Dena Taylor’s Musings

I’ve been back for almost two weeks. The first week–a jet lagged haze–contained moments of stark contrast. Walking to the coffee shop, for example, I was struck by the pavement–glorious pavement–everywhere I looked. A car passed and no dust was kicked up and sprinkled on my face or clothes. Then I noticed the care with which people water, mow and manicure their lawns. In the limited experience I had in Tanzania, people took equal care of their home’s appearance. They may not have had grass or planter boxes or any other adornments but what they did have was neatly arranged–everything in its place.

I was also struck by the garbage cans and recycling bins lining the curb. Quite a large, complicated organization is tasked with running a program where people come directly to our homes and pick up our trash! It’s quite something. They give us containers, too. And designate days so we can plan accordingly. We get literature–copywritten, designed and printed collateral–teaching us about different plastics and paper products, and what can be recycled and what can’t. It’s an enormous effort that goes into our garbage management. Different than the trash pile in the middle of the road that I passed on the way to school in Boma.

Taking deep breaths of morning air, I also considered air quality. After covering my mouth and nose on more than one occasion in Boma–because of dust or black fumes from a truck, which our van was stuck behind–this was refreshing. Again, we have the EPA and other organizations dedicated to sampling and studying and regulating what’s in our air. Whole careers are made for this purpose. I have no idea if anyone in Boma studies air quality. I’m very curious, though, as to what they would find. Except for the few cars and dust, I’m guessing it might be cleaner because there is so much less going on in the way of industrialization, machinery and such.

Lastly, I passed a woman walking three dogs. They were on leashes. They were obedient. I considered the amount of time and money that goes into keeping these dogs fed, watered, active and healthy. Food, beds, toys, vet visits, accessories like leashes and bowls and maybe a bone/treat of sorts. And some owners even pick up their dog’s poo and throw it in the trash. The dogs I saw in Boma ran about of their own will. At night you might hear them terrorizing one of their own kind. We’d hear a few yelps in the middle of the night and then silence. But they didn’t have collars or tags. They didn’t belong to anyone.

Friends have asked what has stayed with me the most. I’m surprised to say the kids—I miss the kids. I knew I would be touched but I find myself actually wondering how they are. There are new friends I miss, as well, that I hope to remain in contact with. What has stayed with me is the importance of keeping an open mind about what is taking place in the world we live in–in our own communities as well as abroad. And gratitude. And humility for there is so much more to learn, more than one person has time to experience in a lifetime. But I’m going to try anyway.

Habari!

Thursday’s trip to Arusha, to sit in on a Rwanda Tribunal trial was one of the most powerful experiences I’ve had here–second only to being honored with the children’s affections and attending Elizabeth Ryan’s memorial. I shamefully admit that I was ignorant this was still going on. I’m embarrassed to say I never took the time to really, truly understand the horrors that took place in Rwanda in 1994. That year I was living in Seattle, working for a cruise line, probably wishing I had a boyfriend and made more money and wore smaller sized jeans.

My only complaint is that we didn’t spend more time at the tribunal. I could have spent at least two solid days listening in to the trial, reading indictments, watching the judges faces as they listened to the witness, and listening to the witness respond to their questions with the help of a translator. It’s a fascinating story about creating the tribunal in a city of 200,000 with absolutely no infrastructure to support it—virtually nothing at all.

We were greeted by two interns who walked us through a maze of hallways and stairwells to a room where we watched a disturbing documentary that some felt was boring and too long but one where I hung on every word. Then we were escorted to the media room, where we signed in, picked up a headset and sat down to listen to the questioning of a witness in the trial of Lieutenant Colonel Ephrem Setako. About two minutes after we sat down we were told it was a closed session and we had to get right back up and cram in the hallway by the elevators until the session reopened. About 30 minutes later we were let back in, put our headsets back on and listened in as the witness was asked about his father’s murder and various events surrounding it. I’ve found the following online if you are interested, http://allafrica.com/stories/200809250357.html. For more information on the tribunal itself, try http://www.icrc.org/web/eng/siteeng0.nsf/html/57JNZ5. Stats from a “debriefing” meeting include, 36 tried, 29 open cases, 7 yet to start, 3 -ish acquitted and a fugitive named Kabuga–apparently the mastermind of the atrocity, suspected of living a luxurious life in Kenya. More info on him can be found here, http://www.africanews.com/site/list_messages/18087

Joining us at the tribunal were some of the volunteers from the Moshi homebase including some of the girls from the accident. They looked good on the outside but I caught myself lingering on their faces, wondering what was going on inside their heads having been in an accident, having lost their friend. I renewed my vow to send a card to Elizabeth’s parents.

That evening’s dinner was a culinary dream come true–grilled cheese and onion soup. Having informally surrendered further eating of the ugali, porridge and spinach and eggplant concoctions, the latter featuring some sort of spice I could no longer stomach–I was craving something different and for my tastebuds, anyway, this was delightful. The food has always been hot and plentiful, I can’t complain. When I do, I smack myself with guilt for thinking it’s boring and dig in my suitcase for another Larabar and square of dark chocolate.

On Friday, the last day of school, the volunteer who has been there weeks before us, coordinated what my cohort called, “Live at Lincoln Center.” After our usual morning playtime in the school yard, lessons were cut to 45 minutes while a rope was tied to building poles and the children’s artwork and coloring was hung by clothespins. We also moved chairs and desks outside along with drums, shakers and kazoos for the musical portion of the event. My cohort brought juice and biscuits (biscuiti) to celebrate. The event began with a rough and tumble  musical performance by participating students. The rest of us looked on with clapping hands and enthusiastic faces. It was one of the most heartwarming, funny concerts I’ve ever attended. Next, teacher Grace led the students in a kwaheri (goodbye) song dedicated to we volunteers. They waved in song and we took pictures and waved back. We applauded in earnest and asked the teacher to tell the students how good they’ve been, how thankful we were to have this experience with them. I wondered, Have we made any difference at all? They’re so young, will they remember?

Back in the rooms, the teachers commenced the hand washing exercise, with one row at a time walking to the front, where the teacher pours some water into a bucket–the kids rubbing their hands together in the stream. Then it was juice and biscuit time, again, orderly. The children seem to love the sweet juice which turns their tongues orange, a source of great amusement as tongues from row to row are stuck out and wagged. In addition to a lot of giggling, I was inspired to write “orange” on the board, along with “yummy” and “cookie.” I also drew a happy and sad face, which the teacher turned into a lesson, acting out each emotion. She then turned to me and said that we were leaving and that made her sad.

The kids then gathered for a “class photo,” of sorts. They then left, most not grasping that we weren’t coming back. Some did lend us a hug and many said “kesho,” or “tomorrow,” as I had done on previous days. Best if they don’t realize it, I thought. I don’t know what I’d do if any tears were shed; if the goodbye came into focus. In the teachers’ lounge, we were treated to a special performance by the local Catholic church choir that our fellow volunteer had sung with on Sundays. It was an amazing event of movement and harmony. We were so lucky to have such a performance all to ourselves. They also presented our choir-singing volunteer with a specially embroidered wrap and card. My cohort and I were given a joint card, on which I was addressed simply as, “Bina.”

Back at homebase, I separated the skirts I’d leave for the orphanage and the ones I’d keep. Volunteers filtered in at various times with various emotions having left their placements for the last time.

Having no activities left, no school to go to, I began the 24 hour countdown until my departure to the Kilimanjaro airport. That evening, all of us gathered at the local bar for some cold beer and laughter. And to see an actual fight break out between the owner and a man who had wandered in and asked one of us mzungus to buy him a drink.

When I woke up on Saturday, I had exactly six hours and 15 minutes until I was taken to the airport. I broke up my time into sections of breakfast, packing, brushing teeth, reading, lunch, brushing teeth, accompanying an earlier-departing volunteer to the airport, walking to the store for pineapple Fanta, reading more, waiting to say goodbye to another volunteer who was leaving early, waiting for dinner, brushing teeth, seeing if there was anything left to spend remaining shillings on at the seamstress’ shop next door (found a scarf), and then lo! it was with enthusiasm that I said goodbye to the remaining volunteers (having tacked on trips to the mountain, Serengeti and other African destinations), thanked the staff and climbed in the van for my last ride.

Everything went fine…the airport is actually quite nice. The lines were long but moved quickly considering all the Kili and Meru climbers and their gear. The plane took off around 9pm…landed in Dar es salaam to pick up some more people…and arrived in Amsterdam by 7am Sunday morning. All my flights were close together and within an hour I was on my way to Detroit on Northwest airlines (watched a movie called The Baker which was really fun if you’re interested and if you don’t already know of it). Made it through customs, caught an immediate flight to Memphis and then Austin (though they held me up at the gate, making me the last to board, for not having an electronic ticket–though I had a boarding pass and had not been asked by the two previous Northwest flight staff for an electronic ticket. I just stared at the lady, unemotionally, as she called here and there, printed things out, and never made eye contact. The worst that would happen is that I’d be put on another flight…but thankfully, she sent me on my way by telling her coworker to “go ahead and shut the door and take her with you.”

My sister greeted me with all the makings for my beloved spinach salad, not to mention some cold beer and chips and salsa. My cat is still alive and after much PDA resumed her regular sleep programming. Around 8:45 I popped an Ambien and crashed–hugging the vast space of a bed I didn’t have to climb a ladder to get into; relishing the breeze of the A/C on my face; and noticing the absence of the call to prayers over a distant loudspeaker, while conjuring up the faces of the children I had so carefully and lovingly stored in my mind.

Jambo,

At breakfast, the day after my last post, my nursery school cohort felt nauseous. Her symptoms weren’t unlike another volunteer’s symptoms, the latter of which attributed it to sunstroke from a weekend excursion to a nearby lodge featuring a shiny pool, lounge chairs and intense sun due to our proximity to the equator. Since nausea is a symptom of malaria and a few people were suspicious, a trip was made to the hospital in Moshi, where for a few dollars you can get the quick malaria test. While some folks were negative, these two tested positive and were given medicine accordingly. Us “older” folks receive the greeting of “Shikamoo” (that’s a long “o” not “ew”), so I couldn’t help but greet my cohort with a coined, “Shikamolaria.” Thankfully, she laughed. The rest of us paid special attention to our nightly DEET coatings. I added extra time hiding in my room under the wrap of my mosquito net and continued to swallow my Malarone every morning after breakfast. In the end, both volunteers and a third that came down with it later in the week, have all recovered. I think I’ve escaped it, I’ve been lucky. But will get tested at home, just to be safe.

Tuesday, as part of our cultural enlightenment, an executive of the local Maasai (I had to look this up but apparently spelling can be Maasai or Masai–if two initial a’s, it would be pronounced “MAH-seye”, though most of us seem to say “muh-SEYE.”). This was a fascinating talk that unfortunately not all volunteers attended for various reasons…one being the fact that it was very hot under the tarp and after lunch when many are taken over by food comas in their bunk beds. The executive explained to us the traditional practices such as multiple wives and of course the male and female circumcision practices, the latter of which has been sternly outlawed but sadly, in secret, still takes place at the age of 18, as the family looks on. There are, however, occasions in which these girls, fearing the blade, run away, some seeking education over marriage and children, or at least delay it. The boys, on the other hand, we were told, will ALWAYS be circumcised, also at 18, as a rite of passage. It is a major event with the entire village coming to watch, preparing foods, etc. No anesthetic is used and if the boy sheds a tear, all the people leave the ceremony, taking the food and well wishes with them.

At school, midweek, as the kids lined up for class, our National Anthem came streaming through my head, as my eyes rested on a girl whose head was wrapped up in a dishcloth version of the United States flag. WTF? Seriously, did this arrive in the same shipment as all the other worn hand-me-downs from Western Salvation Army/Goodwill organizations? An American flag dish towel along with kids’ Puma shoes, women’s handbags-turned-children’s backpacks, and satiny skirts we’d likely see at a confirmation or wedding vs. running around a school yard chasing bubbles blown by mzungu volunteers? This would be our last week at the school and by Thursday, it hit me–I will miss their faces—their laughter–the way that when one gets knocked over in the dust competing to be twirled by a volunteer or simply to hold one of our hands–at least one other child will help him or her up and dust them off. “Sawa?” I say, “Ok?”, adding a tickle under the arms or a full two-rotation twirl to help dry up the tears.

Wednesday we packed ourselves into our two vans and were driven to a Maasai village. I had seen one the weekend before but this was the first for the group. In one of the huts (mud, grass and dung), there was a chicken family—new chicks squeaked having just broken out of their shells. We walked by them with care, hoping the nervous mother wouldn’t peck our legs. It was a short, informative visit followed by a painful bumpy ride to a watering hole, also known as a “hot springs.” We were at the “hot springs” for less time than it took to drive there. About half of us embraced the cool watering hole, similar to an eddy in a river, shaded by tree branches, while the rest of us sat on branches and looked on. I had every intention of swimming in my clean-but-instantly-dirty-with-dust capri pants and tank (didn’t bring a swimsuit) but shied away from scar-revealing wet clothes when I saw the size of the pool of water. I didn’t want to swim that badly. Also, it wasn’t a hot springs in the way I would have thought. But did supply a brief distraction, a place to dangle my feet before shoving them back in my shoes for the offroading back home.

After being stuck in Zanzibar due to multiple flights cancellations and delays, two of our volunteers finally returned late Tuesday night. They had made the most of their time there but were glad to be back.

More in next, final chapter.

Mambo (what’s up? sort of. you reply, poa…it’s what the young hip folks say),

Saturday three of us headed down a new road with our driver/guide, whose nickname is Toyota–exactly what you think. As is the case with many roads here, the pavement gives way to the hard uneven crevices shaped in the rainy season. If you had an upset stomach you probably wouldn’t make it. The passing cars leave a bleeding cloud of dust in their wake and we play who-can-close-their-window-and-prevent-the-dust-from-coming-in-the-fastest game. The further out we got the fewer people we saw. Just the Maasai out with their herds. We stick our hands out the window and wave vigorously, maybe too vigorously, but most wave back with what seems like equal enthusiasm. All I know is there is a certain thrill in making a connection across fields of goats, flies and dust.

We arrive at Kambi ya Tembo (the last word means elephant) — it is a lodge with fancy 2-3 person tents overlooking a sort of basin landscape that borders Kenya. Nearby is an elephant research center. We are here for safari. After we arrive, we sit and have a delicious lunch of chicken, vegetables, salad and bread.

I may have been tipsy upon arrival at the Maasai village. Okay, I was. See, after lunch one of us took a nap while the other two of us proceeded to polish off two bottles of white wine. It was a celebration of sorts–a change in scenery, a change in foods–something to celebrate, indeed. So, when we got out of the truck at the village my spirits were high. In the cow pen, layered in dung, I proceeded to demonstrate my warped version of the hand jive to the Maasai children. They seemed to love it. They, adorned in their jewelry of beads, tire-based bracelets, and the signature red, purple and plaid blankets. Next was a single twirl–that means I pick them up under their arms and swing them around. Just one rotation or my arms will fall off. They loved that, too. Minutes later, we were sitting in the tiny mud hut with our guide. Dark with four quadrants — children’s sleeping area, woman’s sleeping area and the man’s sleeping area. And the kitchen. The men have multiple wives and go from one hut to the next. The women bearing the most children are held in high esteem. It did begin to feel crammed and we hurried outside. Back in the pen, the people of the village had laid out blankets with jewelry and various wares for sale. Sniffling every 15 seconds, I managed to squat at almost every blanket and try on some bracelets…many too small and many too big. Everyone seemed to be giggling in my presence. Later I realized why. People here bend at the waist to work in the field, sweep, pick things up, etc. You only squat to go to the bathroom. I showed them all exactly how I would look submitting to nature’s call. On top of that, those bracelets that were too big–weren’t for wrists, they were for ankles. Glad I brought a smile to their faces—even if the laugh was on me.

The next day, up at 5:30 and a long, bumpy, cookie-tossing ride down to what looked like 75 acres of a dried lake bed. And here we saw ostrich, elephants, gazelle, giraffe, baboons, monkeys, hippos, zebra, dik dik, and a variety of beautiful birds. We went back to Boma later in the day.

It’s getting warm here. The rooms are so warm at night. Thankfully our fan still works. While waiting in line for dinner last night a welcome breeze blew through our tarped eating area. Unfortunately, someone outside on the street had just started burning trash and our eating area and rooms quickly filled with a thin haze of burning trash smoke. Eventually, it died down and my irritation with it.

Today at school—the beginning of our final week–I watched the teachers prepare the porridge in a single-room brick building with a wood-burning stove. They stirred the porridge in the giant bowl and when they went to pick it up and pour it in the buckets for serving, it was too hot. One ran off–to get a hot pad or wad of fabric, I thought. Alas, she came back with an old paper school notebook, tore out about six small pages, wadded them up and they used them as hot pads–thin paper sheets to prevent their fingers from burning. Back in the classroom, kids returned from the bathroom. On the way to their desks, some stole swipes on the chalkboard ledge, gathering chalk on their fingers to wipe  on their tongues. My eyes widened in horror. They smiled and took their desks.

Must sign off. One more Internet visit on Thursday. Hope you are having a great Monday…a great September…and no chalk on your tongue.

jambo,

Hand sani, toilet paper, lip balm. These three items have been on my person for the last week as I battle a cold or just acclimate to the amount of red clay dust, regular road dust, exhaust fumes, and of course dust that I’m sure the donkeys and goats at the market across the street pee on–that then dries and gets kicked up and mixed with the regular dust. It’s been a week since I came down with with whatever it is and finally, today, I’m noticing a slight improvement.

Also in the news, fantastic effing news, I might add, two gals reached the end of their planned stay which freed up a room and two of us from the sardine 4-person room got to move in. It’s like a penthouse suite with closets that have locks, more floor space and the bathroom that doubles as a shower–no doors, just the faucet right there between the toilet and the sink. That’s why they have us bring flip flops…because if you go pee, chances are the floor is wet from whom ever showered last. Carol, you asked about electricity—yes, we have that and a backup generator. Food is served hot, we have filtered water, etc. We are probably one of the most cushy places in Boma…

Regarding the volunteer who passed away: her name is Elizabeth Ryan. She was 21 years old. If you Google her name and Canada or Halifax or Nova Scotia you will find more information. A memorial service was held for her at the mortuary yesterday (we literally walked through a morgue building, past caskets, etc., until we reached some beautifully landscaped grounds). All of the volunteers from Moshi, Boma and Karanga were in attendance, as was a priest, CCS officials, hospital personnel and countless people who had helped at the scene of the accident and there after. We sang hymns, listened to prayers and the incredibly moving tributes of those who survived the accident. Then, one by one, we walked by the open casket to pay our respects. I watched the faces of the people before me. I cannot remember if I’ve ever been to an open casket service. I was looking for an indication of what to expect. I considered not doing it at all. But I walked by and thanked Elizabeth in my heart for all that she has done in this world. She looked like a sleeping princess–beautiful, at rest. She was then transported to the airport and flown home to her family. All of our thoughts go out to them—I can’t think of anything worse than losing a child.

After missing school, we went back today. The children are thrilled when we approach–I don’t feel worthy. Me with my snotty nose and hacking cough…stopping every two seconds to blow-purell–balm. But they don’t mind. Then I get my ass out there and skip around the yard, teach them the hand jive, the English word for tree, flower, rock. We blow bubbles and they go nuts. In the classroom they worked on ba-be-bi-bo-bu and baba, babu, bibi and more. I worked with some of them to write the words correctly. Then they get a red check mark and a sticker. I’ve finally caught on that some of them go away, peel the sticker off and hide it, and come back to me saying the didn’t get one and can they have a sticker? This is, of course, in Swahili and they could be saying Hey Mzungu (foreigner), gimme my damn sticker! Stickers are precious though so my eagle eye is on to them. Come porridge time, four children did not have plastic cups and one’s cup was cracked and unusuable. So, the four squatted in the front of the room and watched the other 42 children get their hot, watery porridge, sip it slowly, until four other children finished so they could use the cups. And yet, they leave with grand grins and a wave goodbye and kesho (tomorrow).

In the teachers lounge–I say that loosely–I shared with our two teachers pictures of my family, friends and home. The most important question they asked was how many children me and my siblings had. They have great respect for the married with children. Sadly for me, in this country, I have no husband or child. They don’t understand. We say something to the effect of it being a choice and then I reach for another biscuit and pretend it’s a shot of tequila.

This week we also went to a Chaaga (sp?) tribe cave where only four could go down at a time, squat-walking through the dark with our flashlights and trying not to mind the bats flying past our heads or the fat spiders crawling along side us. We also went to a Chaaga living museum where they lived in a hut–people on one side, two cows on the other. We then walked down a very steep terrain to an unbelievably beautiful waterfall/pool. The air down there was so clean and fresh and free of the red dust, I almost didn’t come back.

Tomorrow school and Mango’s –the nearby bar–for Kilimanjaro and Serengeti beer. Saturday off to somewhere near the base of the mountain for an overnight/elephant viewing trip. Back Sunday. If you’re reading this I hope you’re well!

Oh—confession: while the food is fairly nutritious and hot and plentiful, I’ve reached the point of wanting something different, something from home. Spinach salad w/goat cheese and toasted Texas pecans sounds good as does some chips and queso. Until next time–kwaheri! (goodbye)