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Bringing a Baby into the World

It was my last visit to the village, my last night to sleep over at my friend Jane’s house, and our last chance to visit – Lucas, Maiko, Ashahadu, Jane and I. But, the universe had other plans. Mama Aziza was having her baby! Mama Aziza is Jane’s neighbor, her husband has contributed to our secondary school and their first two children are often hanging about Jane’s house. Lucas and Jane suggested that I accompany Jane to help. Help? Um, I train language teachers…

Having a baby in the village is a highly problematic ‘natural’ phenomenon. As my new friend Gillian put it, having a baby is the number one killer of women worldwide. With no access to proper healthcare or healthcare professionals, the women are just risking their lives, or rather – banking on a smooth delivery. In this particular village, every woman knows several who have died in labor. Our night watchman’s wife died two years ago, followed shortly by his brother’s wife.

So, as I follow Jane into the night I’m just banking on everyone’s good karma that this mama and her baby will make it through.

It’s 10pm. She’s been in a labor for ‘a while’. I couldn’t get an estimate. Lucas was concerned because she hadn’t delivered yet. I told him labor can vary in length dramatically and not to have any expectations around time. Nonetheless – he was worried and now I was expecting drama.

I didn’t know what I would see. I thought maybe I would go in and Mama Aziza would be moaning, groaning, and pushing –  surrounded by women giving her support and advice. I arrived to find Mama Aziza lying on a dirt floor on top of a woven grass mat. Beneath her lower body was a plastic bag spread out over a burlap sac. The room was lit with a small kerosene lantern – open flame; no fancy glass cover. It shed light on a 3 foot diameter at best. In one corner was Ashahadu’s mother, Mama Nasula – resident Midwife. She was lying on a grass mat, too, just keeping watch – waiting. Along the same wall as Mama Aziza were two elder women – one was Mama Aziza’s mother and the other was another seasoned baby catcher.

I knew this would be an interesting night when it struck me that Jane’s English really stops at the basics and no one else could speak English at all. We exhausted my Swahili and Kiha vocabulary in about 20 minutes. Jane and I took a seat on a long bench along the 3rd wall. 6 women, one in labor … sitting in silence beneath a full moon, tucked inside a mud hut glowing by the light of a flame … waiting.

As I sat with the women, I took in the scene. A mud house with an aluminum roof, plastered walls and windows with screens and iron rods. Cardboard and curtains keeps the light and peepers at bay. On the wall above Mama Aziza’s head was a spider the size of a lily pad! No one was phased by it and several times, when talking or waiting, each of us looked up at it – acknowledging its presence but not even noting it to one another. Later in the night, when I realized it was no longer by Mama Aziza’s head, nor did it climb up and out – I started to wonder whose skirt it would crawl up … that never happened, and I saw it depart the scene after the baby was born.

Mama Aziza was the most quiet woman in labor – not that I’ve seen many and Hollywood probably exaggerates. She would simply turn to the wall and place her palm against it, sometimes putting both hands behind her neck. None of the women moved to soothe her. At one point, Mama Nasula spread her legs and took a look. She placed the kerosene lantern between her feet and inspected. She had rubber gloves on, but I think they were more for her benefit than Mama Aziza. She kept them on the entire night – moved a bench, moved a mat, closed a door, laid down for a rest, handled escaping bodily fluids, and ultimately, inserted her fingers in some very sensitive areas to help the baby arrive. Sterile? Not so much.

After about an hour of keeping watch and simply noting when Mama Aziza turned to the wall or seemed to be having a bit of discomfort, things changed and she was getting closer. Her pain shot up and she needed Jane to sit behind her and support her. This is when I was asked to sit and hold her leg so she would stay in the right position. From this point, my mind was mostly blown.

Jane moved down to Mama Aziza’s feet to help Mama Nasula. Mama Aziza endured intense labor from this point for another 2 hours. “Sukuma” means Push – I heard this about 400 times during those 2 hours. Mama Nasula has delivered over 100 babies in the village. She is older – in her 60s. She has had 10 of her own children! At some point in time, people from the hospital in town came to the village to find out who delivers babies. They discovered Mama Nasula and checked her notebook – in which she documented all the women she’s ever helped – date, labor experience, baby’s health, mother’s health, etc. Upon evaluation of her existing background knowledge, they offered to bring her to Maweni hospital and have her trained. She has never lost a baby or a mother! She has sent 4 to the hospital when complications arose, but the hospital took care of them.

At one point, Mama Aziza’s mother comes in with a tin bowl filled with some little branches and a bit of water. She swished these branches around, broke parts off and basically made branch soup for about 5 minutes. When she was finished, Mama Nasula took this liquid and poured some into a cup. She had Jane pick out the dirt and leaves, then had Mama Aziza drink it. Then, she drizzled some of the syrupy liquid from Mama Aziza’s belly button – all the way down. I figured it was a traditional ‘activator’ of sorts. I think the biggest fear in the village is that the baby won’t come or that it will be in breech position. This is scary anywhere, but considering a car can’t arrive from town for about 40 minutes, with a 40 minute return to the hospital, you really can’t get that close and then hit the wall … time is not on their side.

As the contractions got closer and the pain intensified, Mama Aziza’s body also indicated the time was upon us! It was pretty amazing to see her open up and prepare to release this little child into the world. As she pushed, they wrapped a kanga (colorful cloth the women all wear like wraps, scarfs, slings for babies, etc.) around her waist. It looped under her lower back and the ends were pulled forward inside her legs. Jane held one end and Mama Nasula and I held the other. They pulled so hard I thought her lower back must be getting rocked! At this point, Mama Aziza is lying flat on her back. Her ‘job’ is to grab hold of the kanga right inside each leg and use this to pull herself as she pushes. About four big pushes from the end, she wanted to give up. She was hugging her mother’s legs and weeping between contractions. “Mungu Wangu” (“My God”) – she sobbed.

Did I mention there are no pain killers?

Also at about 4 big pushes from the end, Mama Nasula and the other women started to really lay into her. “Sukuma, Sukuma, Sukuma, Wewe! Sukuma!” They were scolding her – Push, you. Now. Push. Ah, You, push push push. There was no word of encouragement and her mother was even a bit harsh, telling her to basically ‘suck it up’. I was being me, which included saying things that I’m sure they found funny, like: You can do it. The baby is so close. You’re doing great. At one point near the end when she stopped pushing and seemed to give up, much to the amusement of Jane, I told her (in Swahili) –  – Dada (sister), the baby is almost here. We saw its head and hair! You’re so close!

It was the scariest thing in the world to see the baby’s head crown and go back in and crown and go back in. I thought for sure it was being suffocated or squished. When Mama Nasula seemed worried about the time it was taking for baby to come out, I was worried. Then, when the head came out and Mama Nasula unwrapped the umbilical cord from around its head and tusked with her tongue, I thought – No, No No, please! Not a stillbirth!

Finally, with one last push, the baby plopped out – almost landing on the lantern (which I moved out of the way). It’s a boy! And he’s white! Apparently, that changes quickly.

Mama Nasula put her gloved hand into the baby’s mouth and helped clear it of all fluids. The baby started to cry immediately – and powerfully! Mama Aziza just collapsed back, exhausted. Mama Nasula wiped the pasty fluid from baby’s eyes, face, mouth and then loosely wrapped him in the closest kanga and left him lying on the mat, right by my knee. I patted him on the back and made little clicking sounds to soothe him, which the ladies chuckled at. I wasn’t sure what the delay was as they talked among themselves, neither tending to mother or child.

Jane got behind Mama Aziza and helped her into a squat. She sat there with no emotion or reaction whatsoever, staring at the ground in front of her, which was covered in blood splattered kanga and mat. Then, Mama Nasula helped her deliver the placenta … and what else? There was so much blood, something blue that looked like a swollen shower cap and of course, the umbilical cord. Then, Jane stood Mama Aziza up and walked her in a half circle, before sitting her down in the dirt across the room where she feel asleep sitting up. When she was walking, blood poured out of her, so I had my 3rd (?) panic attack, thinking of women dying post partum from bleeding too much. As she sat sleeping upright, the soles of her feet faced me, dimly lit by the lantern. They were streaked with dirt and blood. I was still soothing the baby – really wishing I could pick him up, but feeling ok knowing at least he wasn’t cold.

Finally, after more back and forth and some work with a string, it was time to tie off the cord. The other elder woman came over with a razor in a sterile package. She took it out and checked with Mama Nasula about where to cut. She was corrected and remembered she had to tie the cord first, so she set the sterile razor on the mat between her feet. They tied the cord and then cut it with the razor. Only at this point did all the women (except me and Mama Aziza) start a little tribal ritual of clapping and making great sounds with their voices.

Finally, the baby was lifted and wrapped and handed straight to me. I was hoping this wasn’t another one of those awkward ‘mzungu’ moments where I’m given some honor I don’t want or deserve just because I’m the visitor. It’s happened to me at weddings and other important events. In this case, they just had a lot to do before they could do anything else with the baby or the mother. Mama Aziza and I sat in silence as the women busied themselves around us – scooping all the blood and other bits into a trashed kanga, removing the blood stained mat, using a hoe to clean up the dirt that had been bloodied. Mama Aziza was wiped out. I asked how she was. I told her congratulations. She smiled weakly and zoned out. I couldn’t help but think about how uncomfortable it must be to sit in the dirt, right on her tender lady parts – but she wasn’t thinking about anything. The baby was so calm. He suckled on his own hand and eventually fell asleep in my arms.

After cleaning the birthing space, the women took Mama Aziza out to bathe her. The baby and I sat together for about an hour as the lantern projected our dancing shadows on the wall behind us. Finally, Mama Aziza and Jane came back in. Mama Aziza was freezing. It was 2:15AM and it was cold outside (for the village) and she was wet. Jane quickly got her into a blouse and jacket and then wrapped a kanga around her. Now she was alive again. She looked up at me and said, Asante Sana. I sat next to her and again congratulated her. She glanced at the baby, but still had yet to acknowledge him in any way.  The women brought her bed back into the room (an oversized sponge) and set it on the floor.

A few minutes later, Mama Nasula came in and took the baby from me. She did a ritualistic mother-child introduction. Mama Aziza turned her palms up and Mama Nasula touched the baby to her palms five times, saying something in the Kiha language before setting the baby in mama’s hands. Even then, Mama Aziza was too wiped out. I helped her make a bed for the baby and the women brought her in a few pots of food – ugali and beans. Mama Aziza is Muslim. This is the time of Ramadan. Even though being pregnant, nursing or having your period is an ‘out’ for fasting, many villagers don’t break the fast, so Mama Aziza had been fasting. Now she was ravenous!

Seeing mama warm, clean and fed and baby self-soothing on the bed next to her was calming and lovely. Mama Nasula went home to eat and sleep. Jane and I took our leave. Mama Aziza’s mother stayed with her. The next day, Mama Aziza and baby were doing great! She asked me to take a picture and again said, Asante Sana. I told her I was so happy to help. I wish I had known how to say humbled, honored, mind-blown – but happy would have to suffice.

In the end, everything worked out fine for Mama Aziza and baby boy, Ismael. But, this isn’t always the case. They are lucky to have the talented Mama Nasula, but even she uses practices that could lead to risk. And, she can’t do much in the case of obstructed labor or other complications. My heart aches for the young beautiful women who die in labor or lose their children. My heart aches for their husbands and families. Fortunately, this was a happy story!

Hongera sana, Mama Aziza!! Karibu, Ismael!

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Hitaji Gets a Set of Wheels

Last summer, we visited the village of Kigalie to add two students to the Project Wezesha scholarship program. While we were there, the head teacher asked us to accompany him to meet a young man named Hitaji. Hitaji had an unfortunate story. (Ironically, hitaji means need in Swahili.) When he was 9 years old, he fell from high in a coconut tree. He was paralyzed from the waist down. Last year, when we met him – he was 15 years old. In the 6 years since his accident, he never left the village on the lake. He has spent much of the past 6 years lying in his bed.

He did make sure to maintain friendships in the tiny village, even though he was no longer able to attend school. (For whatever reason, being paralyzed and going to school were mutually exclusive.) Hitaji would drag (I hate using that word, but that is the best verb for his ‘action’) himself to the gazebo in the center of the village where the men and boys gather to talk. I’m sure when he was younger, friends would carry him. Now that he’s bigger, he walks with sandals on his hands.

After the request came last year, I only had two days in Kigoma before flying home. Lucas and I went on a frantic mission to find a wheelchair. We visited the office of social services in town that issues wheelchairs to people in need. As with much business in Tanzania, the explanation of the process in place for this request escaped me. Apparently there is some list, there is some checking, there is some waiting, there is some ‘tatizo’ that we couldn’t navigate.

So, we headed out of town to the stadium in Mwanga where we heard there was a man who made wheelchairs. This man was, himself, a paraplegic. He explanation to me and Lucas was that not only would we have to spend $300+ (I was willing), but we would have to go to the textiles market and buy all the materials. He got through about 4 different iron measurements, 3 screw types, info about the wheels and then started getting into details when Lucas shook his head and said, ‘Ah Rai, it’s too difficult. I think the time is not enough.’ So, we gave up.

This year, on my second night here, I met a great young man named Muhsini. He has his own amazing story – from the death of both parents when he was a child, to living as a street child, to being sponsored to attend school in Kenya by a Canadian! Now he works as a guide to tourists in the area – taking them to Gombe, Mahale and escorting them on diving trips in the lake. Muhsini was sitting with us when I mentioned the story of Hitaji. I was feeling bad about going back to the village this year without a wheelchair. But not to worry – Muhsini makes a call to his brother in Dar es Salaam and next thing you know, we have a wheelchair coming by bus from the capital. I was skeptical about the potential for it to arrive safely, unescorted, but it came!!

Lucas, Maiko and I boarded a passenger boat on Tuesday morning with the wheelchair in tow. The passenger boat trip was an awesome experience. I had to take pictures and video with my mind because I knew if I pulled out my camera and tried to capture the colors and complexity of the scene, I would certainly piss someone off. I tried to channel the bravado of my photographer friend, the late Bobby Model, but I just couldn’t do it.

What we experienced was the loading of people and goods for about an hour, followed by a super dramatic departure with anchor lines whacking everyone in the head and a collision with another big passenger boat. The boat was carrying people up the lake to villages along the shore between Kigoma and a village just shy of Burundi. Loaded into the boat was everything from bicycles, cement, water tanks and plastic chairs to bags of flour, bananas, fish and buckets filled with who knows what. There were men, women and children and babies lining both sides of the boat and tucked into the hull beneath. Chaos was Lucas’ new vocabulary word for the day.

The passenger boat made a special trip to deliver us to the village. Normally it doesn’t stop in this village, but for .75 cents each, we got front ‘door’ service to the beach of Kigalie. As we approached, I was super choked up. I was overwhelmed thinking about Hitaji and the way of life in Tanzania. Something that I can do so simply in 2 days has been out of his reach for 6 years – and no government support ever came. Fortunately, the Tanzania stoicism subdued my emotions and I was able to get through the delivery without shedding a tear. (I had my doubts on the boat!)

As we walked into the village (a short 100 meters gets us into the center), the children flocked around. I heard whispers of ‘bicikeli’ and ‘Hitaji’ (they call the wheelchair bicycle). They flanked us as we made our way toward his home. The women that were harvesting charcoal greeted us and again we heard ‘Hitaji’. At the gazebo, all the men greeted us and confirmed their hunches – yes, this is for Hitaji. (Sidenote: One asked me if I was Jane Gooddall! That was cool… or, wait – how old is she now? I’m sure he was thinking of 1970’s Jane.)

Finally, before even reaching his house we saw Hitaji. He was sitting outside the dispensary waiting to see the doctor. Dozens of children, men and women came to watch Hitaji get his wheels. Someone sent for his mother, who came quickly, showering God’s blessings on us. Hitaji smiled and greeted us. With a little guidance from Lucas and a friend, he pulled himself up into the wheelchair and settled in.

Lucas showed him how to move forward and backward, use the breaks, steer, etc. Others agreed to help out in the days to come as Hitaji learns the way of his wheels and navigates the less-than-wheelchair-friendly terrain of the village. His mother looked on smiling, saying ‘kwa kweli’ (more or less translated as: For real or It’s true). Then I asked Hitaji if he had any questions. The first words out of his mouth were: Can you help me go to school now?

I’m sure you can guess what my answer was. His head teacher will work with him to help him study and get the education he has missed in the years that passed since his accident. Again, I’m not sure why being able to wheel vs. crawl to school makes a difference, but now he will be able to sit at a desk with his classmates and begin to study.

 

 

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Back in Kigoma – Summer 2013!

Ah, back in Tanzania! This year, my planning for the safari back to Kigoma was overshadowed by my larger, slightly more permanent move to Armenia. I accepted a position as Assistant Professor at the American University of Armenia in the capital city of Yerevan. So, after 18 years in Salt Lake City, Utah – I’m headed out on the next big adventure. When I decided to move to Armenia for this position, it seemed like it shouldn’t impact my annual trip to Tanzania. I would simply do them both – I packed my life into two suitcases, dropped them with a friend’s father in Russia en route to Tanzania and I’ll pick them up on the way back through en route to Armenia.

So, needless to say – with all that planning going on in the forefront, I forgot a few details about life in Tanzania – like, for example, my bug spray. Luckily, while Malaria is on the rise in the country this year (according to my new friends working with the CDC in Dar), the mosquitos just don’t bite much in Kigoma. I also came fairly empty-handed in terms of little gifts and tokens for my friends in the village.  But, good conversation and the occasional gifts of fruit, mgebuka and kitenge are probably better than random kitsch from the US anyway.

What I was prepared for this time around was the sun. My three weeks in South Carolina gave me a nice opportunity to prime my skin and build some tolerance for the hot sun. I don’t feel like I’m burning quite as much this year, although – perhaps due to my rising age 😉 – I’m definitely tiring in the heat a bit faster than usual.

I was also prepared for the “compliment” – Ah, Rai, you are so fat this year!  I knew it was coming because I did have a bit of a lazy winter with an ankle injury and the depression of indecision around life and my future. Sure enough, no one is holding back – not Lucas, not the girls in the hotel who know me well, not Lucas’ family and … well, apparently (according to Lucas) just about every woman we pass in the village has something to say about my body. It’s like a sport to watch me walk by and comment on my figure. Lucas frames it as a common observation: this ‘white’ has a figure different from other ‘whites’. I laugh. I ask him if that’s a good thing or not. I ask him what it means exactly. I get a kick out of this because we ‘white’ girls do have a problem – always trying to be thin, small, svelt, waif … He used his hands to show me in the air. “Most white women are either shaped like this [makes a human sized triangle shape] or like this [makes an upside down triangle]. But you are shaped like this [two straight lines down that meet a big parenthesis followed by two more straight lines]. Haha! According to the girls in the hotel, who are both slim, it’s a shame that I like to walk so much because they would like to be ‘nene’ like me. For Pete’s sake! Now I’m nene. Well, not for long. I’ll show them! 😉

I arrived very underprepared to converse in Kiswahili. I didn’t crack a book before coming – again, the timing, the packing, the move! Fortunately, it’s only taken a few days for the rusty wheels in the Swahili center of my brain to get lubricated by the input on the streets. Vocab and various linguistic structures are kicking into gear with little to no priming. My Kiha greetings (those in the local tribal language) are also coming back with ease so I can resume my important job of making the elder Waha women chuckle as I greet them with a nasalized Mwakeye in the morning. One group of women in the village actually thanked me for greeting them in Kiha – Urakoze kwa salimia na kiha. It’s the little things …

Seeing Lucas and friends in the village is as warming as ever. Lucas and I have been catching up every day, but there is less to ‘get to know’ now. We’re like old friends that just slip back into our time together as if no time has passed. As for the work – well, more on that in another post! For now, Tanzania greets me at every turn and I’m happy to be back. Karibu tena, dada!

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The Tremendous Value of an Intern

In the winter of 2012 Project Wezesha was contacted by an undergraduate student via email:

My name is Katy Lindquist and I am an anthropology student at Colby College in Waterville, ME.  I am very interested in volunteering for your organization this summer.  As an anthropology student, I have become very interested in grassroots organizing and local movements especially focused on human rights and education.  I am interested in learning what the situation looks like on the ground and comparing how a local aspect compares to the overarching Western perspective I am used to.  I have been wanting to travel to Tanzania for years now and have done quite bit or academic research on Central and Eastern Africa.  Please let me know if your organization is open to international volunteers and if so what a three month summer commitment might look like.

Katy, our fabulous intern from Colby College

I instantly perked up because we had always wanted an intern, but were uncertain about recruiting and management procedures. In all honesty, I didn’t know exactly what we would do with an intern, but what I did know was this: the 3-4 weeks that I spend there every year is nowhere near enough time to do the deeper work that I’ve always wanted to do. When I’m there every year, I have big ideas about women’s groups, health initiatives, small enterprise endeavors, getting to know teachers strengths and challenges, etc. However, when I hit the ground – I am running. It seems that there is always some issue to address, some conversation to be had, some crisis to investigate – and often not related to Project Wezesha directly, but perhaps involving our students or other community members that we work with.

So – throughout the Spring of 2012 Katy and I communicated about a plan of action for her time in Mgaraganza. We organized the logistics of housing, travel and length of stay and we brainstormed projects for her to tackle while there. The work Katy did in the 2.5 months she spent in Mgaraganza Village was invaluable.

Jane - Katy's host 'mom', friend and future entrepreneur

She held meetings with women’s groups to investigate their grassroots efforts at micro-finance; she spent hours in the classrooms teaching the students and gaining an insider perspective on the biggest challenges to teachers and students; she was instrumental in setting up a new scholarship application and accountability process with the village leaders; she investigated local women’s entrepreneurial ideas; she initiated a mentorship model with five of our young students;  and, most importantly, she was a phenomenal ambassador for Project Wezesha, Colby College and the US through the relationships she made and the positive interactions she had with many in the community.

Katy (far left) and Rai with Isaya's Family

As Katy settles into Fall semester at Colby College, she’ll be compiling a report on her experiences in this internship. As that report develops, we’ll share with you the insights she gained and her recommendations from her new ‘insider perspective’.

Thanks Katy! You’ve really moved Project Wezesha forward in a positive, hopeful direction! Asante Sana!!

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This is Their Story

This is her story. The story of most girls in the village.

This is his story. The story of most boys in the village.

Are you ready?

There is no response more difficult to deliver than a ‘no’ to the request of a student for school support.  Unfortunately, if I said ‘yes’ to every student or parent with this request, I would certainly not be able to sustain the support, but damn I wish I could just say ‘yes, yes, yes, yes, yes’.

I wish I could tell you the following with a wink and smile as if I were joking, but this is the reality of the children in the villages in Tanzania. I’m not trying to paint the ‘fly in the eye’ image either, but I do want to share what is real. This is real. They’re just kids – like you and I used to be, but they do ‘kid’ in a different world than I did.

For three years, Diana walked 1.5 hours each way to and from school daily. In the village, the particular children we support – Saidi, Hindu, Edina, Diana, Amosi and Jumbe – don’t eat breakfast before beginning the journey to school. In fact, they kind of smiled at one another when I asked what they eat for breakfast. Lucas chimed in quickly with a sharply falling tone of voice, “Rai, they don’t eat.” Of course, I’d heard it before, but hearing it again from a chorus of six students made me wince.  They all walk a great distance to school. Because secondary schools in the villages are rare, they usually build them in remote areas on the border of villages as to serve children from multiple villages. There are few children lucky enough to live within close range of a school.

In her final year of secondary school, Diana finally moved to the village where her school is located. This is not uncommon. If a secondary school offers boarding, those who can afford it will pay and sleep on site. Many schools in towns and cities offer this option. Village schools do not.

When I asked the kids about lunch at school, again they looked at each other and laughed with insider knowledge. None of these kids get lunch at school. If you have money, you can buy lunch – maybe some chipati and chai – from a woman making and selling on site. But for these kids, who would sooner walk 1.5 hours than pay $0.35 to take public transport, lunch isn’t in the cards.

So, they walk at around 6am, arrive for classes hungry and tired to study with no books in a language they barely speak or understand. They come home, help their parents in the farm or around the house with younger siblings and for the young ones and most boys, they have some time to run and play. Some go swimming, but you better believe they come home with a full bucket of water when they are finished.

On any given school day you will see school age children walking this way or that from neighboring towns and villages with firewood, sugar cane stalks, buckets of water, sacs of flour or baskets of fish on their heads. ‘Unatoka wapi?” “Where are you coming from?” Three girls we met were returning to Mgaraganza village from Mwandiga town by foot on a Wednesday. This is a trek of about 1.5-2 hours (depending on the heat of the day). There was school, but they had to go to town to buy the sugar cane on their heads and return to the village so their mothers could sell it in the market. This is not a surprising response to our question “Hakuna masomo leo?”

I could continue with more examples and stories that would just read like a prescription for depression, but I’ll stop here. I just want you to share this with your friends and especially with your young friends and children. We are so lucky in the United States and Europe and throughout the ‘developed’ world. We really can have no idea what a great fortune we posses with our lattes in hand, behind the steering wheel of even our old pick up trucks, with a degree or two tucked in our pocket and a paying job with a comfortable office. We can have no idea until we’ve walked 365 days in the feet (often without shoes) of a 12 year old girl or her 28 year old mother in the developing country of our choice.

Cheers to resilience! Now let’s envision a brighter future and make it happen from the ground up!

This is their story. But it doesn’t have to be…

 

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Anecdotes from the Field

Dramatization:

Two Americans plan to meet one morning at 9am to have a little meeting before a big meeting.  Here’s how it might unfold in the morning – in a potential scenario:

1 – Hey, sorry I’m late. I was rushing out the door when I realized I didn’t save that file to the flash drive and then the traffic was crazy and my head is not screwed on right today because I don’t think I’ve slept more than 8 hours in the past three days.  I feel like a crazy person.

2 – No worries, I just got here.  I didn’t remember to bring that list we compiled last month but I think we can work without it.  Do you want to grab a coffee first or just get started?

Two Tanzanians plan to meet one morning at 9am to have a little meeting before a big meeting.  Here’s how it might unfold in the morning – in a potential scenario:

1 – Hey

2 – Hey

1 – Is all good?

2 – All’s good?

1 – Is all well?

2 – All’s well.

1 – How are you?

2 – Good, how are you?

1 – Fine, how’s things at home?

2 – Fine, did you sleep well?

1 – Ah yea, I slept well and you?

2 – Ah, for me, I slept fine.  What’s the news?

1 – No news.  How’s the work been?

2 – Oh fine, good. Everything is fine.

1 – Ah, good.  That’s good.

2 – Ok, so.

1 – So, should we go over here to talk?

2 – Fine, let’s go then.

Seen:

T-shirt on distinguished gentleman in my favorite town café read:

My Indian name is: RUNS WITH BEER

Overheard:

To Rai:  Dada, how are you? (In English)

To boy: I’m fine.  I’m tired.

Man on dala: Tire. [then repeats the Kiswahili word for ‘wheel’]

Observed:

Our builders were making a complex A-frame structure for the school roof – three men sawing dozens of 2x4s with a saw – a good old fashioned man-powered saw.  Then, they proceeded to hammer it all together, board by board with a good old fashioned hammer and nails.  Bravo!  But, I wonder if it wouldn’t be nice to talk to that portable solar panel company and see about sending out a panel as a power source along with a skill saw … sure would makes things go about 15 times faster … but then again, maybe their greetings would incidentally be reduced to two lines (or none) with the newfound sense of efficiency.  That would be bad!

Experienced:

You know when you’re super duper rushed and you start to not think too clearly.  Add to the ‘rush factor’ a little bit of nervous energy.  When the two combine, you really get to thinking with barely one half of the old brain.  Like, remember that one time when I squatted under a mango tree to pee quickly before the next villager passes by with a load on her head and I peed on my water bottle.  That was fun.

Resisted:

Corruption of any kind, even an overcharge to get a ride on the dala dala.  You want to charge me 500 Tsh ($.50) extra just because I’m white.  I’d rather walk.  (But damn, could it not have been on a day that I had already walked 5 hours!!)  It’s all about the principle!!

Enjoyed Immensely:

Sitting with Saidi’s Babu as he worked away on his tall grasses to make brooms for sale, surrounded by all types of baby animals and my favorite young students.  Ah, village life.  Napenda!

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Back in the Kigoma Region!

It was so great to arrive back in Kigoma!  Lucas met me at the airport and we were both glowing to see each other again.  He’s really become like a brother to me, and the fact that ‘Dada Rai’ is how he and most others refer to me (Sister Rai), well it just always feels great to come back – like coming to one of my many homes around the globe.  Lucas and I came up to the hotel to drop my things and then we headed to town to have lunch.  I gave him his new Project Wezesha shirt and prints of all the photos that he’s taken over the past year – and some from my trip last year.  We caught up on the gaps between emails over the past year and I got the scoop on folks we know.

The best update was that our friends Ashahadu and Jane had a baby girl, Sifa and that she’s lovely and doing fine.  When I went to meet her in the village, I saw just how fine she is – her Rai-given nickname will easily be ‘Tank’ and eating is clearly not a problem for her.  She’s a big beauty with huge eyes and a full belly!

The worst update was that our watchman, who keeps an eye on the school, the ‘store room’, tools, materials, etc. lost his wife last year and then his infant baby last month.  Last August his wife died from complications due to the dreaded obstructed labor that plagues so many women – in developed and developing. The key difference between the two contexts being the more highly trained doctors and therefore successful surgeries in the hospitals in developed regions of the world.

Here, Kalekwa’s wife was giving birth at the dispensary in the village and, as Lucas put it, the baby was coming out “randomly” – first a leg, then … Eventually, baby was born alive but the mother died.  Poor Kalekwa is a young father with three children ages 7, 5, and 3 years and now an infant.  Fortunately, relatives stepped in to help raise the children, including the newborn.  I’m not sure why, but last month, at almost a year old – the baby died suddenly.  That’s really all anyone knows about that.  So, Kalekwa is so sad but life goes on and he has some support – but my heart goes out to him and the little ones. The village births seem like such a gamble!  I also learned that his brother also lost his wife in childbirth due to similar circumstances.  Then I found out that Jane had Sifa while squatting behind their house!  If she died ….. oh, the thought pains me.  I hope they have their next child at Maweni hospital in town!

The day after arriving, Lucas and I visited Mgaraganza village – mainly so I could check out the school and see what the progress was like.  Four classrooms and two offices are finished and waiting for their roofs.  I was hoping to see more walls up at this point, to be honest, but the money was still sitting in the bank, waiting for the big roof project – and I’m glad for that because, as you’ll read about the Amahoro Secondary School update in another blog entry, the roof effort is spendy!  Nonetheless, it was great to stand inside the large classrooms and envision the future – rooms filled with students, learning in the most beautiful environment – surrounded by trees on a hilltop overlooking the valley that houses several villages.

Of course, with any visit to the village, a little posse of curious kids trailed in behind us and spent some time wandering from room to room, watching me more than taking in the classrooms – obviously, as these classrooms practically sit in their back yard and well, wazungu don’t come around every day.  As they warmed up to me, shared their names with me and started to laugh a little – we began shooting some pics.  Each and every one of them is so beautiful and I just love hearing them laugh and seeing them smile!

 

Two days after I arrived in Kigoma was Eid, the celebration of the end of Ramadan.  I was glad when the day finally arrived because it seemed like there was some confusion about when it was to be.  I was on the dala dala en route to Kiganza one day and had the great ‘pleasure’ of sitting in the midst of a screaming match between two Muslim men over when Eid would be.  The elder of the two clearly had the upper hand in the argument and kept putting the younger one in his place, however that young fellah definitely fought back quite a bit, frowning and yelling.  I didn’t pick up on everything but I knew they were arguing about the moon and when it would appear.  I also heard them talking about the times before TV and radio and then I figured the older man was trying to teach the younger man about the world, a little bit.

Later, Lucas told me that, in fact, the older man was saying to the younger man – what do you think they did in the days before TV and radio; how do you think they knew it was Eid – do you think they had to wait for someone to ride into town and tell them? I wondered about this line of argument and Lucas said that they were also discussing the moon and how just because you don’t see the moon in Kigoma doesn’t mean that they didn’t see the moon elsewhere.  They were talking about how at that very moment, they were seeing the moon in United States while we were in our early morning commute.  They were also discussing cloud cover and other factors.  Oh, it was just confusing – and I think everyone was hungry and ready for Eid.  There had already been two false starts and now finally, Eid was upon us and everyone was ready to celebrate!

Every village was having a disco party and every family was having a great feast.  Everyone was dressed in their best clothes – the outfits they only wear on holidays – shiny, clean, new outfits.  Little girls in bright matching tops and skirts hugging their cute little bodies – fitting so well in fact that they were probably made just recently for the celebration.  Little boys in three-piece suits and their best Sunday shoes, looking more like little men than children.  All the women had their best hair, make-up and dresses on.  Of course, not everyone is Muslim – but everyone is having an awesome day!

Lucas and I joined our friends Ashahadu and Jane for a feast in their home in Mgaraganza Village. (Pictured above – their son, Mickey chopping sugar cane and laughing with friends)  Both Ashahadu’s and Jane’s mothers were there, a few of their siblings and other friends and relatives.  Every guest who popped into the yard to say hello in passing jumped back with a  little laugh when they saw me – whispering “mzungu?” before saying a little ‘eh eh’ with a smile and coming in, greeting everyone and finding a place to sit and chat while Jane and a few other women prepared dinner.

After dinner, Kalekwa (the watchman) brought his three kids by to visit – beautiful children!

After dinner, we chatted for over an hour with Ashadadu about his work in Gombe National Forest.  He told us all about the chimps’ behaviors and about the different groups that live in Gombe.  We learned all about how they navigate their habitat, how they mate, how they fight, how they are ostracized for trying to leave one group for another, how they are protected by their own – it seems like rough living for every creature in there from the bush bucks to the bush pigs, chimps and baboons… a daily struggle for life, space, peace.  Ashahadu showed me recent pictures of him and Jane Goodall from her summer 2011 visit.  He spends some time with her every time she comes … I’m envious!  One of these years, maybe I’ll get to meet her.

Back at the hotel, I have a glass of wine, enjoy the Tanganyika sunset and chat with the folks working here who are friends to me after years of staying here.  It’s just another nice thing about coming to TZ – Bennie, Asha, Kuluwa, etc.  Great folks!  Of course, after walking 1.5 hours a day, sitting around in the sun and pushing my brain to the limits with this new language, I sleep hard every night and store up for the next line of business.

In short, this week we have visited the village government, the district government, the Ministry of Education, the building site, the scholarship program students, many friends and the builders.  I’ll tell more about some of these visits soon.

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Giving Thanks-Asante-Urakoze!!

On this lovely Thanksgiving Day, I would like to give thanks to everyone who has made Project Wezesha a great success over the past year.  Lucas and I had a simple plan when we sat at the Sun City Cafe in Kigoma in July 2009.  We just wanted to give out scholarships to a handful of children who wanted to go to secondary school, but couldn’t afford it. 

Now, only a year later, we are happy to be supporting 12 children in secondary schools in Mwandiga, Bitale and Kiganza villages.  We also have three young students awaiting test results who hope to join the program in January!  In addition, we are so happy to be building Amahoro Secondary School with the village of Mgaraganza.  So much went into making this all possible – and I give thanks for all of it!  Continue reading “Giving Thanks-Asante-Urakoze!!”

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I Know This Much is True

These are my Summer 2010 final thoughts.

I know this much is true – (dedicated to Sara Bridge)

I’m writing on a netbook computer in Dar es Salaam and as I look around, I see only varying shades of brown skin and hear only the occasional word or phrase that I understand. I have a thin film of sweat all over my body and my shirt is damp under the arms and I stink. Coins are jingled deliberately in the hands of young boys walking the city, selling peanuts from baskets. Motorcycles and loud banging on metal are wracking my brain. Taxi drivers hover for the hopeful sighting of someone in need of a ride with big cash in his pocket. Some women walk by with kangas tied around their waists, but more are dressed for the city; most of the men are wearing the distinctive small Muslim hats and every handful of hours, the Mosque reminds all of us what some should be doing. The smiles – when they come to life – light up my day. I’ve never seen more perfect, straight, white teeth on more beautiful faces. Work is done inefficiently – with brooms made from small sticks, trash is thrown in the street so someone can pick it up every morning at 5am and coffee seems to take 30 minutes to brew. I am in the city and it’s loud and impersonal. Continue reading “I Know This Much is True”

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When I Leave, I Will Miss …

When I go, I will miss …

I will miss the children – their smiles, their shy greetings, their big eyes and bare feet, their toys made of palm leaves, plastic bottles and spare tires, their school uniforms in varying degrees of deterioration, their unyielding desire to go to school. .. even their shouts of mzungu and naomba hela or the English version of the same phrase – give me money! I will absolutely miss the children – they keep me going from visit to visit, they keep me energized to pump donors for more money, they keep me coming back for another hot summer, another crammed dala dala ride, another trial of my patience and determination. One afternoon in their humble homes or on a rock by the river, chatting away about simple matters or sharing information about our respective cultures and I feel that they are all that matters in the whole world.

Continue reading “When I Leave, I Will Miss …”