden below low tree branches, sun filtering through the leaves, and after a brief, broken attempt at conversation, we somehow decide to return to town to meet his organization’s treasurer and chairman, who can accommodate my KiIngereeze (English).
Richard is the founder of the Tumaini Positive Test Club (TUPO), and leads a group of 120 members (88 women, 32 men) and over 50 children in an effort to support people living with HIV/AIDS (PLHA) in Arusha. Anna, the treasurer, let us join her bustle between bank trips and clinic visits, and I buy them kuku (chicken) and Cokes, afraid that at their uncharacteristically urgent pace in this climate, they might not have thought to stop for lunch. Later on we find Emmanuel, the chairman, finishing his lunch of ugali (stiff maize flour porridge) and samaki (fish) outside of a delicious local spot, Barcelona Gardens.
I introduce myself and my desire to learn more about AIDS in Arusha, and Emmanuel cuts to the chase. “AIDS is not the problem,” he states matter-of-factly,
“Stigma is the problem.”
And in an hour I come to understand how this group of passionate, relentless individuals are changing the culture of a community and addressing the needs of their fellow PLHA. Started with 15 members in March of 2005, under the leadership of Emmanuel, Richard and Anna, TUPO has grown to 120 members and manages a widows group, football team, and choir, whose members serve as community educators; a jewelry-making income generation group, whose members save profits for rent and a food fund that will buy fruits and vegetables missing from the mostly unbalanced diets of their peers already struggling through physically rigorous anti-retroviral therapy. TUPO daycare and kindergarten services take care of children whose parents are in the hospital or who have passed away. Home-Based Care (HBC…what used to always be palliative is now, thanks to greater drug availability and adherence, can be a step towards recovery) and TUPO members care for 10-12 families a week.
“As a culture here”, Emmanuel explains, “ you always go to someone’s home with a gift, but we often have to go empty handed” “ But they still carry on. They wash, monitor diets and drug adherence, and generously supply love and attention to those otherwise shunned from the community. “If one person is sick the entire family can suffer” echoes in my mind as I wish our leaders could understand a bit better the weakest link concept.
I inquire about the relevancy of my hope to host a Youth Testing Day in August, and he nods in agreement. “Many don’t test because they think they will get HIV and die”, he says, as he explains misconception. This has been reconfirmed in the past week, like the young girls I met at a local testing center who joked with each other while waiting for their results that, “If I am positive I will have to run away!” Stigma is the problem.
[PLEASE honor this entry by celebrating and sharing June 27th, 2007- National HIV Testing Day in the states –with your family, friends and coworkers. www.testing411.org makes it incredibly simple – please do that now.]
Another lead and a phone call later, I find myself sipping a warm Coke in a deserted bar with Oddo – concrete floor littered with empty, flimsy plastic chairs, two of which we occupy. “Our children – they need love,” Oddo says, explaining his organization, Children for the Children’s Future (CCF). As Project Manager of the street children and orphans program of CCF, Oddo confirms that it is not only secondary school students but also his clientele who are capable of being peer educators. His program philosophy – “no force” – speaks through the child’s autonomy throughout the process: identifying oneself as an ally to street children, offering food and showers at a Drop-In Center (30-40 children), offering housing and education at a Residential center (60-80 children), and offering home visits and legal aide to facilitate home reintegration. Friendships are formed gradually on the streets, on their turf. Trust is built and terms are set mutually. In the midst of abusive relatives, alcoholic fathers, evil stepmothers (literally – some become jealous of an elder boy’s inheritance rights and kick him out to keep the goods), Oddo encourages a 4-6 month turnaround time.
On our way out a lanky child runs towards us, hands waving and lips flying, pointing Oddo towards a young man slumped over across the street. Oddo limps with determination (and without cane, “The missionaries in my home village were good to me as a child with polio”) and makes a phone call to get this boy help. Oddo’s work is far from happily ever after – this young man was slumped in the exact some spot when I passed a few days later – but he still carries on.
The fiercest warrior of the week is also the most foolish (but perhaps this is always the case?). Approaching me with a saintly peace through bumper-to-bumper chaos, Reverend Kaaya introduces himself s a one-man HBC machine, delivering aid to the neediest PLHA in Nkoanrua, an area of 5,000 people where he individually visits over 100 “clients” and cares for nearly 50 AIDS orphans. Foolish because he himself has a wife and two children, who he must sustain through the same donations, he receives for the ‘program’ (a word that overestimates the practicality of his work). I am reminded fondly of my precious Nouno, who so many times in his life has chosen compassion over practicality, and saved so many lives because of this risk taking.
I hesitated to criticize, but praise seemed contradictory.
I cautiously asked to explain my hesitation over the drink I offered him (he chose the simplicity of soda water): get a job, support yourself and your family, then you can improve and strengthen your services. He seems unable to shake an engrained responsibility to his neighbors, despite the incredible sacrifice he and his family must make to serve them. The Christian church was not as good to him as they were to Oddo – he was sent to seminary in Nairobi and trained to work as a pastor, and realized upon homecoming to Arusha that pastoral jobs are generally unpaid voluntary positions. I suggested teaching as an alternative; he promised to look for jobs.
He explains, with obvious spiritual battle ongoing behind his words, how difficult it is to turn down requests from the church for building donations. “I ask instead for money to feed the children,” he laughs uneasily and looks up, “Some things can wait.”
What makes my eyes squint in frustration the most is the community reaction. “I get lots of stigmatization, and little to no support form the community,” he admits, head down, “in fact, most people in my community criticize the work I do.” But he still carries on.
I am blessed with much to look forward to this week – (smiling and patient) visits to headmasters, delving deeper into TUPO, shadowing Oddo for a day, and making rounds with Reverend Kaaya, backpack full of sugar, flour, PB, painkillers, butter, fruits, bread.
“Karibu,” these heroes say to me.
Asante.
“Nitakutembeza!”, they smile, “I will take you there.”
Their insistence to share their work with me is the positive side of this human condition. Of the many words that have already lodged themselves in my digestion process, Reverend Kaaya’s echo: “Many clients are trying to transmit HIV to others.”
Illogical?
“They don’t want to die alone.”
Oh.
In a nation with a life expectancy of 48, I’m nearly middle aged. And as much as I am first thinking of the Programme development and doing my job well, something deeper creeps through, and all these conversations reinforce what I continually find. As humans we all yearn to belong, to be part of something, a team, family, community, and isolation is perhaps the most vicious pain that could be inflicted upon someone.
These heroes are not well-dressed men in shiny shoes driving bright white 4x4s; spare tires adorably adorned with labels, logos and well wishes of international organizations. These are folks struggling themselves to make a living, but make a living by giving back to their community. They do not hide behind luxuries – not that they’ve ever been available to them – maybe they are so fearless because just that – they have nothing to hide behind. They are not curing AIDS or eliminating child abuse, but they know a lofty goal would be a useless goal. Many have learned this via lofty promises floating away into empty promises. I store this neatly and accessibly at the front of my mind.
Bravery – facing the reality that you may not win the war, but you will nevertheless get up every day and fight the battle with hope. They still carry on.
13 June 2007
Hapa kwa Ajili Yako
[Although my programme time is spent primarily in Arusha, last weekend allowed an opportunity to explore the surrounding area and cultures, the Chagga and Maasai. I tagged along with the medics on a trip to understand use of traditional herbs and medicines, eager to experience and learn from a more rural Tanzania.]
Our 4x4 clunked through a challenge of rocky, weaving paths, lined with looming mmesera (baobab trees) and a variety of vegetation, whose medicinal properties our soft-spoken guide, Solomon, knew fully. The boma (village) of Olekitayemuni lay atop a daunting ascent to Monduli town. I smiled, whispering the same prayer for the transmission to make it up to Monduli Juu (Upper Monduli) that I prayed for the Saturn to make it up icy Gorman Mountain on so many Pine Swamp November mornings.
Safe (comme toujours) behind a closed window, I could not tell if the poverty enclosed beneath Monduli’s rusty tin roofs was easier to digest or more infuriating than that of the last town we passed. Babies carrying babies march past the car and I uneasily settle on fury. Baby-steps across Tanzania in Maasai clothes, across Mali in Dogon clothes, across Ghana in Osu clothes – why is this infant strapped to this toddler’s back? I feel guilty for feeling guilty and I stay up till all hours reading and writing words that may never matter to anyone or make any difference and I see them and…and I feel like I’m going in circles.
A few pit stops on the road to Olekitayemuni intensified the transition from witness to participant (does this change the level of accountability of the third person?), first into the dark and smoky hut of the Monduli medicine man. Dark not for dramatic effect, but for lack of electricity. We tiptoed in, hunched over and single file, greeting the daktari at his post beside the door. The sunlight followed us reluctantly through the small entrance in his windowless hut. I groped around for a seat on an empty piece of earth, giving my eyes time to adjust to the dark. As I began to register the inner hut scene – two of six wives sit as attendants, another man as assistant, a baby breastfeeds with loud sucks and a terrible cough – I trie to interpret his actions, not completely translatable by Solomon. He throws herbs, shouts to Ongai (God), shakes his calabash violently, letting the rocks from Mt. Olongai (Mountain where Maasai warriors can communicate with God) spill out onto his cow skin mat. In between long pauses of silence and long swigs of Konyagi (local spirit and yes it comes in packets), he quite intently and disappointingly tells us very little about our futures or our fortunes. Intently probably for dramatic effect, as he got drunk and took our money.
I felt cheated, and walking out I crossed my arms and furrowed my brow. But within minutes I was once again bombarded with thoughts that purge any selfish frustrations. We stopped in the local dispensary, a small building serving as a clinic for over 10,000 people in the surrounding three villages, and my calculations begin: One doctor. The nearest District Hospital is 14 kilometers away. No one drives here, even if there were cars, the roads are a mess. The doctor and two specialists at her side confirm the trouble of transportation, particularly in regard to home-based caregivers and traveling medical assistants. Are these staff mostly men or women? I inquire. She looks to the two women beside her. Looks right back at me.
We circle back to Monduli town and (behind the glass again) we drive away from a young boy, arms crossed; a toddler, carrying an infant, forehead furrowed.
The hike to Olekitayemuni up grassy hills and through paths of deep brush quickly became a mental adventure, easily satisfying this prisoner of Big Apple Island. I floated my fingers freely through the waving wheat around my thighs. Again out from behind the glass, Solomon could share his knowledge with us by demonstration; he takes some ologoni bark for nutrients and digestion (the Maasai strictly meat and dairy diet requires some extra vitamins taken from specific plants), heart shaped leaves of oleyabia for cleaning the bowels, asenon as a toothbrush. Solomon’s hushed voice shares any information as if a secret, and I felt pleasantly involved with the world he is bringing me into, not intrusive, not a tourist. He attempts not to sell but to share.
As I silently practiced my proper KiMaa (language spoken by the Maasai) greetings and responses (“Yeayotakwenya!”…”Iko” “Sobai!...Eba!”) we paseds through several abandoned construction projects. Weathered posters for Celtel and Vodacom mobile service plaster the half-walls with “Making life Better” and “Hapa kwa ajili yako” (Here for you). My stomach contracts but I don’t laugh.
Upon reaching the boma, my four British comrades and I wade through herds of cattle, goat, sheep, and sidestep strutting chickens to be greeted by the lioni and endito (small boys and girls), covered in flies. I grab tissues from my bag to wipe their mucusy faces, but hesitate to imply any disrespect to their parents as my initial greeting, and step back. And rather than witness only poverty in the three-day stay, I am witness to an incredible culture of unity, resourcefulness, and respect. Everything in the environment is used fully and with a purpose. Every member of the community has clearly understood roles and responsibilities.
Djimon Hounsou states in the latest issue of Vanity Fair (check it out for Alicia and Iman representing Keep A Child Alive!), "The goal of the African people is to become self-sufficient." A week ago I would have nodded vigorously in agreement. Now I can’t help but shout, “Become?” The Maasai always were.
Taking part in the healing ritual of orpul revealed to me even further that what I perceived as self-sufficiency was in fact a detailed and deep-rooted reliance on nature and Ongai. A traditional healing retreat of the Maasai warrior, orpul revealed how this reliance is alive in both Maasai tradition as well my own Christian experiences in the expression of sacrifice as love. Orpul requires the morani (warriors) to pray and purify by leaving the normal community, and retreat to the woods to consume only medicinal plants and a sacrificed goat. What initially seems exotic (have you ever witnessed the suffocation of a living being? A horrifying thrash, tremble, concession.) becomes familiar once you let your eyes adjust. Our animal led himself to slaughter, our group processed behind. The warriors consumed the raw body and blood of the sacrificed animal. They told stories around the fire: lessons on how to faithfully tend cattle, how to fight and defeat lions, be strong, faithful.
And the Maasai morani who so (seemingly) brutally suffocated and devoured our goat is the same man who, back in the engaji (circular hut), consumes my gaze, as he gently caresses and kisses his infant son’s face. Solomon smiles at my naïve shock that women bathe children once every three months. These are the same women who trek an hour uphill to nearest spring everyday.
I trust that taking time to allow my eyes to adjust - or honoring a reliance upon trusted eyes already aware of what is going on – will not only help me more accurately remember these experiences, but help me more fully make sense and use of them. Solomon is careful to point out the Oreteti Tree to our small group on our way out of the boma. “God is living here on this tree,” he whispered.
I touch the bark and pray for adjustment time: to be aware of what is used to construct the circles and what lies enclosed; to recognize some circles must be preserved, and some broken; to appreciate this rhythm without getting stuck on one track.
Our 4x4 clunked through a challenge of rocky, weaving paths, lined with looming mmesera (baobab trees) and a variety of vegetation, whose medicinal properties our soft-spoken guide, Solomon, knew fully. The boma (village) of Olekitayemuni lay atop a daunting ascent to Monduli town. I smiled, whispering the same prayer for the transmission to make it up to Monduli Juu (Upper Monduli) that I prayed for the Saturn to make it up icy Gorman Mountain on so many Pine Swamp November mornings.
Safe (comme toujours) behind a closed window, I could not tell if the poverty enclosed beneath Monduli’s rusty tin roofs was easier to digest or more infuriating than that of the last town we passed. Babies carrying babies march past the car and I uneasily settle on fury. Baby-steps across Tanzania in Maasai clothes, across Mali in Dogon clothes, across Ghana in Osu clothes – why is this infant strapped to this toddler’s back? I feel guilty for feeling guilty and I stay up till all hours reading and writing words that may never matter to anyone or make any difference and I see them and…and I feel like I’m going in circles.
A few pit stops on the road to Olekitayemuni intensified the transition from witness to participant (does this change the level of accountability of the third person?), first into the dark and smoky hut of the Monduli medicine man. Dark not for dramatic effect, but for lack of electricity. We tiptoed in, hunched over and single file, greeting the daktari at his post beside the door. The sunlight followed us reluctantly through the small entrance in his windowless hut. I groped around for a seat on an empty piece of earth, giving my eyes time to adjust to the dark. As I began to register the inner hut scene – two of six wives sit as attendants, another man as assistant, a baby breastfeeds with loud sucks and a terrible cough – I trie to interpret his actions, not completely translatable by Solomon. He throws herbs, shouts to Ongai (God), shakes his calabash violently, letting the rocks from Mt. Olongai (Mountain where Maasai warriors can communicate with God) spill out onto his cow skin mat. In between long pauses of silence and long swigs of Konyagi (local spirit and yes it comes in packets), he quite intently and disappointingly tells us very little about our futures or our fortunes. Intently probably for dramatic effect, as he got drunk and took our money.
I felt cheated, and walking out I crossed my arms and furrowed my brow. But within minutes I was once again bombarded with thoughts that purge any selfish frustrations. We stopped in the local dispensary, a small building serving as a clinic for over 10,000 people in the surrounding three villages, and my calculations begin: One doctor. The nearest District Hospital is 14 kilometers away. No one drives here, even if there were cars, the roads are a mess. The doctor and two specialists at her side confirm the trouble of transportation, particularly in regard to home-based caregivers and traveling medical assistants. Are these staff mostly men or women? I inquire. She looks to the two women beside her. Looks right back at me.
We circle back to Monduli town and (behind the glass again) we drive away from a young boy, arms crossed; a toddler, carrying an infant, forehead furrowed.
The hike to Olekitayemuni up grassy hills and through paths of deep brush quickly became a mental adventure, easily satisfying this prisoner of Big Apple Island. I floated my fingers freely through the waving wheat around my thighs. Again out from behind the glass, Solomon could share his knowledge with us by demonstration; he takes some ologoni bark for nutrients and digestion (the Maasai strictly meat and dairy diet requires some extra vitamins taken from specific plants), heart shaped leaves of oleyabia for cleaning the bowels, asenon as a toothbrush. Solomon’s hushed voice shares any information as if a secret, and I felt pleasantly involved with the world he is bringing me into, not intrusive, not a tourist. He attempts not to sell but to share.
As I silently practiced my proper KiMaa (language spoken by the Maasai) greetings and responses (“Yeayotakwenya!”…”Iko” “Sobai!...Eba!”) we paseds through several abandoned construction projects. Weathered posters for Celtel and Vodacom mobile service plaster the half-walls with “Making life Better” and “Hapa kwa ajili yako” (Here for you). My stomach contracts but I don’t laugh.
Upon reaching the boma, my four British comrades and I wade through herds of cattle, goat, sheep, and sidestep strutting chickens to be greeted by the lioni and endito (small boys and girls), covered in flies. I grab tissues from my bag to wipe their mucusy faces, but hesitate to imply any disrespect to their parents as my initial greeting, and step back. And rather than witness only poverty in the three-day stay, I am witness to an incredible culture of unity, resourcefulness, and respect. Everything in the environment is used fully and with a purpose. Every member of the community has clearly understood roles and responsibilities.
Djimon Hounsou states in the latest issue of Vanity Fair (check it out for Alicia and Iman representing Keep A Child Alive!), "The goal of the African people is to become self-sufficient." A week ago I would have nodded vigorously in agreement. Now I can’t help but shout, “Become?” The Maasai always were.
Taking part in the healing ritual of orpul revealed to me even further that what I perceived as self-sufficiency was in fact a detailed and deep-rooted reliance on nature and Ongai. A traditional healing retreat of the Maasai warrior, orpul revealed how this reliance is alive in both Maasai tradition as well my own Christian experiences in the expression of sacrifice as love. Orpul requires the morani (warriors) to pray and purify by leaving the normal community, and retreat to the woods to consume only medicinal plants and a sacrificed goat. What initially seems exotic (have you ever witnessed the suffocation of a living being? A horrifying thrash, tremble, concession.) becomes familiar once you let your eyes adjust. Our animal led himself to slaughter, our group processed behind. The warriors consumed the raw body and blood of the sacrificed animal. They told stories around the fire: lessons on how to faithfully tend cattle, how to fight and defeat lions, be strong, faithful.
And the Maasai morani who so (seemingly) brutally suffocated and devoured our goat is the same man who, back in the engaji (circular hut), consumes my gaze, as he gently caresses and kisses his infant son’s face. Solomon smiles at my naïve shock that women bathe children once every three months. These are the same women who trek an hour uphill to nearest spring everyday.
I trust that taking time to allow my eyes to adjust - or honoring a reliance upon trusted eyes already aware of what is going on – will not only help me more accurately remember these experiences, but help me more fully make sense and use of them. Solomon is careful to point out the Oreteti Tree to our small group on our way out of the boma. “God is living here on this tree,” he whispered.
I touch the bark and pray for adjustment time: to be aware of what is used to construct the circles and what lies enclosed; to recognize some circles must be preserved, and some broken; to appreciate this rhythm without getting stuck on one track.
04 June 2007
Karibu!
Karibu (you are welcome) to Arusha, Tanzania. Since last week I have begun the constant balancing act of this mzungu (white person) working in Africa, clinging to the pendulum that rocks my brain from the purest peaceful joy and deepest philosophical concerns. The classic struggle reignites the moment I step off the plane and into a taxi towards my temporary home on Themi Hill, Njiro Road for the Arusha-wise: how in a world so full of rich resources is there still rampant inequity? Millions fantasize of leaving Africa for America but cannot and even if they did would still live in poverty. I pick up easily, fly to Tanzania, and live comfortably, even cheaper than in the States.
Kiangazi (summer) 2007 brings me this amazing opportunity to manage an HIV Outreach Programme with Work the World, a UK based organization offering med students volunteer healthcare placements in Tanzania and Ghana. I met Dave, the founder, last year in Ghana and will be applying the many lessons learned from Freedom for the Future to build and implement a similar prevention programme here with Arusha clinics and schools. Working with Baptista (Tanzania Programme Manager) has been a joy thus far and our conversations a catalyst to my many in- and external dialogues.
I spent many of my first moments here in cheerful nostalgia of Accra. I tip my face downward and smile secretly, madly even, as I grip any section of ripped upholstery to survive the wild turns of a daladala (trotro; public bus) driver; as I observe Baptista argue with our carpenter and key maker in KiSwahili when the chairs and keys aren’t finished on time; as a street vendor wanders towards our table in the restaurant selling remote controls. But here in Arusha, I am not traveling the same dusty, dry, cracked earth roads as Accra. 1300 meters above sea level I watch a pastel sun rise over looming Mt. Meru, streaked with clouds of high altitude, bringing a cool and wet atmosphere to the slick, muddy streets. It is here in Arusha that, in the next few weeks, I will be visiting clinics and schools to properly develop an effective and realistic HIV outreach program. I am blessed with the opportunity to explore this land beyond the limits of my programme, and had my first safari experience this past weekend. (Dad, I drove a Land Cruiser 4x4, standard, and here the driver’s seat is on the right…and no wildlife or passengers were harmed!) Outside the city the long ride to safari reminded me of any long drives through Ghana, Burkina, Mali. Endless horizons of earth pulled up into hills and dipped down into small pools where cattle graze. More to come on that peaceful and beautifully experience - I will post those pictures once the time and technology is available.
And on that very promise, I hope through this blog you will not only be following my journey but applying my small struggles to the larger global picture. I understand I’m writing to a diverse audience so I apologize if anything is too presumptuous or intellectually belittling – I will try my best to be straightforward and engaging. So, for example, wonder why, one among many levels of inequity between the north and south, AIDS is ravaging this continent? Obviously many reasons, but one is such, “I will [insert goal here] once the time and technology are available”…nurses and doctors are working hard to distribute the free antiretroviral therapy that the government has developed a plan to provide to hundreds in Tanzania. The computer equipment is not available, nor reliable electricity power, to create and manage excel spreadsheets to keep organized their efforts. The internet capabilities are not available for them to jump online and e-mail the next clinic or doctor or drug provider. It’s not that the doctors and nurses I have met don’t want to help their patients fully; it’s that there are many daunting daily challenges that complicate and precede the goal of providing constant and reliable quality healthcare.
Despite my initial tendency to compare (as I did between America and Accra last time!) this is not Accra, it is a new road, and I look forward to updating you on the progress of the project as often as possible! I will try to post weekly, although unreliable internet connections (and the significantly longer time it takes to post!) may hinder my hopes! So thank you for your patience and for being interested in this journey! Comments are incredibly appreciated so please post.
and HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANDREW OTTO!!!!! Nakupenda! I LOVE YOU!
Kiangazi (summer) 2007 brings me this amazing opportunity to manage an HIV Outreach Programme with Work the World, a UK based organization offering med students volunteer healthcare placements in Tanzania and Ghana. I met Dave, the founder, last year in Ghana and will be applying the many lessons learned from Freedom for the Future to build and implement a similar prevention programme here with Arusha clinics and schools. Working with Baptista (Tanzania Programme Manager) has been a joy thus far and our conversations a catalyst to my many in- and external dialogues.
I spent many of my first moments here in cheerful nostalgia of Accra. I tip my face downward and smile secretly, madly even, as I grip any section of ripped upholstery to survive the wild turns of a daladala (trotro; public bus) driver; as I observe Baptista argue with our carpenter and key maker in KiSwahili when the chairs and keys aren’t finished on time; as a street vendor wanders towards our table in the restaurant selling remote controls. But here in Arusha, I am not traveling the same dusty, dry, cracked earth roads as Accra. 1300 meters above sea level I watch a pastel sun rise over looming Mt. Meru, streaked with clouds of high altitude, bringing a cool and wet atmosphere to the slick, muddy streets. It is here in Arusha that, in the next few weeks, I will be visiting clinics and schools to properly develop an effective and realistic HIV outreach program. I am blessed with the opportunity to explore this land beyond the limits of my programme, and had my first safari experience this past weekend. (Dad, I drove a Land Cruiser 4x4, standard, and here the driver’s seat is on the right…and no wildlife or passengers were harmed!) Outside the city the long ride to safari reminded me of any long drives through Ghana, Burkina, Mali. Endless horizons of earth pulled up into hills and dipped down into small pools where cattle graze. More to come on that peaceful and beautifully experience - I will post those pictures once the time and technology is available.
And on that very promise, I hope through this blog you will not only be following my journey but applying my small struggles to the larger global picture. I understand I’m writing to a diverse audience so I apologize if anything is too presumptuous or intellectually belittling – I will try my best to be straightforward and engaging. So, for example, wonder why, one among many levels of inequity between the north and south, AIDS is ravaging this continent? Obviously many reasons, but one is such, “I will [insert goal here] once the time and technology are available”…nurses and doctors are working hard to distribute the free antiretroviral therapy that the government has developed a plan to provide to hundreds in Tanzania. The computer equipment is not available, nor reliable electricity power, to create and manage excel spreadsheets to keep organized their efforts. The internet capabilities are not available for them to jump online and e-mail the next clinic or doctor or drug provider. It’s not that the doctors and nurses I have met don’t want to help their patients fully; it’s that there are many daunting daily challenges that complicate and precede the goal of providing constant and reliable quality healthcare.
Despite my initial tendency to compare (as I did between America and Accra last time!) this is not Accra, it is a new road, and I look forward to updating you on the progress of the project as often as possible! I will try to post weekly, although unreliable internet connections (and the significantly longer time it takes to post!) may hinder my hopes! So thank you for your patience and for being interested in this journey! Comments are incredibly appreciated so please post.
and HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANDREW OTTO!!!!! Nakupenda! I LOVE YOU!
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