Seri's cross culture porch

Even Cross-Cultural Solutions would've had a hard time dreaming up the cross culture that happened on Seri's porch.

       My roommates' name is actually Sarah, but there were too many Sarah's at CCS, so we changed it.  Seri's volunteer job was with AMKA School.  They had just recently opened a second school called AMKA STEP UP in an impoverished village, and Seri, who has a teaching degree, was to be the nursery school teacher.  Oliveri, the other teacher there, taught the primary age kids in the one-room school, and Seri's classroom was on the concrete porch.  She had only a few students, and asked the director about it.
       "Don't worry. The village has to come to know us and trust us. It will take time." 

       One day Seri came in from work, flopped down on the bed and said,
       "The porch looks a little like a prison cell.  I think some paint would brighten it up for the kids."
       "I love to paint, I'll help you." Said Jennifer, our other roommate.
       I chimed in, "Me too, I want to help."
       From out in the sitting area we heard Craig's voice,
       "Count me in."
       Within moments of the dream, Seri had a paint crew.  She seemed a little floored and said,
       "Well ok then, how about this weekend?"  Seri cleared it with the powers that be, grabbed her Tshillings, and went to buy paint.  By Saturday word had spread and more volunteers showed up ready to work.  We all agreed when we saw it for the first time that, although it was a great porch, it looked pretty dismal.

       We laughed and cut up as we painted for several hours, putting on the first coat.  The concrete soaked up the paint.  What a difference it made in the entire feel of the classroom!  We were thrilled and couldn't wait to see it with a second coat.  We celebrated with a beer at Mzungu Bar.

One of the teacher's from the other AMKA joined in, along with another Sarah

woohoo!

       We waited for Seri to get home from work on Monday to hear what  the kids had to say about their new room.  She told us they each stopped cold at the door as it registered in their brains, then they shouted with delight and went to touch the paint.  They ran their little hands all over the beautiful blue and green.  One boy actually hugged the wall.  The mood of the classroom was lifted.

wall hug

       The next Sunday we went back for a second coat, and decided to paint the back wall as well.  While we painted, an idea came to Jennifer.  Her placement was at Upendo Art School for kids where they taught art in addition to the basic subjects.  She told Seri that she knew a teenage boy who was an artist that volunteered at her school, and helped with the children.  She said,
       "He's a really good artist and I'll bet he would come over and paint some animals on this wall for you."  Seri loved the idea, so Jennifer called Josie.

Oliveri lands a hand

Jennifer, trim expert

craig cleans up

       After a consultation with Seri and Jenn, Josie was so excited that he called Jennifer every day and asked,
       "Is this the day I paint? Can I paint yet?"
       His enthusiasm was contagious, and by the time paint day did come around he had two of his roommates who wanted to help as well.  Josie, Nickie, and Rogie live in a ghetto in the village of Rau.  Here, a ghetto means something different from what we know.  It means that these boys are underage and they live on their own in a small house.  For whatever reason, they no longer have parents taking care of them, and they survive by living together, pooling resources.  There are five of them in this ghetto, one being a little brother who is quite young.  The three are all artists who try to sell their paintings whenever they can to buy food.

       Every Monday when the kids came back to school there was something new.  
       "How about some numbers too?" Seri asked as she admired the boy's work.
       I mused, "Seri, when word spreads about this porch, the village will know you care."

       After  several weekends of work, as they neared the end, Josie asked Seri and Jenn if they could paint a mural of Zanzibar on the far wall.  

       "Please give us more time and allow us to paint a beautiful mural for the children.   It will take two days.  You must say yes."  

       Seri teared up.  They had already invested so many hours and weren't being paid.   Jenn looked a little concerned.  

       "Boys, my time at CCS is up and I must return to the states.  Can I trust you to finish this to completion?"  They enthusiastically agreed.  "In that case, here is money for cab fare to get you back and forth. (It was about an hours walk.)  If you want  to walk, then you can use the money for food, but the cab fare is here so you will be able to finish for Seri." 

        She took the boys out for a good-bye lunch to thank them, and they ate everything in sight.

finishing touches

masters of the fine art

Seri and her amazing classroom

       The new school year always starts after Christmas, which is their summer break.  In the meantime, Seri volunteered at several orphanages which don't take a break. It was fun and rewarding, but Seri was excited to get back to her little class. 

                                                                Seri's new students...

beautiful beautiful children

       As a mzungu (white person) in Africa, to the children, I am often the greatest source of wonder and entertainment imaginable.  They stand and solemnly stare in amazement with their gorgeous eyes wide open, until I acknowledge their piercing looks with a huge grin and a wave of my hand.  Startled, they suddenly burst into the biggest smile, and wave back.  I say the easiest greeting for the children, "Mambo?" How's it going? To which the standard reply is, "Poa" It's cool.  They giggle because I know some Kiswahili, and always wave to me again.  This process seems to happen every single time.  With the tiniest of children though, their wonder includes shyness.  They don't know what to think of a white person, much less one sho is speaking directly to them.  They never get the nerve to wave and smile, but simply continue staring.  I mambo them and their little mouths automatically form the the word poa, but no sound can be uttered from their fearful throats.  To me, it's adorable.  I always wave again to let them know everything is ok.  Most children just want to touch white skin and see if it feels the same, or run their fingers through our long, soft hair.  One little girl even rubbed my toenails, which were shiny and smooth because they were polished.  (Obviously this was early on in my journey because once that polish came off there was no more.)
       It is rare to see a temper tantrum, or hear a baby cry in Africa.  They are silent observers studying their world intently.  Some of their quietness may have to do with being malnourished.  I have often seen small young boys that I thought were ten years old only to find out they were sixteen or eighteen, their growth stunted by poor nutrition.  At some point around three or four years of age the children gain their voice, but it is only for their peers and teachers, for other than that they are supposed to speak when spoken to.  They grow up quickly here with real responsibilities such as looking after younger siblings, tending animals, gathering water or wood for cooking, which could be a walk of several miles.  The fortunate ones can be seen at the crack of dawn, in their uniforms, walking to school, which could also be a long hike.  Even young children make it by themselves back and forth, except for rainy days.  When it rains the mud is a slippery mess and no one attempts to get to school.  It's like a snow day in the US.
       Once at school, most children are excited to learn, even with meager resources, and too few teachers available.  The children are given a cup of porridge, and for some this could be their only meal of the day.  If they are given a pencil they break it in half to share it with a friend.  They sharpen their pencils with a razor blade which they keep in their pocket. (!) Some volunteers take makeshift first aid kits to school because the children are always slicing themselves.  They wonder why CCS didn't tell them to bring pencil sharpeners.  At the end of the day, if you collect the pencils, some children cry.  It's heartbreaking, but what is a teacher to do? If the children take them home there will be no pencil for tomorrow.  Kiswahili is taught in the primary school because the government wants to preserve the language, which is a good idea, but secondary school is taught in English.  Many kids fall by the wayside in high school if they were not able to get English lessons as a child.
       Despite these hardships the young children seem unbelievably happy.  They play and laugh all the time.  They are children, though, and sometimes they tease and are mean to each other, but for the most part they genuinely care.  Somewhere along the way, the reality of their life begins to set in and the older children become pensive.  Very pensive. The smile fades and you can see it on their faces.  The boys will hopefully stay in school and scrap out a living for their families.  The girls will drop out of school at a young age to marry, have babies and keep house.  Marriage is their only option because they have no other means for a roof over their heads and food.  If they are not married by age twenty or so, then it is considered too late, and men will say, "something must be wrong with her". Volunteers try to talk to the girls, and be a role model themselves.  They say, "I stayed in school, I am twenty-four, I live by myself, I make my own money, and I didn't have to ask my father's permission to come here.  Stay in school and you can do the same."  They hope their influence gets through to at least a few.
      Randi, a fellow volunteer, and I were discussing the wonderful, caring nature of the children we'd met in Moshi. She said she could sum it up in one story for me:  While she was teaching at an orphanage, Randi decided to hold a spelling bee as a way for the students to practice English.  The teenagers were so excited, and as the bee went on, people were eliminated.  It came down to two girls.   One girl got stuck trying to spell her word, and the other whispered the answer into her ear.  Randi asked the girl,
       "Why are you helping her, don't you want to win?"
       The girl seemed a little surprised at the question and said,
       "But she is my friend.  Why would I not want to help her?"

uh oh

I think maybe this one sums it up as well


Thanks again to Sarah and Jennifer for sharing some of these photo's. 

Maasai Tribe

       As I left for work on my second day, I was prepared for anything.  I had a full bottle of water, sunscreen, snacks, toilet paper for the squatty potty or the bushes, and mosquito repellant.  I continued this practice of loading up my purse because in Africa you never know what might happen in a day; a wonderful opportunity might come your way or you could experience a breakdown on the side of the road for many hours, who knows?

       Again we knocked on the big metal door at WEECE, and a student greeted us with a big smile. This time Mama Mrema and the three Ugandan women were already in the sitting area.  After pleasantries were exchanged, Mama announced that we were going to a Maasai village for discussions concerning the starting of a bank.  Earlier in the month, the Maasai women sent word to Mama Mrema that they wanted to start a VICOBA.  This was unprecedented and groundbreaking news for several reasons.  The Maasai have always been pastoral, which means they are nomadic and move their tribes according to the rains and the grazing for their cattle, goats, and donkeys.  Being constantly on the move have kept the Maasai isolated from outside influences, which is how they have maintained their unusual culture and traditions until today. They subsist on milk, meat, and blood from the cattle.  In recent years some of the Maasai are beginning to settle, moving less often.  This particular tribe has been in the Rimit area for two years now, and Mama has been teaching them to plant vegetables so their diet will be healthier.  The fact that these women asked for a VICOBA inferred not only permanence, but also that they were ready to move forward in their own personal development.

       Traditionally the Maasai women do not read or write.  They build the small houses, cook and take care of the children. Their husbands have many wives, and rotate from house to house. The women have no say regarding to whom they are married, anything their husband does, issues about their home, or within the village.  They are voiceless.  Women are at the bottom of the Maasai tribe.  They are invisible servants, and until recently, never knew there could be another way.  Evidently, within the last week, the women met privately and decided they did not want to include the men in their VICOBA because then they would not be able to speak.  They sent word to Mama Mrema about their decision and she knew she must visit them in person to discuss this matter. 

       We drove again in a hired vehicle, through the town of Moshi to a rural area on the other side.  We rode for a while, passing an enormous sugar plantation on the way.  The plantation owner had created a man-made canal for irrigation which ran alongside the road, and for several miles, families were washing their clothes and bathing. Our driver stopped at one point for me to take a picture of Kilimanjaro, who was showing her face.  Even the Tanzanians stop to gaze when she peeks out from the clouds that surround her.  We continued driving on dirt roads for quite a while, through the middle of a low plain filled with scrub brush, when suddenly the driver stopped.  We waited. Mama turned from the front seat.
       ”They will find us because they have seen our dust.” 

       Within a few minutes, from out of the brush came a large group of smiling, singing Maasai women.  It was the first time I had ever seen a Maasai with their beaded jewelry and long pierced earlobes.  I greeted them in my limited Swahili, but realized they were speaking another language. They each shook our hands, and bowed as they led us through the bush to an area with a tree.  Thank goodness for the tree!  Underneath in the shade they had placed several benches and a small table. Everyone settled into the small area and the leader greeted Mama and the rest of us.  A few of the women  spoke Swahili, but mostly they spoke Maasai, so time was allowed for interpretation. 

       Mama Mrema took the floor.  She spoke to the women of how happy she was for their courage to speak up for themselves, but explained that if the women completely alienate the men, they will become suspicious, resentful, and angry. It will cause many problems for the women.  This is why VICOBA's always allow men.  For the most part they are filled with women, but the men are always welcome, and they know this.  An hour of debate persisted until finally Mama Mrema spoke to me in English.
       "We have discussed this issue, and I have agreed to say to the elders of the tribe that we will start with the women first and then we will make a group for the men.  At the same time we will begin to form a singing choir of men, women, and children to share with the world the beautiful gift of their voices. I think this will keep peace among the tribe, and it will go well for all." 

       Suddenly, soda's and water appeared from out of nowhere.  They were only for us, the honored guests, and it would have been very impolite to have refused the gift. I felt guilty drinking in front of everyone knowing they were just as hot and thirsty as I was. Mama Mrema took over again and began moving people into groups.  She broke her own rule for the first time, of limiting the VICOBA to 30 people.  Thirty-six women had shown up and she couldn't bear the thought of losing any, so she rearranged the magnet groups. I couldn't understand the language, so I didn't really know what was going on.  This movement went on for almost an hour, as Mama patiently moved the women here and there.  Finally, it was determined that the next time they met, it would be to start the VICOBA.

       As the meeting drew to a close, Mama asked me to speak again. What could I say to these Maasai?  She said, that as a white woman, whatever my words, would be valuable to them. I spoke of the courage it took for them to live their life in a new way, and that if they were always unified and helped each other, it would be easier for them. I mentioned the wisdom of the advice of including the men, and encouraged them to bring their husbands along with them in some way, throughout the journey. I brought greetings from their sisters in America, and thanked them for the honor of being included in their lives that day.  They gathered, sang us back out of the bush to our vehicle and kissed us good-bye.

       On the way home I was awestruck at what I had just experienced.  I sat quietly in the back while there was a roaring in my soul. I had to process the impact of what I had just witnessed.  As we rounded the corner nearing my CCS home, I finally spoke.
       "Mama, why did it take so long for you to put the women into their groups?  What was that about?"
       Valeria Mrema doubled over with laughter.  It took her a moment to catch her breath before she could answer.  I began giggling just watching her laugh. Eventually, she said,
       "There was an elderly woman, whose sons had so many wives, that it took me forever to figure out a group where she was not the mean old mother-in-law!"
        The entire van collapsed in a fit of laughter.

A maasai hut

 I had video prepared for you but the server rejected it. so sorry! 

A pictoral

There is a connected road that runs north to south from Cairo, all the way to Johannesburg. I imagine it would take weeks, or months to travel it all the way.  It runs right through Moshi and is the main access road. Here, they call it "the tarmac".  These photos were taken out of the window of a moving vehicle, by one of my room mates Jennifer, an amazing photographer.  Thanks Jenn. 

These photos are of the tarmac between Arusha and Moshi

road side market

How?  How did they get this straw piled up like this, and why doesn't it fall?!

This man pulls his cart. Pull-carts like this are often used to transport goods. 

Going to collect water.  On his way back, these jugs will be full

school girls on the way home

take it to the bank

       As Americans, we are generally in control of our own lives at all times. Certainly there are things we have to do like work, pay bills, abide by the laws of the land, but even in those things, we choose how, when, or where they may happen. This makes us comfortable.  We don’t like it when we don’t know what happens next. What I have learned from my journey to this point is that control is an illusion.  We don’t ever really have it like we think we do.  I have been learning not to be afraid of giving up control because sometimes the world has so much more to offer if we just take the chance.

       With trepidation, I climbed into the four-wheel drive with my new "boss", and the three women.  Mama Mrema spoke in Swahili with one of the ladies for quite some time.  We barreled down the road and I absorbed the sights of Africa with child like eyes.  We turned off the tarmac and onto a dirt road, driving for an hour into the hills at the base of Kilimanjaro, but not covering much ground.  The going was slow and we alternated between opening the windows because of the heat and closing them due to the dust. Finally Mama Mrema spoke to me. “These women are from Uganda, where they work at a women’s center.  Last year, the Archdiocese, funded a trip for me to go see what they do, and now they have provided the means for them to come here.  Their center is having trouble with women not paying back their loans, so we will teach them our system.  Today we are going to a village to see a VICOBA in action. A VICOBA is a Village Community Bank.  This bank provides micro loans to members so they can start small businesses."

       We pulled up to a small white building and suddenly singing women surrounded our car. They smiled, waved and sang a welcome song as we made our way out of the vehicle.  They were all dressed in their best kanga’s, the traditional fabric African women wrap around their bodies. They pressed against us and took my purse and water bottle from my hand.  I was alarmed, but looked over to see them taking the other’s things as well, and they seemed unconcerned.  They carried our load for us as they continued to sing us into the building.  This was my first exposure to the generous, and considerate hospitality that Tanzanians are known for. When we entered, I saw a few benches, a table in the front of the room and chairs behind it.  They led us up to the front to be seated in a plastic chair.  The others filed onto the benches.  I felt like a dignitary.  A meeting commenced.

       From literally out of nowhere a metal box appeared with three locks around the sides.  Mama Mrema said something in Swahili and four women gathered around the box.  She spoke again and they simultaneously opened the locks, while the fourth stood as a witness to the event.  Upon opening the box, they withdrew small booklets; several register pads and Tanzanian shillings (money).  I was witnessing the operations of their bank. 

       The brilliant system is this:  A group of 30 people in a village get together. Within this group of 30 there are “magnets” of five each.  These five people are close friends and have agreed to vouch for each other’s loans.  If someone has trouble with repayment, the others help, brainstorm, or ante up.  This is how they have a high rate of repayment, and in fact, some women are paying off their loans before the time limit of four months is up.  The metal box is wrapped and stored in an inconspicuous covering, and is moved locations frequently for security.  The ‘Key Keepers” each have a key they hide, and they must all be present in the same place to open the box.  This keeps any one person from having access.  Each person has a number on a booklet - no names, and the money is recorded in the form of the stamp of an animal. That way if the box was stolen, or broken into, no one in the village would know who had how much money, to then go rob them.  The entire system is about accountability and security.

       Joining the bank is not free.  Each person must want in badly enough to save up and contribute a small amount.  Then, seed money is added to the pot from WEECE through donors.  When members take out a loan, the interest is taken out immediately and paid up front.  A portion of this interest goes to new loans, a small portion to supplies for running of the group; another two portions go into different accounts.  One is for education and the other is for medical. If someone needs help with school fees for the children, or someone has a medical emergency, they can take out a loan.  These loans are interest free though.  They are just designed to help care for the community. At the end of one year they "Break the Circle", and all monies are divided up.  The seed money always stays in the bank, and members can sign up for another year.

       I found this completely fascinating as I watched women come forward to repay, and take out new loans.  This process took quite a while, and as it ended, I began to smell a delicious aroma. Several women came out of a small back room with pots of food.  A woman came to us with a basin and a pitcher of water.  She poured the water over our hands, washing them before we ate. They served us plates piled high and gave us soda (a luxury), and utensils (they ate with their hands).  Afterwards, Mama turned to me and said; “Now we will go see the fruits of their labor.”

       We piled back into the car and visited several members’ homes where the loans had made a huge impact on their lives. Culturally, the women stay home, cook, clean, raise children, and are not educated.  They must ask their husbands for money for food, school fees or clothes and sometimes, even if they can leave the property.  If there is not enough money, they must make do, and children don’t have the chance to learn.  If there is a small amount they will send only the boys to school.  The thinking is, 'Why would we spend money on the girls when they will be married young and increase their husband’s household, not ours. They don’t need to read to cook and clean.'

Eh hem,    ok … this is a rant I will save for another day.

        Anyway, these women are now sending their girls to school, and are able to feed their children every day.  They told me, through Mama’s translation, that their husband’s were treating them with more respect because they weren’t begging for money all the time.  The women’s self esteem improved, and their husbands weren’t as oppressive. The entire family has been affected.

        Back at the meeting place again, Mama Mrema asked me to speak.  I told them I had worked with a women’s center in America. I talked to them about their courage, and strength, and thanked them for letting me learn from them.  They were surprised to hear that white women wrestled with some of the same issues, as they sincerely thought it was only the plight of African women. They seemed encouraged and a little less isolated by this news, and said that it meant we were all sisters. They began singing again, and motioned me around the table.  As they sang, they spun me around and wrapped me in a kanga that was my gift.  They turned me back around to find tears pouring down my face.  They had so little, yet they fed me and gave me precious fabric. An elderly woman came forward. She wiped my tears with her rough brown hands, and gently kissed each cheek.

the key keepers open the bank

This woman used her loans to buy, chickens, chicken feed, and to build this secure coop.  Now she sells eggs.

One woman built this dehydrator, and dries tea leaves, fruits and vegetables.  She puts them in small bags and sells them at a market

This member bought pigs to raise and sell. She built this pen herself. 

A bounty!

I did not post photos of their living conditions, because often the pens they built for their animals were superior.

twende

      My alarm went off and I found myself tangled in sheets and a mosquito net. The bottom sheet, for some mysterious reason, did not go all the way to the end of the bed.  It's not fitted, rather it is a small flat sheet which is tucked in on the sides, and it didn't reach but to my shins. Consequently, the sheets bunched up all night and I mostly slept on mattress.  I somehow managed to untangle myself from the web and tried to get a handle on the butterflies in my stomach.  It was my first day on the job, and I had no idea what that might entail. I knew that my placement was at WEECE, Women's Education and Economic Center, and that WEECE worked with women, helping them to start village community banks where they could take out micro loans, and start a business. I also knew they ran a small vocational school for teenagers who wouldn't otherwise be able to attend school.  CCS is very good about matching volunteer skills with each placement, and this seemed like the perfect fit for my resume.
       The van pulled out of CCS at 7:30 am with Abby and I on board.  Abby had already been at WEECE for several months, and on the way she filled me in.
       "Mama Mrema is one of the founders and is also the director of WEECE.  She is WEECE. In fact, if something ever happened to her, it could conceivably fall apart. Anyway, she's determined, driven, and down right intimidating, but I love her because she also has a quick wit and a funny sense of humor.  She's African, but had the good fortune to complete her studies in Canada and Germany, and then returned to use her knowledge to make a difference in her beloved Tanzania.  Wait until you see what she's accomplished."
       "She's scary, huh?" It was all I had latched onto because everything in my world seemed scary."                      
       "Yes, very," she laughed.
       We banged on a huge metal door, and a young woman in a school uniform, opened it from the other side. "Karibuni" You are both welcomed.  We entered a courtyard which was being swept with a tree branch, by another student.  We were led to a small sitting area off to the side and told to please wait. We watched as students all over the compound cleaned and scrubbed, mopping the floors by hand with a rag while bent over in half.  From around the building I heard a soft voice say,
       "Good morning Mama Mrema."
       A large voice boomed back, "What's so good about this morning?! Tell me!"
       The young girl jumped back just a bit, but I could see as Mama came around the corner that she had a huge grin on her face.
       "Well," the girl stammered, "Kilimanjaro has poked her face out to say hello, and maybe the rains will come this afternoon and we will be blessed." She stood with her hands clasped nervously behind her back.
       "Well then, I guess it is a good day. Very good English." Her congratulatory slap on the back sent the girl's frail body into the wall, which went largely unnoticed because she had already turned to me.
       "And what do we have here? A new volunteer?"
        Abby chimed in, "Yes Mama, this is Lucetta from America."
        She shook my hand, and held it.
        "Well, you are most welcome here.  Thank you for coming."
       At that moment, three ladies emerged from around the corner, and a four wheel drive pulled into the courtyard. Mama Mrema glanced up.
       "Ah, I see we are ready. Abby, you stay here to teach the girls English, and Computers too, because we have electricity today.  Tell CCS that Lucetta from America won't be back until dinner." She looked at me.
       "You.  Do you have water?"
       "Yes ma'am."
       "Twende." Let's go.

cleaning comes first in the mornings

learning a new song for the graduation ceremony

students share computers in a class taught by volunteers

The skill of sewing, in Africa, can support them for life.
Notice they are using a foot pump machine because they rarely have electricity.