Elephant Soccer

       Kissing a giraffe may not be at the top of everyone’s wish list, but it was certainly in the top ten on Seri’s, and while in Nairobi, it moved up to number one.  How is it even possible to kiss such a tall, wild animal?  The logistics alone are a hurdle.  I asked Seri,

       “What are we going to do? Chase them until we catch one and then ask if they would bend that long neck down for a smooch? Besides, it seems pretty gross to me.”  

       “No, silly, Giraffe saliva is a natural antiseptic, so it’s perfectly clean.”

       “How do you even know these things?”

She laughed and with a twinkle in her eye said,

       “You’ll see, it will happen, but first we are going to the elephant orphanage because we can only visit the toddlers between 11:00 and 12:00pm.

       We found the receptionist at the hostel and asked for a trusted cab we could hire for the afternoon.  She, in turn, asked us where we learned our Swahili because she thought it was so good.

       “Thank you, we learned it in Tanzania.”

        “I thought so.”
        We walked into city center to find an ATM for some Kenyan Shillings.  We marveled at the paved roads, curbs, and tall buildings. It was very cosmopolitan and the people were stylish and beautiful.  We were experiencing reverse culture shock.  We also felt very oddly dressed in our 'Moshi appropriate' modest clothing.  Seri mused, "We look like we just came to the big city from the sticks."
         We climbed into the cab and greeted our driver named Paul. Seri gave him the list of places we wanted to visit that day and we took off for the Sheldrick Elephant Orpahange.  It sat on the edge of a national park, and the elephants could only be viewed one hour a day, during feeding and play time.  The babies are orphaned for a variety of reasons; mostly because poachers killed the parents, but also the mother might have fallen into a well, or sickness could have taken the parents.

        Elephants are very smart and are also emotional creatures. If you blow your breath into their nose, they will remember your scent for seven years, and when they lose their families, they remember that too and are devastated. The orphanage replicates their living situation until they are old enough to make it on their own.  In the wild, mother elephants constantly circle their babies shading their delicate skin from the sun so it doesn’t burn. At night they pat down the brush to make it soft, signaling it’s time to go to bed.  Then they snuggle up next to them to keep them warm.

        At Sheldrick they use umbrellas to protect the babies from the sun.  At night they take a mattress down from a ledge, pat it down, wrap them in a blanket, and keep them company until they fall asleep.  They also routinely switch out the handlers so the elephants don’t bond with them, and then eventually have to lose them too.  Once the elephants do go out into the wild, they may run across relatives who take them into their herd. If not, somehow the others know they are orphaned and embrace them as a new member of their family. The elephants are free to return to the orphanage at any time. They have one elephant that comes by every few months, eats some free food, checks on the new kids, and goes back out.  I now love elephants.

awe, he's learning to hold it himself

that's sunscreen on his ears

a game of football at recess

This is the red dust of Africa.  The elephants throw it on themselves to keep from burning.
The elephants are actually gray, by the way

       Next stop was the Rothschild Giraffe Center, also on the edge of a national park.  The Rothschild giraffe almost became extinct so the center started protecting and taking care of them.  Thanks to their efforts, the numbers are up and there are now four hundred and twenty of them living in the wild.

At the edge of the land they’ve built a two-story information center, and on that building is a porch, which is the perfect height to be eye level with a Rothschild.

And on that porch are pellets, which are made of oats.
And if you take those pellets in your hand, a giraffe might come over to eat them.

And if you put those oats between your teeth

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

KABOOM!  Giraffe love, that’s what I’m talkin bout!  Nothing could be better.

Except for maybe a French kiss

       Back in the car, Paul laughed at us as we went on and on like school girls about how awesome the experience was.  We asked if he’d ever kissed a giraffe, and he said, “No and I never will.”  While riding to the next stop, he asked,

       “You learned your Swahili in Tanzania didn’t you?”

       “Yes, how did you know?” We looked at each other and bewildered we asked, “Paul, why does everyone keep mentioning this to us? No one says anything about it in Moshi.”

       “Because in Kenya we speak English, and we only learn Swahili as a second language.  We can understand a little, but don’t speak it very well. You speak better than we do, and you're white.” He grinned.

       “Oh, we had no idea! About the Swahili that is."
       "Yea, we knew we were white. I guess that explains all the comments.” 

       We were so thankful for the language lesson’s we’d been provided by CCS, and couldn’t wait to get back and tell Mama Fatuma the news. 

        We moved on to spend some time at the museum and plantation of Karen Blixen, the acclaimed author of the story, Out of Africa. It is a sad tale of her time in Kenya in the 1920's. In the midst of her loneliness and grief, she treated her African workers with dignity and among other things, opened a school for them in which they could learn to read.  Today, there are many places in Nairobi named Karen to honor her kindness.

is it karen?

The roaster from the failed coffee business

        Riding with Paul again, we quizzed him on his Swahili. I asked him,

       “Have you heard the phrase; poa kachizi, kama ndizi?” 

       “No, what’s that?”

       “Cool crazy like a banana.”

       “What?” 

       “It’s a rhyme they say when something is cool.” 

       “Say it again, I want to learn it.”

       “Oh my gosh, what kind of turned around world is this, that I’m teaching Swahili to an African!”  We laughed as the lesson began.

       Walking through the city of Nairobi, we began speaking exclusively in Swahili because it was so much fun to have them practice. Kenyans tried to get us to buy their wares on the street, and engaged us in conversation.  “Hapana asante.” No thank you, we said as we walked on.  One shouted out to us, “Hey, where’d you learn--“ “Tanzania!” we yelled back and waved. 

We were country bumpkin rock stars.

Thanks to Seri for some of these photos

Asante sana

       We climbed into the small bus headed to Nairobi, and greeted the driver in Swahili.  The seats were so tiny and close together that our knees hit the seat in front of us and there was no room for our bags.  They could go either on our laps, or on the floor with our feet on top.  "It's ok, we can put them in the isle once the bus fills up and we're on our way." More people waited outside.  The driver came back and began folding down little seats in the middle of the isle.  Well, there goes our plan, but whoa, these people have to ride in those seats?  No more complaining from us, we didn't have it so bad. It turns out this bus was a shuttle, which meant there were several stops.  At each one, locals would come and tap on the window trying to get us to buy their goods.  Seri, with her beautiful, gentle spirit told them in Swahili that she couldn't buy, but took time with each one admiring their work and encouraging them.  The highway, for some reason was paved for one portion and dirt for another, and this went on the entire way. Once the highway was completed it would be amazing, but as it was our bus bumped and bumbled down the road. The landscape was beautiful and I was happy to see northern Tanzania.
       There were quite a variety of people on the bus.  Most striking was a very distinguished Kenyan man in a business suit carrying a briefcase, who was so tall that his legs were folded up to his chest for the ride. He looked us over; I'm sure wondering what two white women were doing on this bus. A beautiful young muslim girl from Tanzania sat in the makeshift seat next to me.  She looked to be about 14 years old and was so shy that she would cup her hands around her mouth, whisper in my ear, and ask me questions about America and about being a woman.
       In the back, one of the passengers dropped his glasses that slid forward on a quick stop. We squirmed as we tried impossibly to look under our seats for them. We shared our snacks with the young girl and at one of the stops; her mother offered us some food she had made for the trip as well.  During a pit stop, the bus driver almost left two people who were still in the bathroom, and Seri and I shouted up to the driver, "Mbili zaidi!" two more! One man in the seat in front of us was self appointed dust control manager.  Every time a car passed and the red dust started billowing in the window, he reached over and shut it, suffocating us in the heat.  Seri would open it again as soon as possible, because we didn't mind the dust as much as the heat.  His arm span reached both sides of the bus, so we giggled with the people on the other side who were also in battle with him. Halfway through the trip, the young girl could barely keep her eyes open.  Her mother wouldn't let her trade seats with me to take a rest, so I got out my camp pillow and she laid her head on my shoulder.
       At the border we took our bags and climbed off the bus.  It was my first border crossing, and there were people everywhere. We followed some of the Africans from our bus to get in line for the exit stamp from Tanzania. Our bus drove away.
       "Is he leaving us?" We were more than a little anxious.  A man behind us overheard, and pointed that we were supposed to walk down the hill.
       "Your bus on other side."
       "Asante sana." Thank you very much.
       Seri and I stopped in the middle of the crossing and had a moment of awe and gratitude.  We were about to step into Kenya.  Kenya!  We'd heard about it all our lives, and never even once thought to dream about going there one day.  It was crazy, the path our lives had taken to get us to this point, and it was not lost on us that day. On the other side we stepped up to the counter and smiled as our passports were stamped, entry.  Back on the bus, a few miles down the road, in the middle of nowhere, we passed several young men in sweat suits running in unison.  Kenyan runners!  Our trip was already complete.  The camaraderie that happened on the bus that day touched our hearts.  Cramped and hot as it was we treasured the entire experience.
        As we pulled into the bus station late that night, the man in the suit spoke for the first time.  He looked at us and said,
       "Your Swahili is perfect.  Really, it's beautiful. I've been listening to you all day."
       "Wow. Thank you so much."
       We looked at each other and shrugged in disbelief, who knew?  We unfolded ourselves, smacked the feeling back into our legs, and climbed off the bus.  A bank of taxis waited and we negotiated with one for a ride.  In the car, after our greetings, we asked the driver to take us to Milimani Backpackers.
        I was a little nervous about staying in a hostel.  Traditionally they were for young people.  Would I be the out-of-place old lady there? Would I seem ridiculous?  In my previous life I had always stayed in four star hotels, where everything was pristine and picture perfect at all times. And it's not that I couldn't do that now, but I wanted to learn to backpack travel. I wanted the experience, and besides, I was living without material comforts these days and it was just fine. What would it be like to rough it while on vacation in a city? Question though, if we were in a dorm with other people, how would we keep our stuff from being stolen? We were in Nairobi after all, which was often called Nairobbery.
       I was brought back to focus when our driver asked Seri, "Where did you learn your Swahili? It's very good."
       "Thank you." She looked at me and held up two fingers, mouthing the word, 'Twice!' We grinned at each other in the back seat, encouraged that our study and practice had paid off.
        We pulled up to Milimani and went through the big gate.  To the right was a small restaurant and bar. Among the crowd, seated at one table, were two older couples laughing and having a beer.  Whew.
       "See," Seri said, "you worry too much."
       "I know. I never used to be this way.  I need to find me again."
       "Well, while you do that, I'll go find reception."   
       We checked in and were able to rent a locker for our valuables. We stored our passports, camera's, and extra cash.  The receptionist showed us to our room.  It was a dorm, housing five bunks that slept ten women.  Even in the dark, I could tell most of them were full.  She pointed her flashlight towards two top bunks and whispered that they were ours. I tossed my bag on top and decided it would sleep up there with me. I dug out my headlamp, found my toiletries bag and headed down the hall to the community bathroom to brush my teeth.  As I walked in, a man stepped out of one of the showers and casually said hello as he wrapped his towel around his waist. Umm, awkward.  Oh well, I thought, I guess we all have to take care of the basics, so I went into the bathroom stall as the stranger stood over the sink brushing his teeth. Back in the room, I climbed up to my top bunk and got settled in. I could tell I was going to be experiencing new things every day. Our morning had started at five, and every part of my body was tired. I whispered to the next bunk,
       "Hey Seri."
       "Yea?"
       "Thanks for making this happen."

Kenya

Milimani

funky safari decor in the living room

Our first glimpse of Nairobi

 

almost nairobi

       It was 5:45 in the morning, and still dark as we stood on the corner. We wiped the sleep from our eyes as we waited for someone from the bus company to pick us up at six and take us to the bus.  We were a little wary, as this sort of well-thought-out, extra service was not common in Africa, but they had offered to pick us up so we agreed.  I was emotionally hung over because the day before I’d had a tearful exit interview with our directors at CCS, Mama Fatuma and Moses Pole Pole.  They had been so thoughtful in their care for each of us that they made our experience all the more meaningful. I found the rest of the staff, who had become family as well, and gave them good-bye hugs. Poignant farewells among volunteers were always postponed until the last possible moment, so my friends refused to say good-bye, knowing I would be right down the street next week. That night I packed all of my belongings and stored them under Seri’s bed for the weekend.  When we returned from Nairobi on Sunday night I would move out of CCS and into the hostel. 

       This was our first time to travel on our own in Africa, no CCS, no tour company, no guide, just us.  It was six am and not a single car had driven by. Finally at 6:20 we began to walk down the hill towards the bus company hoping by now, the bus was running on TFT (Tanzania Flexible Time).  Of course, we arrived to find the place deserted, less one lone man sitting on the sidewalk. We greeted him.

     “Jambo, habari za asubuhi na mapema?” Hello, what is the news early in your morning?  “The bus to Nairobi, wapi?” Where?

     “Bus gone.” 

     “What? Someone was supposed to pick us up.”  I handed him the receipt that said, Pick-Up at Rose Home. He stared blankly for a moment.

     “I go. No one there.” 

     “Yes, we were there. Why didn’t you pick us up?” asked Seri.

     “No, no one there.”

     “Yes we were, we even talked to the night security guard.” Meaning, she could prove that we were there. 

     “My taxi driver say he go, no one there.”

     “What? I thought you were the taxi driver.” 

     “Bus gone. You go at 11:00.” 

     “We can’t go at 11:00am. We won’t have enough time in Nairobi so we must go now.” 

      “11:00 is ok you go then.”

      A little glimmer of the new and stronger me, bubbled up and broke through the surface for a moment. “No, it is not ok.  We could have been here on time if we had known. We need to talk to your boss.”

     “Me the boss.” 

     “Well then, we need our money back to go find another bus company to take us now.”

     “I don’t have money.”

     “Why not? Who has it?”

     “My boss.   You go at 11:00.”

     “I thought you were the boss.”

     “Eleven is no problem.  You go then.”

     “Sir, it is a problem.  This is not ok. We want our money back.”

     “I don’t have money.”

     “Who does?”

     “No money.”

       It went on like this for several minutes, and uncharacteristic for Seri and I, our blood pressure and our voices were rising. By now the sun was coming up, and a small crowd collected around us.  We were trying not to shame him, two white women fuming at a black man, but by now we were spitting mad because of all the lies.  Every bit of cross culturing we’d had came into conflict. I can’t abide lying. It’s wrong, completely unnecessary, and never helps anything.  If he had just apologized in the beginning… It was obvious we were in the right and he was trying to save himself for forgetting to pick us up.

     “You back at 9:00, the boss here.”

      Nine! We discussed this between us.  What choice did we have?  There were plenty of other buses, but if we took one of the others now we’d never get our money back, plus, at that point, we were standing on principal. We had to see this through. It would probably be good for us to go somewhere and cool down.  We found a place that was open and serving breakfast. 

       We sat in silence, both of us taking deep breaths, contemplating the options. Seri spoke, “If we don’t get to Kenya until tonight because of this, we’ll only have one day there.  Is it worth a nine hour bus ride, both ways, for one day there?”

       “I don’t know.” It didn’t sound very appealing, but when would we ever be this close to Kenya again?

       “And we’ll get to Nairobi around 10:00pm.  It will be dark.  That is not a safe place for mzungu to be out at night, especially ones who don’t know where they’re going.”

       “We can’t go next weekend either, because it will be your last weekend Seri. It seems if we don’t go now, we can’t go at all.”

       She thought for a few minutes. 

       “I suppose we could stay in Nairobi an extra day and I could take Monday off from teaching, but I want to honor my obligation.” She looked sad. We were both so disappointed with the entire situation, especially the confrontation with the bus man.

      “I will leave the decision to you then,” I said, “because my term is done at CCS, so I could easily come back on Monday.  I believe you’ve more than fulfilled your obligation with the many extra hours you've put in there, but I know that’s not really the point, it’s about the kids. Would Oliveri be able to cover you with teaching the children?”

     “Absolutely, in fact, he would tell me to go and have this experience.” She sat in silence for a few more minutes and I could see the moral dilemma swirl around her conscience, the now-or-never bringing weight to the struggle.  She shrugged, “I think we should go.”

     “OK, at least we’ll have air conditioning for the heat of the day and big cushy seats.”

     Three cups of coffee later, after killing time, we went back to the bus company and talked with the boss, who, it turned out, was a woman. (smile)  She apologized profusely, changed our return date and to make up, gave us money for a cab once we arrived in Nairobi so we could avoid walking in the dark.  Things were looking up for our trip.

      That is until the bus arrived.

     We stood beside each other, staring ahead. “Please tell me that’s the vehicle which transports us to the real bus.” I said, feeling hot, cramped, and contorted just looking at the mini bus and the total number of people.

     “No, I would guess, according to the way things go, that’s the bus that is taking us all the way to Nairobi.”

Yay!  We're on the bus

Not yay.  This is the bus
hahaha

dinner conversation:

     "What happens after you're done at CCS?"
     "I'll go back to school; I have two years left until I finish."
     "My job is waiting for me and I'm sure the work is piled up."
     "I have to decide if I'm going to stay with my boyfriend or not."
     "My sister is having a baby!"

I've said many good-byes on this journey, both in Costa Rica and Africa.  It comes as a part of the experience of being an expat. (Expat is short for expatriate and it means; someone who lives outside of their native country.)  Expats learn to say farewell because eventually everyone around them goes home. Acquaintances always go back for the joys, excitements, complications, and every bit of the disorder that makes up a life.

       "I have to tell a roommate to find a new apartment."
       "I'm going to take the GRE, and hopefully I'll get into grad school."
       "My mom is really sick, so I'll be taking care of her."

Initially my new friends are hesitant to leave. It's nice to take a break from trying to keep your head above water and instead, live out side of the routine of daily life. Being able to step away and evaluate life from a different perspective can be rejuvenating and enlightening.  But as the time draws nigh, each one of them begins to talk more and more of home, upcoming events, anticipating seeing loved ones.  There is something so precious about the life we create around us, that it draws us back, whether it is the ideal one or not.

       "I'll be living with my parents until I find a job."
       "I'm a bridesmaid in my friend's wedding."
       "I want to continue teaching, so I'll have to apply."  


       "What about you, Lucetta?"


Being included in this particular casual conversation startled me. A wave of emotion pulled me under and tossed me. I could feel the color running as it faded from my face.  A stinging in my eyes, I tried to speak but nothing came. Heart beating.  A realization.

I don't have a home to go to. I don't have a life back there that needs me.

I am fully aware that I am unbelievably fortunate now, to be on the journey of a lifetime.  I am living out everyone's dream. Utopia. This presses on my chest.  Everyone's dream, I understand that completely, and feeling the responsibility I try to honor it by being useful.

But this opportunity did not come without a cost.

The moment my world came crashing in, I lost everything.  Everything.  The future I thought I had, which was all wrapped up in dreams and plans, was yanked away in a second, shattered in one moment, and I collapsed onto the floor.  The life I knew, the life I lived, my life, no longer existed.

I understand that I am not the first person to have something bad happen to them, and even in my own life I have unfortunately experienced worse.  Everyone has their own stories of tragedy.  Not one of us is spared because it is an integral part of being human, and our souls are designed to be in relationship with one another, whatever form that takes.  This means that the same way we learned to walk and talk, we must also learn to heal, because humans are human, and sometimes they let us down.  When life sends us a dividing line, we must grieve the old existence, and embrace the new one.  We must figure out a way to pick ourselves up off the floor, and create a new and precious life for the person we have now become.  In Tanzania I had an empty space in my being so cavernous I was afraid nothing would ever fill it again.  I sat for months in the middle of my emotions, vacillating between numbness, sadness, and anxiousness about the future.  My original plan was to live in Moshi for a while, and though I couldn't put my finger on the reason, it was not the place for me to stay.  What then?

       "Lucetta?..."


I looked around the table.

       "I don't know."


I had one week to find somewhere to be.

Seri said, "Well I don't know about your long term plans, but I do know what you are going to do this weekend."
      
       "Really? What's that?"
       "You're going to Nairobi with me.  I want to kiss a giraffe."
       "You what?"
       "Yea, you heard me right, and you're going to kiss one too."


As individuals, we can also give each other hope, a tiny breather where the spirits are lifted just enough to go on to the next moment, and then the next moment provides its own portion of hope.  I seemed to be living hope-to-hope.  Having a plan for the weekend lifted my spirits. I remembered Nancy's advice. I just needed a next step.  When I left CCS, I would also need a quiet place to think, a room all to myself.  If I could add to the wish list, a bed big enough to make snow angels, and a safe place to go for a long run in the morning, then maybe I could sort out my life.  My next step turned out to be a baby step.  I did the only thing I had in me at the moment.  I booked a room at a hostel two dirt roads away.

hope givers

Kili and Zanzi

While visiting the country of Tanzania, beyond spending time with the people, there are three unbelievable spots not to be missed.  The Serengeti, which I have already shared with you, Zanzibar and Mt. Kilimanjaro

Zanzibar, also known throughout the world as the Spice Island, has exotic white sand beaches on the northern end of the Island, with crystal clear, blue-green water from the Indian Ocean.

Spice Farms dot the Island, and farmers will take you on a tour, walking you through the foliage as you 'hunt' for spices.  My personal favorites, being a baker, were:

Nutmeg.  These look like veins on the nut, which later turn brown as they dry.

and Vanilla Bean.  Yum

On the southern part of the Island lies Stone Town where the Sultans lived, who ruled Zanzibar.  The Persians built Stone Town and used it as a trade port for all of East Africa to and from India and the Middle East.

You could get lost in the catacomb of narrow streets.

     

 Old Town Market

Unfortunately, one of the things being traded were slaves.  They were captured in East Africa and sent to the Middle East or India.  The slaves that were sent to the USA didn't come from here, but from the western side of the continent. Fortunately, Dr Livingstone (I presume) convinced them to abolish slavery in 1873.  An Anglican church was built on top of the location of the slave market, and houses a museum. It is a similar story to that of Charleston, South Carolina.

The slaves were held in this basement (minus the window) in the dark,
 for three days without water or food.
If they lived, they were deemed fit to sell.

This sculpture was recently installed as a memorial.
The slaves are seen beneath the ground encased in concrete, wearing the actual chains.
Very powerful.

part of the Old Fort was turned into an amphitheater and a market for artists

street meats, Seri's favorite

sunset

      Mt. Kilimanjaro is the highest free-standing mountain in all of Africa, and I had the joy of seeing it every morning before the clouds covered her face for the day.  Many people come to Africa, specifically to climb the mountain.  It takes 6 to 7 days to reach the Ice Cap, and at 20,000 feet, a majority of the slow climb is acclimating to the altitude.  Some people manage fairly well, and for others it is much more difficult. It doesn't seem to have as much to do with fitness level, rather how well your body handles the altitude when you reach such heights that there is very little oxygen in the air.  I encountered many people as they came off the mountain exhausted yet glowing, saying it was the hardest thing they had ever done in their life, but they were ecstatic with the accomplishment. 

       There is nothing I love more than a personal challenge and I waged a war within myself for two months as to whether I should climb. The argument for; maybe this would be the thing to snap me out of my stupor. The argument against;  with asthma, I have spent my entire life trying to get oxygen into my lungs.  Why would I deprive myself of the very thing I fight for every day?  People with asthma do successfully climb the mountain, and you can pay a little more to have a porter carry an oxygen tank, but for me, when I added age + asthma + twenty-thousand feet, survival won the debate.  I was really disappointed, but discovered there was one trail that could be taken as a day hike.  I could climb up to the first base camp on Kili and spend at least a little time on the mountain that had inspired me each day.

The base of the mountain is a very beautiful rain forest.

up, up, up we went

       We hiked several hours, stopped for a picnic, and then kept going.  After lunch it began to rain, lightly at first.  Then it started to pour, and quickly became very cold.  I hate to be cold. When I'm freezing, that is all I can think about, I can't even enjoy the moment.  I silently became increasingly miserable, when I began to feel a stinging.  Earlier in the day, ants had crawled up my pants legs, and bitten me ferociously. I brushed at my legs until I realized it was hail beating down with a vengeance! Incredulously I asked the guide, "Does this always happen?" "Not this low on the mountain. In all my times up here, this is a first." We were prepared for rain, but not for cold. My hands and feet went numb, and we tried to quicken our pace. Our "mountain top experience" was seeking shelter on the porch of the base camp lodge.

Smiles, Seri!?  Really?

       I wanted off that mountain as fast as possible and once we started back, my trail running days kicked in, and I began to haul it down the mountain. The others yelled to me that it wasn't safe to run on the trail which had now become a river, but I didn't care. I didn't slow down until I got below the hail line, at which point the others ran past me all the way to the bottom.  In the van on the way back, the shivers set in, and we all looked ridiculous, soaked to the skin with our teeth clacking, and bodies shaking.  Maybe it wasn't Africa after all, maybe it was just   us.  Eventually we started laughing and couldn't stop.  How could we have ever thought it would turn out any other way?

Thanks to Charlie and Seri for the photos.

a small announcement

Hello my dear friends,

My sister is in a book club with the women in her church, and a few months ago their materials did not arrive on time.  My sister asked them if they would like to read my blog for that month and then Skype with me to have a discussion. (Because she is brilliant and thought of this.)

So that is what we did.  I was so excited, and it was great fun for me to see their beautiful faces all gathered in my sister’s living room.  They had fascinating questions and comments.   Unfortunately my Internet ran out 35 minutes into the hour discussion, it’s Africa after all, but it was a glorious half an hour.

I would like to extend the offer to you as well. If you are in a book club and would like to do the same, just let me know and I will search the world for Internet.

the great volunteer debate

          “Craig, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Are you ok?” He stood beside us stoically without moving, holding his plate. It had been the first day of his job placement, and he was pale faced.  Something had rattled him to the core.
        “Here, sit down.” We made room at the table.
        “Craig?” Jen took his arm and guided him, gently pushing him down into the chair. We sat silently, hoping our collective quiet would force him out of whatever had seized him up. We glanced questioningly at each other.  He quietly spoke,
       “…the prisoners were…they were right there…walking among us… I never taught before… just a… library worker…  so many kids speaking Swahili and… and criminals… I don’t think I can… “ His breath ran out.  We gave him knowing nods, intently pushing the food around on our plates giving him more time, honoring the gravity of what he had just experienced.  Nancy spoke in her consoling voice,
       “ Of course you can Craig. You have everything you need inside of you to do this.” He blinked. Slowly he turned his head to face her and in a barely audible voice said,
        “Thank you.”

        On my way to Tanzania I was talking with a man in the airport, and as travelers do, we were sharing stories about where we were headed to that day.  When it was my turn to explain, his eyes went wide, and his mouth fell opened,
        “Why? Why would you do that? I am astounded!”  He took his hands and counted on his fingers.
        "Why would you take your hard earned money, go to an undeveloped country, live under harsh conditions, and work for free? Why?”  Whoa, I thought, when you put it that way… It was my turn to be stunned.  Volunteerism had always been a part of my life growing up, and then when I had my own family as well. I had never even thought to evaluate it’s motives, or thought of it from that perspective.  I wish I had been fast enough to come up with a great philanthropic debate, an oratory which would rock his world enough that he would sign up somewhere immediately, but what came out of my mouth was,                    
      "Why not?”

       Kristen came to lunch one day with her laptop, which she dropped on the table almost with a slam.  She was crying, huge tears pouring down her face.
       “This is so unfair, why would they do this!?” She showed us her profile on Facebook, where a friend of a friend had posted an article about how volunteerism is selfish and does more harm than good. Her friends were all commenting. She was furious and crushed all at the same time.
       “They say we only volunteer to make ourselves feel better, and what good does a few weeks or months accomplish anyway because the people should be doing it on their own.” She cried, “It’s a little late for this, don’t you think!? I’m already here, and it took a lot of planning and saving for it to happen. Why would they send it now!? That’s just cruel. Don’t they understand how much help these people need?” (If she were a guy, she probably would have spit at this moment.) My heart was broken for her, and I touched her arm,
        “No, Kristen, they don’t understand.  How could they? They haven’t been here, and evidently the person who wrote this has never volunteered before. Your friends were careless, yes, but don’t be too hard on them because maybe they've never known the beauty of giving selflessly. What you're doing is good.  You followed your heart and it led you to Africa.  It doesn’t matter how long you’re here, you're improving the quality of life for the people of Moshi every day, and that’s all you need to know. “

       Volunteering does make you feel good.  Absolutely.  It makes you feel good because you grow so much from the experience.  You are never the same person after you give of yourself for nothing in return.  You can’t be the same.  It is impossible to be unmoved. But volunteering is not easy. Never easy.  It’s messy, uncomfortable, and complicated with lots of gray area and usually little resources.  It’s often the jobs no one else wants to have anything to do with. There are frustrations, limitations, and unmet expectations for everyone involved, both the helpers and the helped. That is just the way of it. Volunteering requires sacrifice and usually heartache, but it is always worthwhile.

        I run a race, and I feel good.  Is it selfish for me to run because it makes me feel good?  If someone was choking in a restaurant and I did the Heimlich on them, I would feel great about it.  Is that selfish?  Should I have not done it because I was going to feel good about it later, or because that person should have known better than to swallow a shrimp without chewing? Should I not help those in need because they should be able to pull them selves up by their own bootstraps? This is not a new conversation.  This debate has been going on for a lifetime, and that’s ok.  We should not be afraid to constantly re-evaluate. We should have the debate. We all want Africa to stand on it’s on two feet, no one more so than those of us who are here with boots on the ground, fighting for it. But until it does, we cannot abandon those in need.  Someone has to be here to teach them a better way, to look beyond simply surviving, to think critically about tomorrow.  How can they pull up their bootstraps if they don’t have any boots?

       Craig went back to teach every day.  The first few weeks, it was always with a knot in his stomach.  He was teaching at Magaresa Prison.  It was a nursery school for the children of prisoners, prison guards, and also members of the village.  He learned that the prisoners were so close to their release date, that they wouldn’t do anything wrong to risk being thrown back in, and he was not in danger.  It was run by the state, so the school had more resources than most, but they also had more children.  Some days he would have sixty to ninety kids, which he would then split with another teacher.  He planned each day what to teach the next, and asked everyone’s advice about the secrets to teaching.  He worked hard on learning Swahili, and eventually Daniel came to act as a translator, which made everything much more effective. When other volunteers had a day off they would jump in the van with Craig, and assist him for the day. Christmas time is the end of the school year for Tanzania, and the children take their summer break.  Craig came to lunch that day;
        “I lost some of my kids today.  They’ll move up when they come back in January. I’m sad.” 

       The next school year started back and new kids poured into his classroom. Three months had flown by and it came time for Craig to return to the United States.  'I don’t know if I’ve done anything.' His last day was emotional for him. He had grown in ways he never anticipated. He said some tearful good-byes in the classroom, and sent the kids outside.  A few minutes later, Craig’s boss asked him to come into the next room, which he assumed was for an exit interview as such. When he entered the room all of his students and the other teachers were there, with a huge party.  His boss said that he had made such a tremendous impact on the school that they would miss him terribly.  The children hung onto his legs and cried as he got into the van. It took every effort he had not to lose it completely, in front of them.  He was reeling from emotion as they pulled out, when the driver said,
       “Craig, look.”  Lining the sides of the road, on the drive out of the prison, were every one of his former students, clapping. 

Thanks to Jenn and Seri for these photos.