hands down, best 24 hours in Africa

       We finally reached a point where CCS was no longer consuming every single waking moment of our time, and we had a weekend off to ourselves. Several of us decided we'd like to get away from the emotions and complicated difficulties of our current situation, take a break and have a little R&R so to speak. We talked to Pristine, the group that took us on safari, and they said they could take us overnight to camp at some hot springs.  The thought of leisurely soaking our bones in the warm water, napping, reading, and sitting by the campfire at night, sounded like just what we needed. We signed up immediately. Friday afternoon we loaded our backpacks into a van that had seen better days, and squeezed ourselves in among the gear to find a seat. Along with us for the trip were two guides; Evans and Living, a driver named Deo, and Omar, our cook.

Evans makes sure we have everything we need.

where do we sit?

 

 About thirty minutes down the road, we pulled off to stop.
 "We forgot someone."
"What? How do you forget someone?", we laughed.
"Belle decided to come at the last minute. Mussa is bringing her to meet us."
     We were excited to see Belle again, as she wasn't a part of CCS, but went on safari with us.  While we waited for her to arrive it began to rain. Pour actually.  Really, really pour down rain. Belle climbed in soaked to the skin, and we quickly slid over making room in the already cramped quarters. We turned off the main road onto a dirt one which headed out towards the plains.  It was raining so hard our driver could only see several feet in front of the van.  We began to swoop up and down in large puddles in the road, and we held on, trying not to bang our heads on the windows or the ceiling.  It was pounding down so hard on the roof we found ourselves shouting to be heard.
"It's raining inside the van!" Alexa yelled.
      Water was gushing down the sides, in through the tops of the windows.  We all bunched towards the middle with people sitting on top of each other trying to stay dry.

        The plain began filling up with water and we watched sympathetically as people caught out in the storm tried to make their way home.  The going was slow and several times we were almost stuck in the road. We bounced through what may not have even been roads, until one big bump caused the back door to fly up and all of our sleeping bags tumbled out into the rain.  We stopped and the boys ran out to retrieve them  and shove them in the back. Then the roads themselves began to disappear as the entire plain became a flood.  Another bump and  the back door popped open again. Out go the sleeping bags again, and out go the boys in the rain to get them.  This time the sleeping bags came up front with us, and Omar held the back door closed for the rest of the drive. Against the thundering noise of the rain, we were shout whispering in the back so Deo could not hear us,
       "Are we still on a road?"
       "We're in the middle of nowhere, what if the van stalls, or we get stuck in the mud?"
       "Or floats down the plain like a river."
       Darkness began to fold over the area, and our new concern was finding our way.
       "Does the driver even know where we are?  How can he identify any landmarks?" The possibility of sitting in the damp van all night was looking more and more like reality.

         We inched our way along until the boys saw a building.  We headed in that direction, and the driver decided we would stop there and wait out the storm.  He pulled up beside the porch and went back and forth, again and again, trying to park as close as he possibly could to keep us from getting wet.

        Several other people were taking refuge on the porch, including two women.  I went over and introduced myself.  Through their broken english and my broken swahili, I learned they had been at the market and were on their way home when the storm hit.  This was their village, and the building we were sitting in front of was a community center.  We all sat on the porch for several hours talking and getting to know each other. The rain was not slowing and water was not going to subside any time soon.  We would have to sleep on the porch.  The African women would not hear of it.
        "We cannot have you visit our village and sleep on the porch! We will speak to the Chief. At least you should be able to get into one of the rooms."
        They took Living by the arm, hiked up their skirts, and the three of them went out into the very storm they were seeking shelter from.

Omar and Deo peel potatoes

       The women and Living came back to report the Chief was not at home, but they left him a message. Omar began preparing food.
       "Omar, you don't have to cook, we can just eat these carrots and fruits."
       "Oh no, you must have a proper dinner."
       He put potatoes on to boil over a gas stove he'd brought with him.  The rain began to slow down making it easier for us to hear each other. Belle dug through her bag and pulled out her ipod, along with some small battery operated speakers! She was our DJ, shuffling through all kinds of American music even though she is from Singapore (?)  We opened a bottle of wine and our tragic event turned into a porch party.

we danced

we sang - very badly

and we... ?  broke it down?

        The Chief of the village waded through the water and welcomed us.  He brought a set of keys, and opened the door to one of the small rooms so we could stay inside. He said, for our protection, he had also called a night security guard to come watch over us as we slept.  Evans disappeared from the dance party for a very long time and Jen found him in the small room on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor.
         "Why are you doing that?"
         "Because I don't want anyone to wake up sick tomorrow.  You cannot get sick.  This floor must be cleaned for you."
         She could not convince him otherwise so she came back out to the porch, and the smell of delicious aroma's reminded us that it had been a long time since we'd last eaten.  Omar was making mashed potatoes and he stirred and mashed for almost 45 minutes to remove every single lump.  Finally they called us to dinner in the small room.  As I came through the door, I saw the most beautiful table had been set up with a table cloth, utensils, tin plates and beautiful serving dishes.  A sob welled up in my chest, which erupted into a cry. I fell into my seat with face in my hands, tears pouring down my cheeks. I was overcome with gratitude for every African I had met since landing on their soil.
        "Their hospitality is too much. I don't know how to accept it.  They give everything. I am so humbled by their graciousness. I don't know how to take being cared for with this intensity."
        My friends agreed, and we had a solemn moment as they gathered around to comfort me.

       After dinner, the table was removed and mats were laid out on the floor.  There was barely enough room for all of us, wedged together spooning on the floor.  As soon as the door was closed, with so many bodies in the tiny room it became incredibly hot. Someone was coughing all night, another snoring.  My sleeping bag was wet. I didn't sleep at all.

Craig couldn't wait any longer for the sleeping bags to dry

         At first light of day we rose, packed up, and cleaned up the area. The boys worked on the back door of the van, and we tried to find places inside the van to lay out our wet clothes.  Jen draped her shorts over the sleeping bags in the back. The rain had stopped during the night and the water receded to a manageable level, so we went on our way.

dawn

        We bounced along the road again.  Before each large puddle Deo would stop the van. Living, with the legs of his pants rolled up and leaving his shoes in the van, would walk through the puddle to determine if we could make it across.  We picked up a little speed, but went over another large bump and up flew the back door again spewing all the sleeping bags and Jen's shorts in a huge puddle of brown mud. By now it was just comical.  The sleeping bags were moved up front, and this time Craig held the door closed. We almost got stuck as we banged and scraped with a large bang, on top of a huge rock.  I looked out the back window,
       "Um guys, we lost the spare tire."
       The boys got out, retrieved the tire, and after examining the under carriage decided the only place for the tire, was of course, in with us.

        Finally, out of nowhere, large trees appeared, an oasis in the middle of the plain.  We had arrived at the hot springs. The springs were serene and beautiful, but it was too cold to swim.  It was still early in the morning and we would have to wait for the clouds to part and the sun to come out.  We wanted nothing more than to curl up into our sleeping bags and take a nap, but they were hung out on the trees to dry.

Omar works on the next meal

Jen's 'red' shorts

With just a two litre bottle as a scoop, Deo washed the van inside and out

        I took a walk to explore the area, and discovered a stream full of warm water as well.  We soaked our feet and gave ourselves pedicures.  We cleaned weeks and weeks of red dirt off our feet. At CCS we'd have to wash our feet before we went to bed every night, because we couldn't put those dusty feet in our beds.  We used rocks to exfoliate the dead skin. It was pure joy to have truly clean feet, and we began to feel rejuvenated.

Jen tries to decide if this is a dirt line, or a tan line on her foot

finally

Omar takes a break

Ahh... nothing like a relaxing trip to the hot springs

        Our trip had not turned out exactly like we'd planned, but each of us was moved by the events that unfolded, and we decided we would not have wanted it any other way. We were different when we arrived back at home base.  We had experienced Africa.


Thanks to Jen and Seri for some of these photos

nascency?

He stood perfectly still for a moment.
“A child has died,” said the Maasai Warrior facing me in the courtyard at WEECE.  He appeared saddened yet anxious.
Mama Mrema asked, “Do you want to bury the child?”
It seemed a strange question.  The other Warrior spoke hesitantly,
“We have discussed it, and the tribal ancestors have decided. Yes, we will bury the child. We have brought money for a… a…”
“Coffin.”
“Yes, for a coffin.”
Mama called to Monica, one of the older students at the school.
“Please take this money to town and bargain a good price for a small coffin.  If these men go for themselves, the shopkeeper will charge them three times the price because they are Maasai.”
“Yes, Mama.”
It wasn’t until later that I came to understand the significance of the moment I had witnessed.

The Maasai Tribe is set apart from the rest of African society. They are nomadic and wander from place to place, with their own traditions, speaking their own language.  They have migrated over the years from the north, down into Kenya and Tanzania.  They are the only tribe that still holds onto its traditional ways of life.  Other African tribes have acclimated and become more developed.  Those tribes don’t understand or know the Maasai, and because the Maasai don’t settle down, they don’t have any interest in getting to know them.  Add to that, the Maasai belief that all cattle on the earth were given to them by God, and have consequently spent years roaming the planes taking any farmer’s cattle they run across, has not been a good relationship-building tactic.

The Maasai subsist on the blood and milk from their cattle, and only for special occasions will they kill a goat and eat the meat.  Another custom is, that a man will never eat food in front of a woman.  After the graduation ceremony at WEECE where the Maasai performed, we were all fed a huge meal.  The women ate every different kind of food they were given, most likely for the first time ever. I’m sure the men did as well, but I didn’t see it because they took their plates and went around the corner of the building to be out of the sight of their women. I was sad to think they never experienced the fellowship and tenderness of sharing a meal together.

The day the men had come into the courtyard for the coffin, was an altering moment for this tribe.  In the past, when one of the Maasai died, the family would coat the body in butter and leave it for the animals.  Then they would immediately move the entire tribe to a different location, and starting over, build new huts.  Mama Mrema talked with them about burying their dead.  She said that if they buried their loved ones on the edge of their village, they would not have to move the tribe. Also, the family could visit the grave as a place to mourn the loss, or feel close to the one they held so dear. The fact that this tribe decided to bury the child showed a desire for permanence, and a willingness to consider a new way of life. But what is the fine line between bringing a people group into the modern world for a better quality of life, and losing their culture, identity and possibly unity in the process?  To me this seems to be a very gray area.  Can you have one without the other?  Can you help change customs that are harmful, without losing the remarkable things that make them unique? I wish I had the answer.

Several weeks later we rode past the sugar plantation again, to see the Maasai.   This time, when they met us in the middle of the dusty road, they took us in the opposite direction.  We walked with them for a while until we came across a small building in the middle of the vast plane.  They led us up onto a small porch, where they had carried the same table and benches as before, the table covered with a kanga. They were not allowed inside the building because they are Maasai, but they were able to borrow the porch so we would have shade from the piercing sun.  We brought with us, the first VICOBA bank for a Maasai tribe. 

The first order of business was to teach the women how to lock, unlock and use the bank.  The men looked on curiously.  Next was the election of officers, the “President”, the “Key Keepers”, and “The Witness”.  The “Recorder”, who would be in charge of documenting the transactions, had to be able to read, write, and calculate numbers.  This became an issue for a few anxious moments, as very few Maasai women are able.  They searched among the tribe, and with apprehension they settled on a young woman, a girl really, who proudly accepted the job.  Finally, the moment came to officially open the bank.  Each woman was to bring forward 5,000 Tshillings as their contribution, which is about three American dollars.  Each person was recorded and given a number.  One elderly woman had only 4,000 Tshillings in her hand.  There was much discussion, because she had no more, and could not join the bank with only 4,000. They spoke amongst themselves in Maasai, while the woman looked on crestfallen.  Suddenly, from within the crowd of them, 1,000 Tshillings appeared, and they burst onto applause, the woman bowing repeatedly in thankfulness.  Between now and the next meeting, seed money would be added to the bank from WEECE, and decisions made as to how many loans could be given initially.  Their job was to decide what their businesses would be and how best to use the money. 

Next came the choir.  The men joined the women on the porch. Elections were held and a man was voted to be the head of the choir. (As suggested by Mama Mrema earlier, in order to keep the peace.)  There was talk about goals, and dreams of performing at weddings, seminars, and special occasions.  The main objectives were twofold as far as Mama Mrema was concerned; to raise money for the tribe, and to earn a newfound respect from the other Africans, which would help the Maasai assimilate.  Mama delivered the news that she did not have the money to hire a director, publicize the choir, and get started. She said the start-up money would first have to be raised. They were so excited that they asked,
“Can you have it by next week then? We want to begin right away!”
 We glanced at each other with concern, knowing it was going to take a while to find donors.
“We don’t know how long it may take.  In the mean time, keep singing.”
After the business of the meeting was completed, they gave us a concert.  Their beautiful harmonic voices brought tears to our eyes, as we thought about these vagrant people being given such a special talent.  At the end we gave them donations of Tshillings as we applauded, and they gratefully accepted their first performance money.

We rose to leave, as we had been there for many hours by then, and they said,
“No, no we have a meal for you.  Please sit around the table.”
They left, and scurried behind the building.  We gathered around the small table, quietly waiting and wondering. A young woman brought us plates and spoons.  I do not know from where they got them.  Another brought a pitcher and basin, pouring water over our hands to wash them.   A third brought two small pots and sat them in the middle of the table.  They left us to eat by ourselves.  We sat in silence for a very long time staring at the pots, our hands in our laps. Each of us had the same questions, and the same thoughts in our minds.
Finally I spoke, “Mama, have you ever eaten when you've been with them before?”
She shook her head, no.
“Do you know what is in these pots?”
She shook her head no, again.  I had never been with Mama when she was quiet, and it made us all the more afraid they might be full of blood and milk, which would be mixed together for us to drink.  One more glance around the table, and I took the lids off the pots.  In the first, were stewed potatoes they had grown, and in the second pot was the most delicious, roasted goat.

history in the making

learning the locks

the first money for the bank (our translator looks on from behind)

The newly elected Recorder

The President and the Witness learn their new roles

a concert

first performance money

 Oh, and by the way, if you have a cow I’d like to suggest you return it to it’s rightful owners… and visit me.

Waking the Sleeping Giant

She needed bags for her dried tealeaves and spices, to sell at the market the next day.  Without the plastic bags, she had no way to distribute her goods to make money for food, and pay back her small loan.  
"If I could just go into town, it wouldn't take that long.  I wish my husband were here so he could take me," she said to no one. 
She was not allowed off the property without him, or his permission, regardless. The day wore on and her husband did not return.  I need those bags.     Silence.     I'm going.  I'm going to town.  She gathered her Tshillings, and tucked them in her kanga before she lost her nerve. Glancing around the room she picked up a basket, and strolled nonchalantly to the edge of the property as though she were going to collect a basket full of produce from the garden.  As she neared the edge of the land, she looked right and left to see if anyone had taken notice of her.  No one was near.  Her heart was pounding out of her chest as she dropped the basket and took off like a rocket running down the road as fast as she could, not realizing this made her much more a spectacle. As she ran, her blood pounded like a hammer in her head.  After a while she calmed slightly and began to feel... liberated.  
"I'm out. I'm off the property all by myself! I'm free!" 
She swallowed huge gulps of air that went all the way down to the bottom of her lungs. Euphoria came over her, and soon she was running with a light step. 
"If I can do this I can do anything!"  
She turned the corner, sailed into the market, and with a big smile on her face ordered the bags.  She bargained down the price, just as she had watched her husband do before, wished them all a wonderful day, and skipped out of the store.  Halfway home unsettling thoughts began to come over her.  Her steps slowed, and she wondered if he would be home when she got there. Fear gripped her heart as she stared at the ground before her.  If he were inside the house she would get the beating of a lifetime. Would the owners of the store tell him she came in without him?  What if one of his friends had seen her on the road?  Why didn't she think this through? Her steps slowed to a crawl, as she was overcome with regret.  
"I will pay for this now." 
She arrived home ready to accept the consequences.  She stood outside the door and listened.  Nothing.  Peering in, she realized the house was empty, and breathed a tentative sigh of relief. She was safe for now.

I have a theory on how to fix what ails Africa.  It would remove the need for aid from the outside world; it would feed the children, and would end corruption in the governments, which hoard the financial resources.  I am not presumptuous enough to think that I could come here and in a few short months devise a plan to correct all the problems Africa has experienced for the last five hundred years.  No, this is not something I’ve had any part in creating, but it is happening, little by little thanks to people who care. I call it: Waking the Sleeping Giant.  It is one third of the population, which has been relegated to silence and in effect, has been asleep: African women. 

I’ve touched on this topic before, that of the oppression of African women. Culture says this is the way it is, period.  Their traditions and beliefs are so ingrained in their lifestyle that they go unquestioned. And whom would they ask for the answers anyway? They believe that the husband should have ultimate control and say, in every aspect of their lives.  I recently read an article, in which the author had done a survey of East African women.  Forty-five percent of them thought they deserved to be beaten if they burned the food.  If women don’t know how to read, or have very little contact outside of their bubble, how would they gain any knowledge to know anything different? You don’t know what you don’t know.  And can we really be angry with the men, because they don’t know any other way either.  This is how it was in their home growing up. If the women were happy in this lifestyle, and it was healthy, then no one should come and try to change it, or stir things up.  But they are not content.  It is an unnecessarily difficult life, simply because that is the way it has always been.  Many Maasai and Muslim women are especially miserable because on top of it all, their husbands have several wives. Rejection, resentment, jealousy, and longing, all play a part in being one of many wives.  Just because it is the tradition, doesn’t mean they are happy about it, or agree.  No one asks a young woman’s opinion when her marriage is arranged. Despite these traditions though, the women of Tanzania are strong, hard working, and indomitable.  They carve out a life for their families from nothing.  They take what life hands them, with grace and humility. They are incredibly resourceful and generous. They take in children who are orphaned by AIDS though they can barely feed their own.  And even though they don’t have one, somehow you will walk away with the shirt off their back. If this determination were turned toward a nation, it would be unstoppable. The continent has squandered one of its greatest resources, and if women were empowered, the face of Africa would be different.

The answer, as always, is education.  Women must be shown that another possibility exists. If they understand or experience even one small glimmer of hope, they hold onto it like a precious jewel.  The education of men would best come from the women themselves bringing them along in a compelling way, not to lord over them this new found empowerment, but to say, this is better for everyone.  The woman in the earlier story began to earn money, and express her own ideas, consequently earning respect from her husband.  She no longer asks permission to leave and her daughter now will not either, when she is married.

If a woman knows that she can chose to have a life where she reaches her potential, a life fulfilled, she will choose it every time.  If you develop a man, you change a family, for he is provider.  If you develop a woman, you change the family, then the village, the town, and the country, for a woman is a teacher, and a nurturer. She will not withhold, but will share what she has learned with other women.  She will teach the children and the grandchildren. She will wake up as the veil of unknowing is lifted from her eyes, and all of Africa will be changed. She will say to them,
 “I will not be silent.  I have something to offer the world for I am a valuable human being.”

   

Thanks to Jenn for some of these photos