Volunteering: Home Base and Melissa and Maya

Volunteer Home Base

The place that we call home is actually quite nice—certainly much nicer than expected. It’s a fenced compound, which seems kind of odd given why we are here, but I suppose a large compound with a bunch of white people is a relatively tempting target. There are 4 or 5 small buildings that house about 30 volunteers—mostly from the states but a few from Britain and Canada. Each room has bunk beds—4 to a room—with a bathroom. It’s reminiscent of camp, with the addition of, believe it or not, maid service. They actually come and make the beds and tidy up each day. It’s not the Four Seasons, it’s not really even a Motel 6, but it’s quite comfortable and the kids really love feeling like they are in camp.

Despite our surprisingly acceptable living conditions, I have never been so dirty in my life. Absolutely everything is covered in dust and my feet have yet to be clean. Indeed, try as I might I simply cannot get the dirt of my feet, the minute you walk out side your room, you are filthy. I am trying desperately to embrace my grubbiness—one of my challenges.

The staff is absolutely remarkable and they take excellent care of us. Each one of them is incredibly warm, friendly, and knowledgeable. I was skeptical about volunteering through a program like this, but it ended up being the right choice. They take the time to help us understand the culture and integrate as much as a bunch of “wazungas” (foreigners, or more accurately, white people) can. There is a staff of 10 or so who teach us Kiswahili, cook for us, drive us to our work placements, communicate and trouble shoot with our placements and generally help us go about our business. And even though we are clearly tourists and stick out like sore thumbs, we feel like we are becoming part of the local community. The food is surprisingly excellent—Maya is even enjoying it. Adam and I keep joking about how incongruous it would be for us to gain weight in Africa—but the way we are fed here it is actually possible.

We are in a village called Rau, about a 45 minute walk from a reasonably large town called Moshi, a relatively well known Tanzanian town given its proximity to Mount Kilimanjaro, which breathtakingly soars out of the sky-- a guardian of the community. The people in the village are extraordinarily friendly, consistent with everyone we have met or come in contact with in Tanzania. Everyone you pass greets you with a friendly “mambo” (how’s it going?) or “jambo” (hello) or a welcoming wave (I guess that is where the term mumbo jumbo comes from?). I keep expecting some level of resentment from the locals, but we seem to be warmly greeted by absolutely everyone.

The other volunteers are a fascinating group, consisting of around 30 people, of which only 4 are men. Most of them are college students, or recent graduates. There is a small group of women in their 50’s and 60’s and one man, 68, who is here from Ireland with his grown daughter. Maya and Emma are the youngest, by far and Adam and I are the sole representatives of the 40-50 set. This makes sense--it’s either students or retirees. People in the peak years of their careers generally do not take such rash and irresponsible action. We are actually a bit of a novelty act-everyone refers to us as “the family” and the locals refer to me as “the mama.” It is a pleasure getting to know all of them. Everyone has an interesting story to tell and reason for being here. The younger crowd is a very interesting bunch—all open minded, idealistic, smart and really kind. They seem to like us despite our advanced years. To Adam, the crowd is reminiscent of the women active in his college’s anti-divestment movement, which Adam only participated in to advance his “social” agenda. It’s very much like a camp atmosphere. Even though we have only been with these folks for a few days, it feels like we have known them forever. The other unintended, but extremely fortuitous by-product of the volunteer demographic is the fact that our kids are surrounded by a bevy of camp counselors—all of whom seem to be more than willing to entertain our children and let them tag along. Indeed, our children are far more interested in hanging out with the cool college kids instead of their lame parents.

Despite their protestations about this trip, the kids are really having a blast and now freely admit that to almost anyone who asks. Fortunately, we did not have to wait as long for this as we expected.

On our second day here, before most of our group of volunteers had arrived, we tagged along with one of the veteran volunteers to go to the kids’ service at one of the local Catholic churches. It was unbelievable—probably 400 kids ages 2-14 or so, most without their parents, sitting quietly, signing and clapping on cue, and responding appropriately to the priest for a solid hour. It was hard to imagine a bunch of American kids doing the same without being heavily bribed with food and toys. Truth be told, Emma got a little squirmy—understandable given that it was an unfamiliar Catholic service and all in Kiswahili to boot. Maya mentioned that she was surprised that the service was so sedate—she said she expected it to be more like IKAR—with drumming and dancing. I considered that a sincere compliment to IKAR. The kids are warm and curious. After the service, they surrounded all of us and grabbed our hands. It was both overwhelming and heart warming.

On the way home from church, we stopped at an orphanage that one of the veteran volunteers has adopted. It is impossible to prepare yourself for the conditions. Two rooms with several kids in each; 4 kids to a bed only half of which have mattresses; not a toy or game in sight and kids wearing clothes that I would probably have been uncomfortable donating for fear that they were too tattered and worn. Also, sadly, the one adult that spends the night takes one of the mattresses. It’s hard to not be judgmental, but being here you learn that there is so much that is grey. The kids are so incredibly adorable. They immediately grab your hand and want to get as close to you as possible. You can’t help but be completely enchanted and drawn in by them. I have never had the experience of having my heart so touched and so broken at the same time. The conditions are so sparse and desperate, and your instinct is to get out your checkbook and try to fix it all (which the volunteers are doing as we speak). Then you realize that this is such a common scenario in this country and in most of the developing world—it’s just overwhelming to even contemplate what needs to happen in order to effect any real change in this world and begin to ensure even subsistence level survival for so many people.

Volunteering:

Our volunteering placements are interesting and exceedingly challenging. Maya and I are placed in a “preschool” called Kigangoni which is essentially a construction zone--a gigantic space with walls a tin roof, a dirt floor, boards with rusty nails sticking out and a bunch of benches (it also served as the church described above). There is on old blackboard that the teacher schleps in every day, a disintegrating cardboard box with a few broken pencils and tattered work books. All of this with one teacher and fifty children between the ages of 3 and 7 (as far as I can tell—many people do not keep track of their ages here). The teacher speaks no English, and our Swahili is, shall we say, a work in progress. As dusty as we get around the compound, there are no words to describe the layers of dirt with which we are covered as we leave. The children who attend are not unlike those we met in the orphanage—indeed a few of the orphans attend the school. Their clothes are filthy and in tatters and they each seem to only have one outfit. Some have a torn plastic bag with a few belongings, most have nothing. The teacher does not seem to be in much better shape. She’s not a great teacher and does not even know most of the kids’ names, but she has a nearly impossible task. It’s only been two days, but it is very difficult and Maya and I aren’t even sure if we are adding value. As soon as we walk in, the kids surround us and absolutely smother us which is incredibly sweet. We usually have ten kids each holding our hands—one on each finger and fights frequently erupt among the students as they jockey for position. We hope that by being there, giving them love, helping them with letters and teaching them some songs we are helping. But it’s hard to imagine any of these kids even having a fighting chance. Forget the bucket; this is a drop in all of the earth’s oceans combined. Maya is unbelievable and I am so grateful to have her there with me. The kids flock to her and she is so loving and kind with them. She is also very creative and thoughtful in determining activities to do with the kids. My lawyer skills aren’t exactly useful—and it is very hard for me to not be able to take control and make things better—but I am trying to do what I can. It pains me, but when it is time to leave, we both breathe a huge sign of relief and crawl back to the compound guiltily to eat a warm and abundant lunch in the safety and relative cleanliness of our compound.

We wanted to have a volunteer component to our travels as a family both to contribute, in an admittedly small way, but also to gain a deeper entry point into some of the places that we’re visiting. For all of those reasons, we’re glad that we’re doing it. But, it’s hard, at times, to escape the feeling of dilletantism. We traipse in from our nice life in LA, hang out for four weeks and then continue with our adventure. It’s hard to avoid the question of who the volunteering is really benefiting: us or them? Nonetheless, it has been difficult, yet eye opening and moving and unquestionably worth it.

Adam’s volunteer experience is a bit different, which he will relate to you shortly. More to come…