Yesterday I went with Pastor Tom to check out an orphanage he is thinking of trying to get his parish in MA to sponsor. He wanted a few of us to come with and check it out even though he's been there several times to get our impressions of how it is run.
This was one well thought out orphanage. An Anglican priest has had it built on his own land with the little money he has coming in in donations every once in a while. He has no consistant source of funding. They grow all of their own food and keep animals for milk, eggs, and meat. The buildings (though made of mud like everything else here) were immaculate, and you could just tell that the kids were loved. At other orphanages, the children are so starved for attention, for food, for anything more than the little they are getting out of life, that they just have this hungry, desperate look in their eyes. These kids were calm as can be and seemed quite content for having lost both parents and living hard lives before coming there. There were only 36 children, which is a small enough number to spread out the love of the caretakers and build a sense of community amongst the children rather than the cut throat competition for attention that is a hallmark of most institutions. It was just a nice nice place. I hope that they will be able to get some overseas partnerships that will allow them to expand their work.
Now, I hate it when people see all of the poor African children running around and comment that "Oh, I would just love to take them all home!" like they are cute little kitties and puppies that you see through the glass at the mall. These are human lives, and those words always hit me as perverse.
Yesterday at the orphanage was the first time I have felt that way, about actually wanting to take some home.
Right when we got there they brought in an eight year old girl with massive scars all over her head and face. The right side of her body was moving slowly and in the uncooridinated fashion of someone who has some paralysis and probably a head injury. I sat there holding her two year old brother while we heard the story of what had happened to them.
The childrens' uncle was very jealous of their little piece of land that they were farming on and wanted it for himself. So he went over to their home with a machete with plans to take out the entire family, Rwandan genocide style. He almost succeeded, except for little brother who was hidden under a bed and big sister who he thought was dead but somehow managed to pull through. Mother, father, nine-month old brother, and five year old sister were all hacked to death, and the eight year old watched it all happen.
They think that she is still fully functional mentally and they have her doing physical therapy to improve her motor functioning. The priest has her staying at his own home with his children. Little brother wouldn't go near her for a long time - he was absolutely terrified of her, but now you can hardly pry him from her side. From my observation she is still very much in shock, and just randomly started crying for no apparent reason at a few points throughout the day. Once, someone went and sat her in a car so she could have some space, and little brother came a running and tried with all of his little two-year-old might to get the door of the land rover open because he thought she was leaving. I'd take them in a heartbeat and not because they are cute and cuddly. They need parents and a home a whole lot of security and stability to help them overcome what they have had to live through.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Bits and Pieces...
I have been successful in doing something different every single day since I've gotten to Maseno, and it has been great fun to have such variety. I've become quite good at asking to tag along with anyone and everyone, and they are always more than happy to have me.
I spent Sunday in the raging metropolis of Kisumu, which is situated on the eastern edge of Lake Victoria. It's a nice city with not very many tourists, so the prices are good for the mzungus when it's shopping time! I went down with my friend Davis to feed the street boys on the beach. He has started doing this every Sunday, with what started out with around 15 boys. Now that word has gotten out about him and they know that he is reliable and WILL show up every week, they've gotten more each time. Last Sunday we set the record with 50 boys. They were all sitting around waiting for us as we walked along the road to the beach. We had quite a crowd by the time we got to our spot. These boys range in age from five to almost adults. A good number of them never removed the glue bottles from under their noses at any point while they were standing in line and from my immediate observation I would say that most of them were drugged up. I've seen a lot of things but I've never seen a drugged out seven year old and it didn't sit well with me.
There are a lot of street men in Kisumu who are now 30 and have been on the streets since they were little. Davis and Pastor Tom from the US have been giving the older ones 200 shillings worth of product to sell. When they've been stealing and sniffing glue for the last 20 years, giving out money to try to help someone is probably the worst way to go about it. They have an ingrained lifestyle they need to break away from, and few people will be able to fight off all of the temptations of the things they could get with that quick cash. So instead, they get books or candy or something they can sell along the street for a profit. This entails them cleaning themselves up to make themselves presentable and putting in an honest days work. They have just begun this, but only yesterday Davis stopped to look at a few books and didn't even realize that it was one of his guys selling them, he was so clean and put together. A very very good sign that this guy will be able to make it out of the cycle that has trapped him for so long.
I spent a day at the Comprehensive Care Center at the hospital where all of the HIV patients come for monthly checkups and to pick up their anti retroviral medication. The only reason we have these ARVs is through a grant from the Global Fund. The majority of Africa has no access to these meds, which everyone with HIV in a developed country is automatically put on. These are the only things that can really prolong life. I spent hours listening to the coughing in the waiting room that they all seem to have, even down to the smallest child. It is a deep, phlegmy cough that comes from somewhere deep inside of them, and I will never forget the sound of it. It is one of the most tell tale signs of someone wasting away from AIDS.
On another day I went on home visits, walking on foot trails through the bush to visit participants of the orphan program at their houses to see if they had any food, were sick, etc. We found one boy who was 16 and living by himself. His little sister sleeps at the neighbor's house, but he still has to feed her, so a lot of the time they just don't eat. He was only there that day because it was a special day and there was no school. We found him in the yard working in his immaculate maize fields. The inside of the house was spotless, he himself was very clean, and his English was absolutely perfect. We were all blown away that he was taking care of himself, farming, going to school, and doing it all so well. He has no one helping him, and he has no money to finish school. He is now a sophomore and has two more years to go. This means he needs to come up with the equivalent of several hundred US dollars a year for the fees, uniforms, and books that are all required. He has no one to pay it for him and he can't even afford food for himself on a daily basis. I am thinking strongly that I will be footing the bill for him for the next two years. This kid is obviously incredibly bright, and very responsible and disciplined to be living as well as he does on his own. I asked him what he wanted to do after school and he said he wanted to be a doctor. That isn't very realistic, but if we can get him through high school, his chances of getting job that will take him out of a subsistance lifestyle are slightly better in this country of no jobs, and if we can get him into a technical school or something where he could learn a trade, he should be fairly secure by Kenyan standards. This is still dirt poor by American standards - no flush toilet, maize every day, but it is living a good secure life here. He deserves at least that.
During my free time I talk to the monkeys around the seminary (one jumped right over my head - I'm talking inches - from a tree to a rooftop yesterday and I assure you that EVERYONE heard my scream) and talking to the seminary students and staff. There is supposed to be another young American woman coming today, so it will be nice to have her to spread out some of the attention. There hasn't been a young white lady around here for quite a while, so I'm really getting a lot more attention than anyone could ever need.
All in all life here is good.
I spent Sunday in the raging metropolis of Kisumu, which is situated on the eastern edge of Lake Victoria. It's a nice city with not very many tourists, so the prices are good for the mzungus when it's shopping time! I went down with my friend Davis to feed the street boys on the beach. He has started doing this every Sunday, with what started out with around 15 boys. Now that word has gotten out about him and they know that he is reliable and WILL show up every week, they've gotten more each time. Last Sunday we set the record with 50 boys. They were all sitting around waiting for us as we walked along the road to the beach. We had quite a crowd by the time we got to our spot. These boys range in age from five to almost adults. A good number of them never removed the glue bottles from under their noses at any point while they were standing in line and from my immediate observation I would say that most of them were drugged up. I've seen a lot of things but I've never seen a drugged out seven year old and it didn't sit well with me.
There are a lot of street men in Kisumu who are now 30 and have been on the streets since they were little. Davis and Pastor Tom from the US have been giving the older ones 200 shillings worth of product to sell. When they've been stealing and sniffing glue for the last 20 years, giving out money to try to help someone is probably the worst way to go about it. They have an ingrained lifestyle they need to break away from, and few people will be able to fight off all of the temptations of the things they could get with that quick cash. So instead, they get books or candy or something they can sell along the street for a profit. This entails them cleaning themselves up to make themselves presentable and putting in an honest days work. They have just begun this, but only yesterday Davis stopped to look at a few books and didn't even realize that it was one of his guys selling them, he was so clean and put together. A very very good sign that this guy will be able to make it out of the cycle that has trapped him for so long.
I spent a day at the Comprehensive Care Center at the hospital where all of the HIV patients come for monthly checkups and to pick up their anti retroviral medication. The only reason we have these ARVs is through a grant from the Global Fund. The majority of Africa has no access to these meds, which everyone with HIV in a developed country is automatically put on. These are the only things that can really prolong life. I spent hours listening to the coughing in the waiting room that they all seem to have, even down to the smallest child. It is a deep, phlegmy cough that comes from somewhere deep inside of them, and I will never forget the sound of it. It is one of the most tell tale signs of someone wasting away from AIDS.
On another day I went on home visits, walking on foot trails through the bush to visit participants of the orphan program at their houses to see if they had any food, were sick, etc. We found one boy who was 16 and living by himself. His little sister sleeps at the neighbor's house, but he still has to feed her, so a lot of the time they just don't eat. He was only there that day because it was a special day and there was no school. We found him in the yard working in his immaculate maize fields. The inside of the house was spotless, he himself was very clean, and his English was absolutely perfect. We were all blown away that he was taking care of himself, farming, going to school, and doing it all so well. He has no one helping him, and he has no money to finish school. He is now a sophomore and has two more years to go. This means he needs to come up with the equivalent of several hundred US dollars a year for the fees, uniforms, and books that are all required. He has no one to pay it for him and he can't even afford food for himself on a daily basis. I am thinking strongly that I will be footing the bill for him for the next two years. This kid is obviously incredibly bright, and very responsible and disciplined to be living as well as he does on his own. I asked him what he wanted to do after school and he said he wanted to be a doctor. That isn't very realistic, but if we can get him through high school, his chances of getting job that will take him out of a subsistance lifestyle are slightly better in this country of no jobs, and if we can get him into a technical school or something where he could learn a trade, he should be fairly secure by Kenyan standards. This is still dirt poor by American standards - no flush toilet, maize every day, but it is living a good secure life here. He deserves at least that.
During my free time I talk to the monkeys around the seminary (one jumped right over my head - I'm talking inches - from a tree to a rooftop yesterday and I assure you that EVERYONE heard my scream) and talking to the seminary students and staff. There is supposed to be another young American woman coming today, so it will be nice to have her to spread out some of the attention. There hasn't been a young white lady around here for quite a while, so I'm really getting a lot more attention than anyone could ever need.
All in all life here is good.
Look closely to see who's watching you. They are everywhere around the seminary campus and at the hospital. Davis swears they are agents of the devil. One day he had a mango plop down on the ground right next to him and looked up into the tree above him in time to see a monkey taking aim to drop a mango squarely on his head. It broke his glasses.
This one is kind of hard to see but there is a ginormous green lizard coming out of the hole in the tree. I took this out my bedroom window. The sucker is at least a foot long.
Mud
Every afternoon here in Maseno it rains torrentially. Sometimes it also rains in the evenings, during the night, and in the early morning. The days are ALWAYS beautiful and sunny, but you do not want to get caught out in that rain.
The roads here are more often paved than in Tanzania but we live on a stretch off the main road that certainly isn't. Usually by the middle of the day the road gets nice and dry, but you've always got to watch out for the mud around the edges.
Two days ago as I was walking the mile into town to try and use the e-mail at the post office (which of course did not work, despite the fact that it kept ticking down my time on the prepaid card I was using). I was trying to stick close to the sides because there are bikes carrying people and heavy loads all over that really need the dryer stretches and won't think twice about mowing you down. The mud was fairly dry, so I wasn't too worried.
Well, aparently the light colored stuff isn't as dry. I took one step and was engulfed in mud halfway up to my knee on my right leg. I yelped and tried to pulled it out, but my shoe stayed put. I just stood there and stared at the watery hole which had completely consumed my shoe. It was nowhere in sight.
Now, I of course immediately started trying to do some damage control as far as looking like a complete helpless white idiot. No locals lose their shoes in the mud, after all. I stood there casually sipping water from my bottle, trying to figure out what I should do. Would they let me into the post office with no shoes on? Of course, it's Kenya, but a white person with no shoes would cause even more attention than normal. I really wanted to just walk away as quickly as I could to get away from the scene and limit my embarrassment, but these are my only shoes at this point, so that just wasn't an option. I ruled out digging it out with my hands, and decided to walk back to the seminary and make one of the young male seminarians (who are always more than happy to be of my service...and ask me what I look for in a man, if I would ever have a wedding in Africa, if my parents would be upset if I dated a black man - you get the picture) dig it out. You are never as embarrassed when you have a person with you.
Just as I turned around to start walking away from the scene of my idiocy, a woman walked up to me and said that she needed to help me. I told her it was ok, but she insisted. She went and found a huge stick and rooted around for a while until she pulled out something brown and runny that you never would have accused of being a shoe. She handed the stick to me with with my dripping shoe dangling from the end, and accompanied me all the way back up the road on what I will forever refer to as my walk of shame.
Now, the area I live in is interesting because it is a high population density rural area. There is hardly a town to be seen and everyone farms, but every inch of land is planted on and since people don't own too many inches, they are all living on top of each other. There are people everywhere all the time. You could never find a place to be alone if you tried. This is why it is no problem for me to walk around by myself, because if anyone tried to harm me, there would be 15 other people within close range to rescue me.
So I walked back up the road with person after person having a great big belly lauch at the mzungu carrying her shoe on a stick in front of her with mud halfway up to her knee. It was the entertainment of the day. A man with a crippled leg was struggling on in front of me and he kept turning around and saying "pole, pole" which is what you say to someone who is hurt or having a hard time. I should have been politely saying it to him, but my situation was so ridiculous that I was worse off than the crippled man.
The lady who assisted me turned out to be quite the blessing. Her name was Mary and her brother is a grounds keeper at the seminary. She came right out and told me after she had said her name that she was HIV positive and had been walking back from the hospital where she'd been having her monthly checkup at the CCC. I had no idea why she felt the need to tell me this, someone she didn't know, but it seemed that she really did want me to know it for some reason, and we had a very nice comfortable talk about the CCC and St Philips's Seminary and her brother Naman the whole way back. She sits and sells fruit across the street from the seminary gate, so now whenever I walk past, she gives me this knowing smile and we both start laughing.
When I reached the seminary gate, I braced myself for all of the laughter that was going to be had at my expense in the coming moments and for all the teasing I expected to endure for my misfortune for the rest of my stay here. I was quite shocked then when one of the security guards came RUNNING up to me with a completely panicked look on my face demanding to know what had happened. The guy was ready to carry me back to my dorm like I was mortally wounded rather than muddy. When I got over to where the students sit and relax in front of our dormitory, instead of the knee slapping laughter I was expecting from them, they practically tried to carry me off to the shower and get me cleaned up and I had to take my shoes away from them to go clean them up mysef. So it turns out that I got to laugh at myself much more than everyone else ever did because they were so concerned for their little pet mzungu. They can and do tease me about lots of other things, but it's nice to know that if I come upon any misfortune, there are plenty of people around more than ready to rescue me.
The roads here are more often paved than in Tanzania but we live on a stretch off the main road that certainly isn't. Usually by the middle of the day the road gets nice and dry, but you've always got to watch out for the mud around the edges.
Two days ago as I was walking the mile into town to try and use the e-mail at the post office (which of course did not work, despite the fact that it kept ticking down my time on the prepaid card I was using). I was trying to stick close to the sides because there are bikes carrying people and heavy loads all over that really need the dryer stretches and won't think twice about mowing you down. The mud was fairly dry, so I wasn't too worried.
Well, aparently the light colored stuff isn't as dry. I took one step and was engulfed in mud halfway up to my knee on my right leg. I yelped and tried to pulled it out, but my shoe stayed put. I just stood there and stared at the watery hole which had completely consumed my shoe. It was nowhere in sight.
Now, I of course immediately started trying to do some damage control as far as looking like a complete helpless white idiot. No locals lose their shoes in the mud, after all. I stood there casually sipping water from my bottle, trying to figure out what I should do. Would they let me into the post office with no shoes on? Of course, it's Kenya, but a white person with no shoes would cause even more attention than normal. I really wanted to just walk away as quickly as I could to get away from the scene and limit my embarrassment, but these are my only shoes at this point, so that just wasn't an option. I ruled out digging it out with my hands, and decided to walk back to the seminary and make one of the young male seminarians (who are always more than happy to be of my service...and ask me what I look for in a man, if I would ever have a wedding in Africa, if my parents would be upset if I dated a black man - you get the picture) dig it out. You are never as embarrassed when you have a person with you.
Just as I turned around to start walking away from the scene of my idiocy, a woman walked up to me and said that she needed to help me. I told her it was ok, but she insisted. She went and found a huge stick and rooted around for a while until she pulled out something brown and runny that you never would have accused of being a shoe. She handed the stick to me with with my dripping shoe dangling from the end, and accompanied me all the way back up the road on what I will forever refer to as my walk of shame.
Now, the area I live in is interesting because it is a high population density rural area. There is hardly a town to be seen and everyone farms, but every inch of land is planted on and since people don't own too many inches, they are all living on top of each other. There are people everywhere all the time. You could never find a place to be alone if you tried. This is why it is no problem for me to walk around by myself, because if anyone tried to harm me, there would be 15 other people within close range to rescue me.
So I walked back up the road with person after person having a great big belly lauch at the mzungu carrying her shoe on a stick in front of her with mud halfway up to her knee. It was the entertainment of the day. A man with a crippled leg was struggling on in front of me and he kept turning around and saying "pole, pole" which is what you say to someone who is hurt or having a hard time. I should have been politely saying it to him, but my situation was so ridiculous that I was worse off than the crippled man.
The lady who assisted me turned out to be quite the blessing. Her name was Mary and her brother is a grounds keeper at the seminary. She came right out and told me after she had said her name that she was HIV positive and had been walking back from the hospital where she'd been having her monthly checkup at the CCC. I had no idea why she felt the need to tell me this, someone she didn't know, but it seemed that she really did want me to know it for some reason, and we had a very nice comfortable talk about the CCC and St Philips's Seminary and her brother Naman the whole way back. She sits and sells fruit across the street from the seminary gate, so now whenever I walk past, she gives me this knowing smile and we both start laughing.
When I reached the seminary gate, I braced myself for all of the laughter that was going to be had at my expense in the coming moments and for all the teasing I expected to endure for my misfortune for the rest of my stay here. I was quite shocked then when one of the security guards came RUNNING up to me with a completely panicked look on my face demanding to know what had happened. The guy was ready to carry me back to my dorm like I was mortally wounded rather than muddy. When I got over to where the students sit and relax in front of our dormitory, instead of the knee slapping laughter I was expecting from them, they practically tried to carry me off to the shower and get me cleaned up and I had to take my shoes away from them to go clean them up mysef. So it turns out that I got to laugh at myself much more than everyone else ever did because they were so concerned for their little pet mzungu. They can and do tease me about lots of other things, but it's nice to know that if I come upon any misfortune, there are plenty of people around more than ready to rescue me.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
The Orphan Program
These four photos are actually from weeks two and four, but it gives you a little visual of what happens on Saturdays.
These gentlemen are getting enough corn ready to feed 400 kids a hearty lunch.
Besides a healthy lunch, the kids also have chai time (chai being the Swahili word for tea) at some point mid-morning. Some of these kids never eat a complete meal at any other point throughout the week.
Gathering for lunch and some songs before they walk home with bellies full.
These gentlemen are getting enough corn ready to feed 400 kids a hearty lunch.
Classrooms are set up outside in the church yards of the parishes where the program is held. Some kids in the orphan program don't go to school at all because they can't afford the school uniforms or books, so these few Saturday hours are all they get in the way of an education.
Besides a healthy lunch, the kids also have chai time (chai being the Swahili word for tea) at some point mid-morning. Some of these kids never eat a complete meal at any other point throughout the week.
Gathering for lunch and some songs before they walk home with bellies full.On Saturday I took part in the orphan program they run here in the area. Every Saturday, the program is run at seven different sites for children who have lost one or both of their parents, usually to AIDS. These kids are the poorest of the poor in the area as they are either living with one sick and poor parent or their aging grandmothers or some other distant relation who may not have much of an interest in feeding or clothing them in the first place. They come for classes like a regular school setting, can get checked out by the doctors and get meds for free, and get one huge solid meal of beans and rice or maize to keep their little bellies full for a while.
I spent my day floating around and taking it all in. I loved sitting in with the doctors and listening to the consultations through an interpreter. The children and their guardians can come, and the guardians come more than the children do. They see an awful lot of muscular-skeletal pain in the woman, who have been carrying buckets of water and food and who knows what on top of their heads for 40 years. As soon as they sit down they start describing their pain. “Hoppa, hoppa, hoppa,” they say as they point all over their necks, backs, heads, shoulders, knees, and toes. Hoppa means here in English. They seem to hurt everywhere. Dr. Gerry just rolls his eyes and calls them the Hoppa Hoppas. It’s difficult to tell if they are actually in pain or if they come in to get another handful of free Tylenol. Some of the kids came in alone, sent by their guardians, and had no idea what their problems were. They kind of just sat there and stared at their feet, until when forced to say something they started pointing out body parts accompanied with a “hoppa, hoppa…). One little guy’s chart (which is a college blue book cut in half that the doctors write all their notes and prescriptions in) actually had “Peds [meaning pediatric] Hoppa Hoppa” written across the top in big letters.
But there were some serious cases and the work being done in the mobile clinic is very necessary for this group who could never afford to see a doctor. Outside of the clinic they have benches full of kids soaking their feet in basins of chemicals used to kill jiggers. They are little insects that burrow into their skin and if left untreated will start to cripple the muscle. Some who have them very badly in their hands look like they have cerebral palsy because their fingers are all curled in toward their palms and will remain that way for the rest of their lives. If they had someone watching over them, this would not be a problem. Everyone can get jiggers, especially living in mud huts as all do, but if they are cleaned out often it isn’t a big deal. This is what separates the kids who are being decently cared for from the ones who are quite simply being ignored. There were an awful lot of kids at the jigger station.
One young man at the jigger station was definitely not a child. After some inquiry I found out that he was exactly my own age. I asked what the story was and he is himself an orphan who used to be a part of the program. He never really had anyone looking after him, but did fairly well for himself, worked hard, and was saving money to buy a bicycle so he could be a boda boda driver (they are bikes with an extra seat over the back tire used for taxis here around Kisumu – I’ve unfortunately been on one but that is a story for another time). This is not a career that will make any decent amount of money, but would give him the self respect of working for a living and enough money to keep the maize on the table.
As he was walking one night, he was jumped by a group of men who partially slit his throat, bashed his head in (he now has a huge scar running the length of his head) and left him for dead after stealing all of the money he had worked so hard to save. He still lives on his own, but now with the slowed and slurred movements and the diminished mental capacity of someone with a traumatic brain injury. His neighbors won’t help him because he lives on a nice little plot of land, and they are hoping he will die or at least get weak enough so they can steal it. His jiggers were so bad that his feet were bloody and raw all the way around, like they’d been burned with acid or set in a fire and his fingers were well curled. How he walked was beyond me. Davis drove him home and laid some jigger killing powder on the mud floor of his home (I guess that’s what we use for cows in the US) to see if they can’t get things to subside a little.
I tried to bring out some toys at the end of the day, and ended up playing Frisbee with over 200 kids at the same time. I would throw it high up into the air, and the mob would pounce on it. It worked well for a time, until they started to do bodily harm to each other in a manner somewhere beyond full-contact Frisbee. I had to get one of the teachers to rescue me and restore order. I’m good with big groups of rowdy kids, but if you can’t be stern with them in their own language, you don’t have much hope for control.
Later when I was telling Davis about it, he told me that on his first Saturday when he started making balloon animals for them, the way their little faces rapidly changed from the cute, dirty, love-hungry kids they are to the little monsters who will bite, punch, and kill to get to the front of the line, he though it was the End Times. He was dead serious as he told me this. It is amazing what deprivation will do to a child, no matter how small and seemingly innocent. It robs them of their dignity and humanity when gaining something physical is on the line. A wholly disturbing sight to see, but a very important one to understand.
Next Saturday I plan to come with stickers and a bit more organization after getting a good feel for how the day runs. There are always over 300 kids, and my goal for next week is to spread some smiles while doing the least harm. It’s tricky.
I spent my day floating around and taking it all in. I loved sitting in with the doctors and listening to the consultations through an interpreter. The children and their guardians can come, and the guardians come more than the children do. They see an awful lot of muscular-skeletal pain in the woman, who have been carrying buckets of water and food and who knows what on top of their heads for 40 years. As soon as they sit down they start describing their pain. “Hoppa, hoppa, hoppa,” they say as they point all over their necks, backs, heads, shoulders, knees, and toes. Hoppa means here in English. They seem to hurt everywhere. Dr. Gerry just rolls his eyes and calls them the Hoppa Hoppas. It’s difficult to tell if they are actually in pain or if they come in to get another handful of free Tylenol. Some of the kids came in alone, sent by their guardians, and had no idea what their problems were. They kind of just sat there and stared at their feet, until when forced to say something they started pointing out body parts accompanied with a “hoppa, hoppa…). One little guy’s chart (which is a college blue book cut in half that the doctors write all their notes and prescriptions in) actually had “Peds [meaning pediatric] Hoppa Hoppa” written across the top in big letters.
But there were some serious cases and the work being done in the mobile clinic is very necessary for this group who could never afford to see a doctor. Outside of the clinic they have benches full of kids soaking their feet in basins of chemicals used to kill jiggers. They are little insects that burrow into their skin and if left untreated will start to cripple the muscle. Some who have them very badly in their hands look like they have cerebral palsy because their fingers are all curled in toward their palms and will remain that way for the rest of their lives. If they had someone watching over them, this would not be a problem. Everyone can get jiggers, especially living in mud huts as all do, but if they are cleaned out often it isn’t a big deal. This is what separates the kids who are being decently cared for from the ones who are quite simply being ignored. There were an awful lot of kids at the jigger station.
One young man at the jigger station was definitely not a child. After some inquiry I found out that he was exactly my own age. I asked what the story was and he is himself an orphan who used to be a part of the program. He never really had anyone looking after him, but did fairly well for himself, worked hard, and was saving money to buy a bicycle so he could be a boda boda driver (they are bikes with an extra seat over the back tire used for taxis here around Kisumu – I’ve unfortunately been on one but that is a story for another time). This is not a career that will make any decent amount of money, but would give him the self respect of working for a living and enough money to keep the maize on the table.
As he was walking one night, he was jumped by a group of men who partially slit his throat, bashed his head in (he now has a huge scar running the length of his head) and left him for dead after stealing all of the money he had worked so hard to save. He still lives on his own, but now with the slowed and slurred movements and the diminished mental capacity of someone with a traumatic brain injury. His neighbors won’t help him because he lives on a nice little plot of land, and they are hoping he will die or at least get weak enough so they can steal it. His jiggers were so bad that his feet were bloody and raw all the way around, like they’d been burned with acid or set in a fire and his fingers were well curled. How he walked was beyond me. Davis drove him home and laid some jigger killing powder on the mud floor of his home (I guess that’s what we use for cows in the US) to see if they can’t get things to subside a little.
I tried to bring out some toys at the end of the day, and ended up playing Frisbee with over 200 kids at the same time. I would throw it high up into the air, and the mob would pounce on it. It worked well for a time, until they started to do bodily harm to each other in a manner somewhere beyond full-contact Frisbee. I had to get one of the teachers to rescue me and restore order. I’m good with big groups of rowdy kids, but if you can’t be stern with them in their own language, you don’t have much hope for control.
Later when I was telling Davis about it, he told me that on his first Saturday when he started making balloon animals for them, the way their little faces rapidly changed from the cute, dirty, love-hungry kids they are to the little monsters who will bite, punch, and kill to get to the front of the line, he though it was the End Times. He was dead serious as he told me this. It is amazing what deprivation will do to a child, no matter how small and seemingly innocent. It robs them of their dignity and humanity when gaining something physical is on the line. A wholly disturbing sight to see, but a very important one to understand.
Next Saturday I plan to come with stickers and a bit more organization after getting a good feel for how the day runs. There are always over 300 kids, and my goal for next week is to spread some smiles while doing the least harm. It’s tricky.
Maseno
I knew the moment I arrived at St Phillip’s Theological Seminary in Maseno that I was going to be quite happy here. It is an Anglican seminary (the African version of what is the Episcopal Church in America) that is about a mile or more outside of town on it’s own little compound. There are 14 seminary students, to give you an idea of the size of this venue. I am staying in the guest/volunteer housing which is a little cement dorm that has flush toilets and a functional shower. You can’t ask for anything more.
I’m now sharing the place with three middle aged men. Believe you me, there was not a toilet seat down when I arrived here, and I think it may be more appropriate for me to put them back up when I’m done than for them to have to change their ways. One man is from England, working on an agricultural project to increase crop yields, another is an Episcopalian priest (for you Lutherans and Catholics at home, that’s how the Episcopalians refer to their pastors - he’s got a wife and two kids) on sabbatical from Massachusetts and the other is a year-long volunteer from San Diego. They’re a great bunch of guys and I seem to fit right in. The food is terrible but the American directors realize that and have us foreigners over for dinner three nights a week at their house to make up for it. I’ve spent my time here so far just tagging along with anything and everything that is happening just to get acquainted with the place and will start doing some more regular work hopefully starting Monday. They’ve suggested that the comprehensive care center for HIV/AIDS patients at the hospital they run would be a good place for me to be helpful and productive, and I plan to check it out in the coming week.
I’m now sharing the place with three middle aged men. Believe you me, there was not a toilet seat down when I arrived here, and I think it may be more appropriate for me to put them back up when I’m done than for them to have to change their ways. One man is from England, working on an agricultural project to increase crop yields, another is an Episcopalian priest (for you Lutherans and Catholics at home, that’s how the Episcopalians refer to their pastors - he’s got a wife and two kids) on sabbatical from Massachusetts and the other is a year-long volunteer from San Diego. They’re a great bunch of guys and I seem to fit right in. The food is terrible but the American directors realize that and have us foreigners over for dinner three nights a week at their house to make up for it. I’ve spent my time here so far just tagging along with anything and everything that is happening just to get acquainted with the place and will start doing some more regular work hopefully starting Monday. They’ve suggested that the comprehensive care center for HIV/AIDS patients at the hospital they run would be a good place for me to be helpful and productive, and I plan to check it out in the coming week.
The World Cup
How many of you knew that the World Cup was going on right now? Where it’s being held? Who the favored team is? That the US is in it?
Probably not many.
The World Cup started on one of my last nights in Morogoro. It is being held in Germany, so the opening ceremony was a special treat for all of the German and Austrian language school students. They were just in their glory watching all of the men in their Bavarian hats and liederhosen do the traditional dances and then the bringing out of the German celebrities. You could hear everything being said in German in the background, and they don’t get much of that in Tanzania. It’s Swahili first, tribal languages second, and English if you’re lucky.
The opening match was Germany vs. some South or Central American team. One of the language school teachers (who are all 20-something and as excited about the World Cup as the Germans) made the mistake of saying something to the Austrian lady during the beginning of the game. The response was in rapid, aggressive German, but there was no doubt about what she said to anyone in the room. You DO NOT talk to her when she is watching football. And this 40-year old woman sat there for the next few hours with her legs brought up to her chest in front of her from anxiety and did not move or say one word until the game was successfully won.
Everywhere I go and every conversation you hear is all the World Cup. I’m quite convinced that if I’d grown up in any other country (I guess except for Canada because they don’t seem to be too into it either) I’d be a rabid fan. I’ve dedicated myself to watching the matches every night (I’ve only missed a few so far) and learning the game. It’s been an amazing way to bond with my hosts in Nairobi and the people here in Maseno. The World Cup only happens every four years and these games are their lifes blood for the time being. As the commercials here have been saying since May “Football is a language we all understand.”
And this wayward American hockey fan is doing a fair job of understanding. It’s chock full of centering passes and diving and shots off the crossbar. I never could figure out off-sides when I watched the games at school, but now I just use my imagination to make the defensemen into a mobile blue line, and it all fall into place. It’s as good as hockey for the rest of the world, and this more than anything I’ve ever participated in in my life is making me feel like a citizen of the world. The teams in the tournament are from every corner of the globe and even in places like Kenya, Tanzania, Bangladesh, and Haiti that don’t have a team participating, this is what it’s all about. There are riots in the latter two countries when Brazil plays because people get so worked up over it. People here in East Africa are bragging about their plans to set in front of the TV to watch every single match (and there are dozens). Forget having a conversation about anything else until the month-long tournament has been over for quite a while, because it’s just not going to happen.
So until some time in July, I will be spending my every evening in front of a wiggly television about the size of a toaster in the Maseno seminary dining hall with a whole bunch of Kenyan staff and my fellow volunteers and will make some of the best memories of my trip. If I were at home, I would be only vaguely aware that there was a tournament going on, and I see this as one of the bigger unexpected blessings of my trip because it is giving me such insight into something that is so much a part of life for most everyone else.
Probably not many.
The World Cup started on one of my last nights in Morogoro. It is being held in Germany, so the opening ceremony was a special treat for all of the German and Austrian language school students. They were just in their glory watching all of the men in their Bavarian hats and liederhosen do the traditional dances and then the bringing out of the German celebrities. You could hear everything being said in German in the background, and they don’t get much of that in Tanzania. It’s Swahili first, tribal languages second, and English if you’re lucky.
The opening match was Germany vs. some South or Central American team. One of the language school teachers (who are all 20-something and as excited about the World Cup as the Germans) made the mistake of saying something to the Austrian lady during the beginning of the game. The response was in rapid, aggressive German, but there was no doubt about what she said to anyone in the room. You DO NOT talk to her when she is watching football. And this 40-year old woman sat there for the next few hours with her legs brought up to her chest in front of her from anxiety and did not move or say one word until the game was successfully won.
Everywhere I go and every conversation you hear is all the World Cup. I’m quite convinced that if I’d grown up in any other country (I guess except for Canada because they don’t seem to be too into it either) I’d be a rabid fan. I’ve dedicated myself to watching the matches every night (I’ve only missed a few so far) and learning the game. It’s been an amazing way to bond with my hosts in Nairobi and the people here in Maseno. The World Cup only happens every four years and these games are their lifes blood for the time being. As the commercials here have been saying since May “Football is a language we all understand.”
And this wayward American hockey fan is doing a fair job of understanding. It’s chock full of centering passes and diving and shots off the crossbar. I never could figure out off-sides when I watched the games at school, but now I just use my imagination to make the defensemen into a mobile blue line, and it all fall into place. It’s as good as hockey for the rest of the world, and this more than anything I’ve ever participated in in my life is making me feel like a citizen of the world. The teams in the tournament are from every corner of the globe and even in places like Kenya, Tanzania, Bangladesh, and Haiti that don’t have a team participating, this is what it’s all about. There are riots in the latter two countries when Brazil plays because people get so worked up over it. People here in East Africa are bragging about their plans to set in front of the TV to watch every single match (and there are dozens). Forget having a conversation about anything else until the month-long tournament has been over for quite a while, because it’s just not going to happen.
So until some time in July, I will be spending my every evening in front of a wiggly television about the size of a toaster in the Maseno seminary dining hall with a whole bunch of Kenyan staff and my fellow volunteers and will make some of the best memories of my trip. If I were at home, I would be only vaguely aware that there was a tournament going on, and I see this as one of the bigger unexpected blessings of my trip because it is giving me such insight into something that is so much a part of life for most everyone else.
Nairobi
My time in Nairobi was actually fairly brief. I spent the first day sleeping off my 14 hour bus ride and watching BBC and ESPN on my host's television. I was staying with the friend of a friend who didn’t know me in the least and offered to let me stay with them on a day’s notice when I was never able to get in contact with my intended host. Of course, they were never home (this seems to be par for the course for the wealthy here – always at work) so I had a lot of alone time and a lot of good food from the maid who was a sweetheart. And they had a toaster. It’s amazing what gets you going after six weeks of Africanization, but I was happy as a lark for those days just to have toasted bread and literally considered staying another day just because of it. You’d have to leave all comfort food behind and live off of rice and potatoes for a good while to understand the concept of changing travel plans over a toaster, but I almost did it.
On the second day, a friend of the family came and took me out to buy my bus ticket to Maseno. For this we had to go into the heart of the city. I was a little thrown off when this lady walked past all of the parked cars and kept going down the street and I realized we’d be taking the bus.
I use the term bus very loosely. In Tanzania they are called dala dalas. They are mini vans on crack, which are used as their bus system. Somehow, about 16 actual seats are fitted into these extended cab mini vans. In Tanzania where the police do not enforce the capacity rules, there are usually over 20 people in these mini vans. When you see them going down the road, every sort of limb and big ladies’ behinds are sticking out the windows. You have to get on and off while they are still moving because they aren’t going to waste the time to come to a full stop, and there is a money taker who physically shoves people in on top of everyone else so he can get the sliding door at least mostly closed before they reach top speed. I never went anywhere near one in Tanzania.
Fortunately in Kenya they only allow as many people as they have seats for, so they are a bit safer. The lady who was taking me around was just wonderful. She would shove me in front of her whenever we were getting on one to make sure that I actually got on and didn’t get left in the dust. When we crossed the street SHE HELD MY HAND like I was five years old as we dodged lanes of traffic, alternately sprinting and stopping as need be. I have never been so grateful for such handholding, literally or figuratively, because without her I would have been lost.
Nairobi is a huge modern city with a big down town that is about as much use to tourists as Minneapolis. Everyone is wearing suits and nice shoes and in hurry to get to the office. We didn’t linger long because there wasn’t much of anything to do other than what we came for, and quickly turned around and caught our series of mini vans back to where I was staying. After seeing Nairobi, I’ve begun to realize how small and underdeveloped Dar is. Just as far as size and modern appeal, Dar is to Nairobi as Boise is to Chicago. I’m really glad I didn’t know I was in Boise for that week I was there because it would have made my waiting that much more frustrating.
On the second day, a friend of the family came and took me out to buy my bus ticket to Maseno. For this we had to go into the heart of the city. I was a little thrown off when this lady walked past all of the parked cars and kept going down the street and I realized we’d be taking the bus.
I use the term bus very loosely. In Tanzania they are called dala dalas. They are mini vans on crack, which are used as their bus system. Somehow, about 16 actual seats are fitted into these extended cab mini vans. In Tanzania where the police do not enforce the capacity rules, there are usually over 20 people in these mini vans. When you see them going down the road, every sort of limb and big ladies’ behinds are sticking out the windows. You have to get on and off while they are still moving because they aren’t going to waste the time to come to a full stop, and there is a money taker who physically shoves people in on top of everyone else so he can get the sliding door at least mostly closed before they reach top speed. I never went anywhere near one in Tanzania.
Fortunately in Kenya they only allow as many people as they have seats for, so they are a bit safer. The lady who was taking me around was just wonderful. She would shove me in front of her whenever we were getting on one to make sure that I actually got on and didn’t get left in the dust. When we crossed the street SHE HELD MY HAND like I was five years old as we dodged lanes of traffic, alternately sprinting and stopping as need be. I have never been so grateful for such handholding, literally or figuratively, because without her I would have been lost.
Nairobi is a huge modern city with a big down town that is about as much use to tourists as Minneapolis. Everyone is wearing suits and nice shoes and in hurry to get to the office. We didn’t linger long because there wasn’t much of anything to do other than what we came for, and quickly turned around and caught our series of mini vans back to where I was staying. After seeing Nairobi, I’ve begun to realize how small and underdeveloped Dar is. Just as far as size and modern appeal, Dar is to Nairobi as Boise is to Chicago. I’m really glad I didn’t know I was in Boise for that week I was there because it would have made my waiting that much more frustrating.
Getting INTO Kenya
We pulled up to the border with Kenya late in the afternoon. The road became all fenced off and the bus pulled up into this area that was big enough to be a sizable town by Kenyan/Tanzanian standards (but all within the fencing) and everybody got out.
Now there was absolutely no explanation given of what we were supposed to do. This was the only part of the trip I was nervous about because I had no idea what to expect, I didn’t want to get myself detained at the border or to miss my bus and be stranded in the middle of no man’s land.
My fears were justified.
I followed the passengers from my bus to the Tanzanian exit point building (not that it was clearly labeled for you to know that) and stood in line to have someone take things from me and stamp things without a word and then nod at the next person in line. OK, well that was easy enough. But why do I still have another form in my hand that they did not seem the least bit interested in?
I walk back outside. My bus is nowhere in sight. It is gone. I don’t panic because I know there are plenty of people from my bus still in line. Half a dozen men are waiting for me to come out of the building they watched me walk into and are looking expectantly for the confused look on my face.
“You need help Madame?” I am very careful to always keep walking, never make eye contact, and use my pleasant and not the least bit frazzled voice.
“Where is my bus?” I ask them and they tell me that it already “went across” and that they would take me there. Since I have no idea where “across” is and they are already walking, I follow their general direction like that is where I was going all along, continuing to use my pleasant voice and never actually looking at them. That is way too much contact when you don’t know what is going on and you are in a potentially vulnerable situation. You keep the control, and when you never bother to look at them, as horrible as it is, you are in charge because they are the ones fighting for your attention and you aren’t fully giving it. I’m getting a lot smarter about these things.
The whole time I am wondering if they are leading me off somewhere to rape and rob me, but there is absolutely no one else around for the time being and I never stay in one spot if I don’t know what is going on because they can smell your confusion and you’ll soon be surrounded by any and every person wanting to take advantage of you. It’s better to keep moving and act like you know what is going on.
As soon as we are out of sight of the Tanzania building, the constant “you need visa? you need Kenyan shillings, Madame?” begins and does not stop. Before I know it I am surrounded by a bubble of ten men all telling me that I need to change my Tanzanian over into Kenyan because I can’t pay for my visa with American dollars, but don’t worry, because they take American and they’ll give me a good price.
Confused, yes. Stupid, no. I had brought along an extra $50 with me especially for the border crossing because I knew that was how much a visa would cost. Even if I hadn’t known that – the US dollar is like kryptonite in most of the rest of the world. No one in their right mind would not take a US dollar because the value of the currency is so much greater than most others, with Kenya and Tanzania being no exceptions. My US dollars can get me anything and everything I want, legal or otherwise. If I was out on the road in a vehicle pulled over by the police, it would be a pretty brief stop if I pulled out a few dollars.
So I continue with my pleasant voice, tell them no thank you repeatedly, and quicken my pace when I actually see something resembling a road block that I assume to be the border. There is a man in a little hut alongside it, looking fairly official, so I head straight for him. I still had half a football field to go with my entourage, however, who got more desperate, louder, and meaner the closer I got to the line. They are on the Tanzanian side and can’t get across without filling out the paperwork that everyone else has to. They quickly go from being my best friends and selflessly showing me, the poor mzungu Marekani where my bus has disappeared to, to telling me what an amazing deal they will cut me in the exchange, to telling me I am killing them by not doing business with them in a tone of voice so full of loathing and hatred it’s difficult to describe. I actually wish the average American could experience it so they could for just a moment understand how the rest of the world perceives our wealth and standing in relation to their suffering. It’s not pretty.
As I step up to the border, the at least ten men who had been surrounding me for my speed walk into unknown directions peel off from the crowd and start wandering back to the gates to target the next mzungu coming through. The border man sits there and laughs at me. He just leans back in his chair and watches the whole procession to the border like it’s his own personal afternoon entertainment. When I finally reach him, all he says is not to exchange money on the street. Thanks. When I ask him where the heck I am supposed to go and what I am supposed to do with the form I am still holding on to, he tells me to follow another person from my bus who has straggled up to the gate a ways behind me (the processing line was really slow so no one was coming out at the same time) rather than explaining anything. There is no such thing as customer service in either of these two countries, believe me.
This young lady takes pity on me and brings me to another building (also not marked) where I somehow manage to get a visa and make it back out alive and legally able to be in Kenya. Of course right away I am completely surrounded by Masaai women selling crafts. Because I am white I am required to buy them, and they are nothing short of hostile for my lack of interest. They follow me all the way to the bus, which I have finally spotted, screaming at me and shoving bracelets in my face the entire way. When I get to the bus, a staffer (without saying a word or really looking at me he was so bored by the whole thing) grabs me by the arm and shoves me into the bus even though no one else is boarding, just to get his mzungu charge away from the evil saleswomen. Someone really needs to teach them the concept of “you catch more bees with honey” because when you approach someone to sell them something and you are already visibly angry, they are not going to be too inclined to do business with you. The tribal women are aggressive. I think it comes from long hard lives of surviving one thing after another.
Four hours later I arrived in Nairobi under the cover of darkness to find no one there waiting for me. My luggage was taken out of the bus before I got off, and the staff kept telling me my bags were inside and physically grabbing my shoulders and turning me to point me in that direction despite the fact that I saw one of my bags being led off in another direction on a cart. They were practically patting the nice dumb little white girl on the head for my stupidity of not understanding that I should just go inside and sit down like a good girl. After fishing my bag out of someone else’s trunk (overeager fathers everywhere apparently snatch up all luggage in sight when picking up their daughters from the bus station) and narrowly avoiding a confrontation with that family (believe me, I would have won – there was no more messing with me at this point in the day) I placed it with my other piece of luggage inside to find it soaked inside and out as if someone had dumped a bucket of water over it, and both bags opened and gone through. Nothing was stolen but they could have at least zipped it back up for heavens sake.
I had to find a pay phone to call who was supposed to be collecting me. The pay phone turned out to be some opportunist employee’s cell phone that she charged me 500 Tanzanian per minute to use. My host was already on his way, so I watched the waning minutes of a World Cup game in which the US lost badly to the Czech Republic until he showed up and rescued me from the world of buses.
Now there was absolutely no explanation given of what we were supposed to do. This was the only part of the trip I was nervous about because I had no idea what to expect, I didn’t want to get myself detained at the border or to miss my bus and be stranded in the middle of no man’s land.
My fears were justified.
I followed the passengers from my bus to the Tanzanian exit point building (not that it was clearly labeled for you to know that) and stood in line to have someone take things from me and stamp things without a word and then nod at the next person in line. OK, well that was easy enough. But why do I still have another form in my hand that they did not seem the least bit interested in?
I walk back outside. My bus is nowhere in sight. It is gone. I don’t panic because I know there are plenty of people from my bus still in line. Half a dozen men are waiting for me to come out of the building they watched me walk into and are looking expectantly for the confused look on my face.
“You need help Madame?” I am very careful to always keep walking, never make eye contact, and use my pleasant and not the least bit frazzled voice.
“Where is my bus?” I ask them and they tell me that it already “went across” and that they would take me there. Since I have no idea where “across” is and they are already walking, I follow their general direction like that is where I was going all along, continuing to use my pleasant voice and never actually looking at them. That is way too much contact when you don’t know what is going on and you are in a potentially vulnerable situation. You keep the control, and when you never bother to look at them, as horrible as it is, you are in charge because they are the ones fighting for your attention and you aren’t fully giving it. I’m getting a lot smarter about these things.
The whole time I am wondering if they are leading me off somewhere to rape and rob me, but there is absolutely no one else around for the time being and I never stay in one spot if I don’t know what is going on because they can smell your confusion and you’ll soon be surrounded by any and every person wanting to take advantage of you. It’s better to keep moving and act like you know what is going on.
As soon as we are out of sight of the Tanzania building, the constant “you need visa? you need Kenyan shillings, Madame?” begins and does not stop. Before I know it I am surrounded by a bubble of ten men all telling me that I need to change my Tanzanian over into Kenyan because I can’t pay for my visa with American dollars, but don’t worry, because they take American and they’ll give me a good price.
Confused, yes. Stupid, no. I had brought along an extra $50 with me especially for the border crossing because I knew that was how much a visa would cost. Even if I hadn’t known that – the US dollar is like kryptonite in most of the rest of the world. No one in their right mind would not take a US dollar because the value of the currency is so much greater than most others, with Kenya and Tanzania being no exceptions. My US dollars can get me anything and everything I want, legal or otherwise. If I was out on the road in a vehicle pulled over by the police, it would be a pretty brief stop if I pulled out a few dollars.
So I continue with my pleasant voice, tell them no thank you repeatedly, and quicken my pace when I actually see something resembling a road block that I assume to be the border. There is a man in a little hut alongside it, looking fairly official, so I head straight for him. I still had half a football field to go with my entourage, however, who got more desperate, louder, and meaner the closer I got to the line. They are on the Tanzanian side and can’t get across without filling out the paperwork that everyone else has to. They quickly go from being my best friends and selflessly showing me, the poor mzungu Marekani where my bus has disappeared to, to telling me what an amazing deal they will cut me in the exchange, to telling me I am killing them by not doing business with them in a tone of voice so full of loathing and hatred it’s difficult to describe. I actually wish the average American could experience it so they could for just a moment understand how the rest of the world perceives our wealth and standing in relation to their suffering. It’s not pretty.
As I step up to the border, the at least ten men who had been surrounding me for my speed walk into unknown directions peel off from the crowd and start wandering back to the gates to target the next mzungu coming through. The border man sits there and laughs at me. He just leans back in his chair and watches the whole procession to the border like it’s his own personal afternoon entertainment. When I finally reach him, all he says is not to exchange money on the street. Thanks. When I ask him where the heck I am supposed to go and what I am supposed to do with the form I am still holding on to, he tells me to follow another person from my bus who has straggled up to the gate a ways behind me (the processing line was really slow so no one was coming out at the same time) rather than explaining anything. There is no such thing as customer service in either of these two countries, believe me.
This young lady takes pity on me and brings me to another building (also not marked) where I somehow manage to get a visa and make it back out alive and legally able to be in Kenya. Of course right away I am completely surrounded by Masaai women selling crafts. Because I am white I am required to buy them, and they are nothing short of hostile for my lack of interest. They follow me all the way to the bus, which I have finally spotted, screaming at me and shoving bracelets in my face the entire way. When I get to the bus, a staffer (without saying a word or really looking at me he was so bored by the whole thing) grabs me by the arm and shoves me into the bus even though no one else is boarding, just to get his mzungu charge away from the evil saleswomen. Someone really needs to teach them the concept of “you catch more bees with honey” because when you approach someone to sell them something and you are already visibly angry, they are not going to be too inclined to do business with you. The tribal women are aggressive. I think it comes from long hard lives of surviving one thing after another.
Four hours later I arrived in Nairobi under the cover of darkness to find no one there waiting for me. My luggage was taken out of the bus before I got off, and the staff kept telling me my bags were inside and physically grabbing my shoulders and turning me to point me in that direction despite the fact that I saw one of my bags being led off in another direction on a cart. They were practically patting the nice dumb little white girl on the head for my stupidity of not understanding that I should just go inside and sit down like a good girl. After fishing my bag out of someone else’s trunk (overeager fathers everywhere apparently snatch up all luggage in sight when picking up their daughters from the bus station) and narrowly avoiding a confrontation with that family (believe me, I would have won – there was no more messing with me at this point in the day) I placed it with my other piece of luggage inside to find it soaked inside and out as if someone had dumped a bucket of water over it, and both bags opened and gone through. Nothing was stolen but they could have at least zipped it back up for heavens sake.
I had to find a pay phone to call who was supposed to be collecting me. The pay phone turned out to be some opportunist employee’s cell phone that she charged me 500 Tanzanian per minute to use. My host was already on his way, so I watched the waning minutes of a World Cup game in which the US lost badly to the Czech Republic until he showed up and rescued me from the world of buses.
Finally Kenya
I rode into Dar a week ago Saturday with Josh’s dad who had to get into the city to deal with some paperwork. When I found out I had the potential to avoid a bus ride, I very quickly scheduled my life around Jon’s offer to bring me into town. When he dropped me off back at the home of my Dar es Salaam hosts, I had to say a quick good-bye to avoid crying like a blubbering idiot because it was my last parting with the people I had been with all this time in Morogoro who had been so incredibly kind to me throughout.
I spent a few frustrating days in Dar with no electricity for much of the time (and there hadn’t been any in Morogoro when I’d left) and the internet not functioning in my neighborhood. Trying to coordinate travel plans in this part of the world on your own is difficult at best. Trying to do anything without a cell phone is virtually impossible. Trying to track down people in another country to confirm when you are coming so that you can buy your bus ticket and get on the road when you have no phone, no internet, and when you do borrow a phone the calls won’t go through – well I won’t even begin to describe the level of frustration I experienced. Perhaps I have been spoiled be the ease of communication at home, but it certainly is a better way to go if you ever want to get anything accomplished. And we wonder why the majority of the rest of the world just can’t seem to catch up. It took me two weeks just to figure out what day to buy a bus ticket.
I was up at 4:30 in the morning to get my 6am bus to Nairobi. I was on that bus for 14 hours. Surprisingly, it was the fastest day I have had in Africa. It was two in the afternoon before I ever even looked at my watch I was so busy looking out the window. There aren’t actually too many exciting things to report on that front, but the border crossing will be a post onto itself.
I spent a few frustrating days in Dar with no electricity for much of the time (and there hadn’t been any in Morogoro when I’d left) and the internet not functioning in my neighborhood. Trying to coordinate travel plans in this part of the world on your own is difficult at best. Trying to do anything without a cell phone is virtually impossible. Trying to track down people in another country to confirm when you are coming so that you can buy your bus ticket and get on the road when you have no phone, no internet, and when you do borrow a phone the calls won’t go through – well I won’t even begin to describe the level of frustration I experienced. Perhaps I have been spoiled be the ease of communication at home, but it certainly is a better way to go if you ever want to get anything accomplished. And we wonder why the majority of the rest of the world just can’t seem to catch up. It took me two weeks just to figure out what day to buy a bus ticket.
I was up at 4:30 in the morning to get my 6am bus to Nairobi. I was on that bus for 14 hours. Surprisingly, it was the fastest day I have had in Africa. It was two in the afternoon before I ever even looked at my watch I was so busy looking out the window. There aren’t actually too many exciting things to report on that front, but the border crossing will be a post onto itself.
Conversations With Josh
I spent a lot of time with my four and a half year old friend Josh while in Morogoro. His parents were attending the language school to learn some Swahili before they set off for their mission post where Josh’s dad will be the only doctor around for a very isolated tribal people called the Sandawe. Josh is, quite simply put, the most outgoing child of any age I have ever encountered. His advanced vocabulary (he spoke better than a lot of college students I know) coupled with an especially endearing speech impediment made talking to him even more fun. Here is a sample of one of our conversations.
As we were sitting down to eat supper, I commented on the fact that I was especially hungry because I’d hardly had any lunch.
Josh: Why didn’t you eat much at lunch time?
Me: Because I don’t eat meat.
Josh: Why don’t you eat meat?
Me: Because I don’t like it.
Josh? Why don’t you like it?
Me: Because I don’t like how it tastes.
Josh: Why don’t you like how it tastes?
Me: Because it tastes bad to me.
Josh: Why does it taste bad to you?
I pause, thinking of some bio-chemical explanation of why meat tastes so disgusting to me. I got nothing.
Me: You know Josh, I really don’t know why it doesn’t taste good to me.
Josh puts on his thinking face during a pause for reflection.
Josh: Well maybe when you get a husband he can teach you how to eat meat.
Me: ???????????????????????????????
I’d like to see him try.
As we were sitting down to eat supper, I commented on the fact that I was especially hungry because I’d hardly had any lunch.
Josh: Why didn’t you eat much at lunch time?
Me: Because I don’t eat meat.
Josh: Why don’t you eat meat?
Me: Because I don’t like it.
Josh? Why don’t you like it?
Me: Because I don’t like how it tastes.
Josh: Why don’t you like how it tastes?
Me: Because it tastes bad to me.
Josh: Why does it taste bad to you?
I pause, thinking of some bio-chemical explanation of why meat tastes so disgusting to me. I got nothing.
Me: You know Josh, I really don’t know why it doesn’t taste good to me.
Josh puts on his thinking face during a pause for reflection.
Josh: Well maybe when you get a husband he can teach you how to eat meat.
Me: ???????????????????????????????
I’d like to see him try.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
A Birthday and a Typical Day
Today is my own little mother's birthday, so happy birthday to her! I wanted her to throw a 6-6-6 party, but she thought it might be in poor taste. Sigh... I guess my particular sense of humor isn't for everyone.
My day here in the outskirts of Morogoro was one very typical of a day in Tanzania. I will highlight some of the most excruciatingly typical parts of it for you to get an idea of what I mean.
This afternoon, one of the language school students fortunate enough to possess a land rover announced that he would be making a run into town and that whoever wanted to go would meet at 2:30. Around 3:00, when most people had eventually turned up, we overloaded ourselves into the vehicle and headed toward town. Somewhere along the main road someone started shouting in the back that we had passed the place where we were supposed to let him off. The driver is supposed to know those things by intuition of course. We let him off as soon as we could pull over, with him complaining of how far he now had to walk. You're welcome!
Linda, the resident southern mama of the seminary, and myself were dropped off at the fancy grocery store. It ws completely empty as the food is imported and so expensive that only the missionaries and western volunteers can afford to shop there. The locals buy their goods off the street. Despite the fact that we were the only two people there, it seemed to the staff extremely necessary to mop whatever aisle we were trying to explore at any given time. The floor was sopping wet and we skidded through the store, gazing longingly at bottles of Hershey's chocolate syrup and Twix bars. I was a good girl and only bought some vanilla yogurt. If I get one serving of dairy every other week while I'm here, I'll be pretty impressed with my own resourcefullness in finding it.
I paused when spotting the feminie hygiene products long enough to wonder how the local women deal with issues of their own feminie hygiene and then realize that I really had no desire to learn the answer. My find of the day was the Muslim Barbie pencil set, which I ran to the checkout with! Blue-eyed blonde Barbie is sporting a jean skirt and the Islamic headcovering for women in all of the pictures. Insert high-quality rant about the perils of globalism and the continued existence of colonialism in a more perverse form here.
When finished with our shopping, Linda brought me dowstairs for the promised-for ice cream.
Of course the don't have any. No restaurant in this country has any business having a menu at all because they never have half the things on it, and that is not exaggerating. I order a veggie burger off the menu and am delighted when the man nods and smiles rather than telling me they have no burgers of any kind. Twenty minutes later, I am presented with a heaping bowl of rice. Linda and I stare at it blankly, wondering if the burger is underneath it somewhere. Of course not. I apparently ordered vegetable birani rather than vegetable BURGER in this man's hearing. There is no time to wait for more food, so I pick at my mess of Indian-style flavored rice (and I hate flavored rice), which was of course more expensive than the hoped-for burger, until our ride returns.
Our driver stops for gas. Unfortunately, the gas station has lost power so the pumps do not work. We wait for them to pull out the generator to give them enough juice to give us the fuel to make it back to the seminary.
Was I at any point shocked by any of this? Nope. Did I ever bother to get agitated? That would be entirely pointless. It was actually a very nice ride into town with fewer hangups and a quicker turn around than usual. The rice was pretty bad, though. Especially when you think you are getting a veggie burger.
I haven't decided who will be the lucky recipient of Muslim Barbie's pencil set, but whoever does is in for quite a treat in their stocking this Christmas!
My day here in the outskirts of Morogoro was one very typical of a day in Tanzania. I will highlight some of the most excruciatingly typical parts of it for you to get an idea of what I mean.
This afternoon, one of the language school students fortunate enough to possess a land rover announced that he would be making a run into town and that whoever wanted to go would meet at 2:30. Around 3:00, when most people had eventually turned up, we overloaded ourselves into the vehicle and headed toward town. Somewhere along the main road someone started shouting in the back that we had passed the place where we were supposed to let him off. The driver is supposed to know those things by intuition of course. We let him off as soon as we could pull over, with him complaining of how far he now had to walk. You're welcome!
Linda, the resident southern mama of the seminary, and myself were dropped off at the fancy grocery store. It ws completely empty as the food is imported and so expensive that only the missionaries and western volunteers can afford to shop there. The locals buy their goods off the street. Despite the fact that we were the only two people there, it seemed to the staff extremely necessary to mop whatever aisle we were trying to explore at any given time. The floor was sopping wet and we skidded through the store, gazing longingly at bottles of Hershey's chocolate syrup and Twix bars. I was a good girl and only bought some vanilla yogurt. If I get one serving of dairy every other week while I'm here, I'll be pretty impressed with my own resourcefullness in finding it.
I paused when spotting the feminie hygiene products long enough to wonder how the local women deal with issues of their own feminie hygiene and then realize that I really had no desire to learn the answer. My find of the day was the Muslim Barbie pencil set, which I ran to the checkout with! Blue-eyed blonde Barbie is sporting a jean skirt and the Islamic headcovering for women in all of the pictures. Insert high-quality rant about the perils of globalism and the continued existence of colonialism in a more perverse form here.
When finished with our shopping, Linda brought me dowstairs for the promised-for ice cream.
Of course the don't have any. No restaurant in this country has any business having a menu at all because they never have half the things on it, and that is not exaggerating. I order a veggie burger off the menu and am delighted when the man nods and smiles rather than telling me they have no burgers of any kind. Twenty minutes later, I am presented with a heaping bowl of rice. Linda and I stare at it blankly, wondering if the burger is underneath it somewhere. Of course not. I apparently ordered vegetable birani rather than vegetable BURGER in this man's hearing. There is no time to wait for more food, so I pick at my mess of Indian-style flavored rice (and I hate flavored rice), which was of course more expensive than the hoped-for burger, until our ride returns.
Our driver stops for gas. Unfortunately, the gas station has lost power so the pumps do not work. We wait for them to pull out the generator to give them enough juice to give us the fuel to make it back to the seminary.
Was I at any point shocked by any of this? Nope. Did I ever bother to get agitated? That would be entirely pointless. It was actually a very nice ride into town with fewer hangups and a quicker turn around than usual. The rice was pretty bad, though. Especially when you think you are getting a veggie burger.
I haven't decided who will be the lucky recipient of Muslim Barbie's pencil set, but whoever does is in for quite a treat in their stocking this Christmas!
Worth a Herd
The church, at the top of a mountain. Christikon, anyone?
I spent last Sunday out with mchungaji Hafermann, doing what I like to do best by hanging out at a Masaai village. It's quite a different experience when you don't have nine other young white people to help spread out all of the attention and curiosity!
This village was unlike all the others I have visited in other more important ways as well. To get to it, we headed in the opposite direction from the usual course into the broad scrubby grazing lands beyond Morogoro and instead backtracked toward Dar a bit and then up into some of the lower mountains.
I was immediately confused by this. What are cattle herders doing on top of a mountain? Pastor Hafermann referred to them as refugees, and I spent the rest of the day seeing how refugees in this part of the world live.
This village was unlike all the others I have visited in other more important ways as well. To get to it, we headed in the opposite direction from the usual course into the broad scrubby grazing lands beyond Morogoro and instead backtracked toward Dar a bit and then up into some of the lower mountains.
I was immediately confused by this. What are cattle herders doing on top of a mountain? Pastor Hafermann referred to them as refugees, and I spent the rest of the day seeing how refugees in this part of the world live.
This little guy just made me melt. Cutest kid ever.
Actually, refugee is not the correct word since this group came from within Tanzania. Rather they are internally displaced people or IDPs. I was expecting a tale of intertribal warfare that drove them off of their lands and into the hills. As more and more of the traditional grazing lands are taken up by farmers, tribes now have to compete for the space required to feed the cattle that make their whole world work. Closer to Morogoro this has ended in several deaths between the Masaai and Barubai. Yet this did not end up being the case with this group.
So what displaced these people? Enlarging the national park lands around Arusha.
While lions, leopards, and water buffalo are now able to live more freely than they have in a long time, the Masaai who had lived there were unceremoniously kicked off of THEIR land with no reimbursement from the government of Tanzania. And so they set off walking, old man, woman, and child alike, until they ended up in the mountains in 2000 where they wouldn't be bothered too much by the locals. They walked for hundreds of miles, with all of their herds and wordly possessions from Arusha which is by the border with Kenya.
My first observation at this village was that these were the skinniest children I had seen. They had the stereotypical skin and bones look of the images so often associated with Africa. It's been six years and they are still working on rebuilding their herds. In a culture where they live off of maize and milk (Masaai women don't get any meat) it makes for a very precarious existance.
I guess I should be flattered then that when I was sitting with mch Hafermann, some nice looking young warriors came and joined us. It didn't take long for me to pick up on the fact that the conversation was about me. The offer for my bride price by one particularly spunky gentleman was 70 cattle! That's a mighty nice sized herd! Pastor said he'd give me to him for only 69, but that the young warrior had to herd the cows back to America to give to my father. Another chimed in that that was nothing and he could do 75. So there's a feather in my cap!
A phenomenon witnessed at all Masaai villages when letting the warriors play with your camera: 50 of the exact same shot of their confused friends' faces at point blank range.
And this is what happen when a bunch of silly little boys get a hold of it.
On another note, there was a tall , strong young man in the village who had drop seizures the whole day we were there. Apparently he only used to have them once a month or so but they are now very steady. I could tell by his gait when I first spotted him that something was just a little bit off. The electricity running unchecked through his brain is starting to eat at his gross motor control, even when he is out of the seizures. It was nice to see how the village sheltered him and watched over him. He could have very easily been their dirty little secret, hidden away and never mentioned when the white people came. Instead, the way they all as a community looked after him was nothing short of tender.
I've seen a lot of seizures with the job I worked the last two summers in Anchorage, and after some discussion with Pastor Hafermann, he went in to town on Monday to try and purchase some phenobarbytol for the boy to see if it might get him a little more stable. If they become less frequent, he may be able to regain some independence and quality of life. This drug is the building block of most seizure meds and is pretty much his only option here. It cost $2, which is an amount this village could never afford.
I somehow manage to find myself in a crowd of little boys everywhere I go!
And while the little boys crowd, the girls sit and stare. There just have to be different standards for how they act in public from what I've observed.
The green hats have the president's face on them and can be seen everywhere. They were given out during the last presidential campaign. Up until just recently, this party represented by the green color was the only one allowed in the country since independence.
In case you were wondering, church is a perfectly appropriate place/time to breastfeed. I got over that one at the first church when we counted five different women doing their motherly duty at the same time at a certain point. If you go to Africa, be prepared to see a lot of bosom.
This was my little shadow for the day - of course the only time he turned off his ear-to-ear smile was for the camera (you can tell they'd never seen one before at this village). He was one of the tinier ones. I thought he was four, maybe five, and he turned out to be seven. He thought by making friends with me he was going to get a ride in the car at the end of the day and looked like I'd just eaten his favorite puppy when I had to peel his fingers off the car door and gently set him back on the ground at the end of the day.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Out of Place
Here are some closing observations on Dar es Salaam.
The place has absolutely no need for a supermarket. Forget Cub, Wallgreens, Fred Meyer. All you need to do to get your shopping done is sit in the inevitable traffic jams on any of the main (meaning paved) roads, and anything and everything you could possibly need will walk by your car.
As you sit in traffic, men walk alongside and between cars, selling literally anything and everything. Most commonly there are newspapers, especially in the morning, but if you have any need for dish towels, chewing gum, stearing wheel covers, cashews, nerf balls - you won't have to wait very long.
The strangest thing that I saw, however, was a fully assembled six-foot metal coat rack. A guy just walked ever so boredly alongside the traffic, holding it up for the drivers to see. I watched it for quite a ways as the man worked his way down the road.
Now while the Wartburg group was still here, we often found ourselves playing the "out of place" game. While spending four hours driving along a winding mountain road, we would try to out-do each other with what could possibly be the most out of place in that setting. Things like a marching band in full uniform and perfect formation coming through the palm trees, a Dip 'n Dots stand, and your grandmother were all perfectly suitable answers.
When we were at the Masaai village where we had church outside under a tree with goats and stray chickens meandering by, amidst dozens of traditionally dressed Masaai, a very familiar ringtone started playing during a prayer. A warrior dug in his robes and pulled out his cell, guiltilly walking away before answering. We all looked at each other and snickered - we couldn't have thought of a better "out of place" if we'd thought all month. (as a side note, landlines are scarce here, especially in the bush, so it is very practical for the Masaai to have cell phones while they are out for weeks herding cattle in the middle of nowhere. they sell their livestock for cash to pay for this and other things that require hard currency).
Despite the fact that I'd gotten quite used to the carside shopping in Dar, a big maroon coat rack was still well enough outside the expected to be my "out of place" moment for my time in the city, as I watched it weave between cars for half a mile before it disappeared entirely.
The place has absolutely no need for a supermarket. Forget Cub, Wallgreens, Fred Meyer. All you need to do to get your shopping done is sit in the inevitable traffic jams on any of the main (meaning paved) roads, and anything and everything you could possibly need will walk by your car.
As you sit in traffic, men walk alongside and between cars, selling literally anything and everything. Most commonly there are newspapers, especially in the morning, but if you have any need for dish towels, chewing gum, stearing wheel covers, cashews, nerf balls - you won't have to wait very long.
The strangest thing that I saw, however, was a fully assembled six-foot metal coat rack. A guy just walked ever so boredly alongside the traffic, holding it up for the drivers to see. I watched it for quite a ways as the man worked his way down the road.
Now while the Wartburg group was still here, we often found ourselves playing the "out of place" game. While spending four hours driving along a winding mountain road, we would try to out-do each other with what could possibly be the most out of place in that setting. Things like a marching band in full uniform and perfect formation coming through the palm trees, a Dip 'n Dots stand, and your grandmother were all perfectly suitable answers.
When we were at the Masaai village where we had church outside under a tree with goats and stray chickens meandering by, amidst dozens of traditionally dressed Masaai, a very familiar ringtone started playing during a prayer. A warrior dug in his robes and pulled out his cell, guiltilly walking away before answering. We all looked at each other and snickered - we couldn't have thought of a better "out of place" if we'd thought all month. (as a side note, landlines are scarce here, especially in the bush, so it is very practical for the Masaai to have cell phones while they are out for weeks herding cattle in the middle of nowhere. they sell their livestock for cash to pay for this and other things that require hard currency).
Despite the fact that I'd gotten quite used to the carside shopping in Dar, a big maroon coat rack was still well enough outside the expected to be my "out of place" moment for my time in the city, as I watched it weave between cars for half a mile before it disappeared entirely.
I hate the bus station.
Well, I arrived safely back in Morogoro on June 1st to spend some more time at the seminary with the language school students and figure out how and when I am getting to Kenya. The logistics of traveling independently in a developing country can become a part-time job.
I took a bus from Dar es Salaam to Morogoro. I didn't think it would be such a big deal, and I guess it really wasn't, but I also didn't expect to despise the entire process as much as I did.
The bus station in Dar is complete bedlam. As you drive through the gates, several men start running alongside your car, screaming at you through the windows that they know a good bus, good price, leaving in five minutes, they'll take you there. These men do not work for any one bus company, but the drivers of the buses will give them a commission for every person they bring over to buy a ticket. These men will physically grab on to your window frame if your window is rolled down and will let the car DRAG them through the bus station rather than lose a potential commission. It's not best comfortable for the people inside of the car.
One of these men had my bags out of the car and was walking toward a bus before I had even gotten myself out of the car. He did manage to do one thing right by bringing me to a bus bound for Morogoro. He then proceeded to load my bags onto the insde of the bus because the driver didn't feel like opening up the under compartments. The schiester proceeded to DISASSEMBLE my bigger piece of luggage to make everything fit in the tiny little overhead storage space. I was livid, because this was only creating more things for me to carry by myself once I got to where I was going, and I already had a lot. He kept telling me"don't worry sister, is no problem!" When he came back for the tip he requested a ridiculous amount of money, almost as much as the bus ticket had cost. Then as I was sitting in my seat, waiting for the bus to leave in five minutes as I'd been told, he brings me a hand written receipt for bringing my bags on the bus. Now, I had no clue whether or not there was a charge for luggage, but I didn't like or trust this guy and he didn't work for the bus company, so I pretended I didn't understand and just put it in my pocket. After coming back about four times with his "sister, you must pay" he started leaning over me in my seat to try and intimidate me.
For those of you who know me well or probably even a little, it's probably fairly obvious that I don't like being told what to do. I came out of the womb passive-aggressive. If you try to bully, badger, or in any way try to make me feel small or attempt to usurp some of my power over my own self and the situation at hand, you will only succeed in making me very angry. And be sure that hell hath no fury like an angry Kali.
I pulled out the receipt, took a closer look at it, and saw that he was "charging" me for two more bags than I had, and that the charge was over double of my bus ticket. I'm not stupid. Since he kept leaning in over me, I turned to look him dead in the eye with my best death glare and didn't blink while I pointed out the discrepancies. This turned into "come on sister, I need money" at which point I began thinking of telling him that I only had one brother and he looked nothing like him, and how easily my elbow could connect with his nose at that short of a distance.
Fortunately, the bus driver came on, grabbed him by the back of the neck and threw him back out onto the street. He didn't come back.
I spent the next hour (on my bus that was leaving in five minutes) observing in complete disgust what was going on outside of my little window. Men and women selling snacks and newspapers came up to me at intervals of about 7 seconds to pound on my window, calling me sister, trying to get me to buy whatever it was they had. I watched the cars drive through dragging four different men from the windows. I watched one man who had been trying to sell tickets in front of my bus all of a sudden get bored with it and start hopping around like he was crippled (which he definitely was not) to beg money off of people. The bus drivers cooperated with all of these men, so long as they got their buses full. Everywhere I looked, people were using every dishonest trick in the book to get people to part with their cash. It made me ill.
And then I thought of something a family now living in Haiti had written about their lives there. They said that a place like Haiti brings out the worst in a person if they do not constantly keep themselves in check. In this statement they were referring to themselves, not the native Haitians, and how they react to the people and situations around them.
Now, I am not even going to begin comparing the poverty of Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemishpere, with relatively stable and in some ways prosperous Tanzania. But at the same time, what they said rang true for me in the context of the bus station. Out in front of me I saw people forfeiting any thread of dignity for money. Do people enjoy doing that? Of course not. These people were people's fathers, brothers, husbands, probably coming from the slum that gets flooded out every year that I passed on the way to get to the station. They are the ones bringing home the food and rent money and trying to buy their kids school uniforms and pay the examination fees so that they can continue on to the next grade (public school isn't really free here). When you have all of that on your shoulders, I can imagine there wouldn't be much room for dignity after finding no steady and well-paying jobs to exist for those who don't live in the nicer neighborhoods. Who am I to judge?
As we finally got going and the streets of Dar started fading away, I realized that I must do a better job of keeping my criticisms and my hot little temper in check. This is the way of the world here, and for plenty of good reasons the people themselves have no control over. If I am going to embrace a people and a culture, I need to step outside of myself in times like these and understand before I start to hate.
This doesn't, however, mean that I will ever come to enjoy riding buses here. Thankfully when I go to Kenya I will be on a more Greyhound-style affair that has it's own terminal and some semblance of order.
I took a bus from Dar es Salaam to Morogoro. I didn't think it would be such a big deal, and I guess it really wasn't, but I also didn't expect to despise the entire process as much as I did.
The bus station in Dar is complete bedlam. As you drive through the gates, several men start running alongside your car, screaming at you through the windows that they know a good bus, good price, leaving in five minutes, they'll take you there. These men do not work for any one bus company, but the drivers of the buses will give them a commission for every person they bring over to buy a ticket. These men will physically grab on to your window frame if your window is rolled down and will let the car DRAG them through the bus station rather than lose a potential commission. It's not best comfortable for the people inside of the car.
One of these men had my bags out of the car and was walking toward a bus before I had even gotten myself out of the car. He did manage to do one thing right by bringing me to a bus bound for Morogoro. He then proceeded to load my bags onto the insde of the bus because the driver didn't feel like opening up the under compartments. The schiester proceeded to DISASSEMBLE my bigger piece of luggage to make everything fit in the tiny little overhead storage space. I was livid, because this was only creating more things for me to carry by myself once I got to where I was going, and I already had a lot. He kept telling me"don't worry sister, is no problem!" When he came back for the tip he requested a ridiculous amount of money, almost as much as the bus ticket had cost. Then as I was sitting in my seat, waiting for the bus to leave in five minutes as I'd been told, he brings me a hand written receipt for bringing my bags on the bus. Now, I had no clue whether or not there was a charge for luggage, but I didn't like or trust this guy and he didn't work for the bus company, so I pretended I didn't understand and just put it in my pocket. After coming back about four times with his "sister, you must pay" he started leaning over me in my seat to try and intimidate me.
For those of you who know me well or probably even a little, it's probably fairly obvious that I don't like being told what to do. I came out of the womb passive-aggressive. If you try to bully, badger, or in any way try to make me feel small or attempt to usurp some of my power over my own self and the situation at hand, you will only succeed in making me very angry. And be sure that hell hath no fury like an angry Kali.
I pulled out the receipt, took a closer look at it, and saw that he was "charging" me for two more bags than I had, and that the charge was over double of my bus ticket. I'm not stupid. Since he kept leaning in over me, I turned to look him dead in the eye with my best death glare and didn't blink while I pointed out the discrepancies. This turned into "come on sister, I need money" at which point I began thinking of telling him that I only had one brother and he looked nothing like him, and how easily my elbow could connect with his nose at that short of a distance.
Fortunately, the bus driver came on, grabbed him by the back of the neck and threw him back out onto the street. He didn't come back.
I spent the next hour (on my bus that was leaving in five minutes) observing in complete disgust what was going on outside of my little window. Men and women selling snacks and newspapers came up to me at intervals of about 7 seconds to pound on my window, calling me sister, trying to get me to buy whatever it was they had. I watched the cars drive through dragging four different men from the windows. I watched one man who had been trying to sell tickets in front of my bus all of a sudden get bored with it and start hopping around like he was crippled (which he definitely was not) to beg money off of people. The bus drivers cooperated with all of these men, so long as they got their buses full. Everywhere I looked, people were using every dishonest trick in the book to get people to part with their cash. It made me ill.
And then I thought of something a family now living in Haiti had written about their lives there. They said that a place like Haiti brings out the worst in a person if they do not constantly keep themselves in check. In this statement they were referring to themselves, not the native Haitians, and how they react to the people and situations around them.
Now, I am not even going to begin comparing the poverty of Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemishpere, with relatively stable and in some ways prosperous Tanzania. But at the same time, what they said rang true for me in the context of the bus station. Out in front of me I saw people forfeiting any thread of dignity for money. Do people enjoy doing that? Of course not. These people were people's fathers, brothers, husbands, probably coming from the slum that gets flooded out every year that I passed on the way to get to the station. They are the ones bringing home the food and rent money and trying to buy their kids school uniforms and pay the examination fees so that they can continue on to the next grade (public school isn't really free here). When you have all of that on your shoulders, I can imagine there wouldn't be much room for dignity after finding no steady and well-paying jobs to exist for those who don't live in the nicer neighborhoods. Who am I to judge?
As we finally got going and the streets of Dar started fading away, I realized that I must do a better job of keeping my criticisms and my hot little temper in check. This is the way of the world here, and for plenty of good reasons the people themselves have no control over. If I am going to embrace a people and a culture, I need to step outside of myself in times like these and understand before I start to hate.
This doesn't, however, mean that I will ever come to enjoy riding buses here. Thankfully when I go to Kenya I will be on a more Greyhound-style affair that has it's own terminal and some semblance of order.
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