Farewell to Africa

When I started this posting, I was smugly sitting watching the sunset over the Indian Ocean, from our hotel in Zanzibar. Who says that? Who does that? But the reality is that is precisely what I was doing. I was considering the then coming end of the first leg of our journey. Fighting through the engrained cynicism and curmudgeonly persona that I wear like the OJ glove, I was struck by this feeling that I may be the luckiest man alive. You know that’s not an easy admission for me. Happiness was always a state of modest discomfort for me. It required an admission of sorts that I was not prepared to make. I remember when I arrived in LA for law school, I used to relish in my reputation as the disaffected New Yorker. The Woody Allen of the latter day (before his marriage to his step-daughter). Oddly, one of my proudest moments in college was when the editor of my college newspaper referred to me as the “acerbic fuck.” That, to me, was the realization of my objective of escaping from being the nerdy Connecticut kid, the wannabe New Yorker, who never did anything wrong. Fast forward a bit, and there I was sitting watching the sunset on the Indian Ocean from Zanzibar.

Why am I the luckiest man alive? I’m certainly not the wealthiest nor am I the smartest or the most successful. I have, however, been able to live out a dream. It was my dream with Melissa to take a moment, maybe only a brief moment, but a moment nonetheless when I could, with my family, step off the treadmill to experience life in a different way. The reality is that there were a million reasons that we might have rightly decided to not take this opportunity. It did not come at the right time for us, financially. We both had to leave good and respectable jobs. We had to temporarily say good bye to a community that, more so in any time in our lives, we love. Our daughters were utterly opposed to the trip. And the list goes on and on. Over the years, when Melissa and I had talked about this trip, it always had the feeling of the what-would-we-do-if-we-won-the-lottery conversation. It never seemed real. Yet, I have won some lottery-if not the kind that pays the bills. Of course, part of me feels that it will all come crashing down in some awful sordid fashion and turned into a made for tv movie. I only hope that one of our friends makes the movie. However, in those rare moments, when I can push aside the moments of self-loathing or doubt, I cannot escape feeling. . .happy. Please don’t tell anyone.

Now, here I am on a plane en route to Dubai on our way to Bangkok. We are flying Emirates Air. Needless but embarrassed to say, I had some misgivings about flying Emirates Air and landing in Dubai. A friend of mine in college, who was an even more assimilated Jew than I, told me once that when he walked into one of the fraternities at school, the red “Jew light” went on. That’s a bit how I felt walking onto the Emirates Air plane bound for Dubai.

In reflecting on our time in Africa, I have found that I have fallen in love with Tanzania. Africa was always a place of romantic moment to me. It seemed truly foreign and exotic. Our blogs have discussed at length the challenges confronting Tanzania, the myriad differences between life in the US and life in Tanzania, etc., so I will not repeat. As we have said, people don’t avert their eyes as they walk past each other, people greet each other as if they really care about each other, the elderly are revered and respected. All of this in the context of indescribable poverty.

Tanzania has touched me in other ways that I did not anticipate. As a good liberal, I always mouthed the right words about racism and considered myself on the right side of the issues. Yet, I have always surrounded myself with people who act and look much like I do. In Africa, no one looked like me, except for my family and they usually cross the street when they see me. Here I never felt apprehension. Indeed, I felt that I made connections with Tanzanians that I simply would/could never make in LA. As I considered that, it occurred to me, in a real way for the first time, that racism cheats both the victim and the bigot. I certainly don’t think that’s a profound sentiment, but it provided me another prism though which to consider race in America. I also felt, again for the first time in a meaningful way, how crippling entrenched racism can be.

Finally, the relationships that we made in Tanzania with the locals, the other volunteers and the staff have been profound. I hope that we will be able to continue to foster these relationships as time goes by. Long distance relationships are tough, but these are worth preserving.

Now. . Thailand.

Zanzibar

As our final adventure in Tanzania, we decided to visit the island of Zanzibar. For whatever reason, Zanzibar struck both Adam and me as this fantastically exotic locale. Why it would seem more exotic than Tanzania, generally, I don’t know.

The transition from our home in Rau to Zanzibar was both easy and hard. It was easy in that Zanzibar is a lovely resort island where we largely relaxed and swam. Our hotel consisted of a series of beach bungalows that have wonderful views of the Indian Ocean. We had two bungalows, so Adam and I even got a bit of privacy, which after 4 weeks in bunk beds was a welcome change of pace. The woman who runs the place is an interesting old bird—a white Kenyan who decided to stay after Independence and make a life, when most the Brits were running for the hills.

One of the most amazing things about the place was that the tides were dramatic. Neither Adam nor I had seen anything quite like it. Note the boat below.

The challenge was the abrupt transition to tourist. One of the benefits of volunteering is that, in a small way, we felt like members of our community, even if we did stick out like sore thumbs. No hope for that in Zanzibar. Like many tropical Islands, their livelihood is derived from tourism, so the locals focus almost completely on catering to the hordes. Even when we tried to use our pigeon Swahili, the locals always answered in English, with a slightly bored tone. In some ways, if you were magically dropped into this island it might take you a while to figure out that you’re in Africa. It really seems like any resort island in the Caribbean or South Pacific. The biggest difference between Zanzibar and another island resort, and even mainland Tanzania, in the strong Arab influence. It’s 90% Muslim so everyone in town is covered from head to toe, while the tourists are sunning themselves in postage size bikinis. The architecture, design and art also seem much more Middle Eastern than African. It’s really quite beautiful, but in a completely different way than the mainland.

We spent the first morning in Stone Town, the center of town, consisting of narrow maze-like roads, with stores, open markets, hotels, and apartments, interspersed throughout. It reminded me a bit of the Arab quarter of the Old City in Jerusalem. It was teeming with life and a bit perilous as cars that really should not fit down most of the roads, bikes and motorized scooters, etc. fly down them at break neck paces. You had to flatten yourself against the wall to avoid being road kill. Our most frequent comment during our self-guided tour of Stone Town was, at the top of our lungs: “Emma, watch out!” I like to joke that our main goal of the trip is to return with the same number of kids as we left with. We survived Stone Town with both of the kids that we came with, a sure sign of a good day.

The next day we went on this highly touristy, but very fun, aquatic safari. There were about 150 of us wazungu (white folks) put on about a dozen traditional Zanzibar boats called Dhows. The first stop was a deserted island reminiscent of the island from the movie Castaway, with lovely white sand. We went snorkeling in the crystal clear water and were able to observe thousands of beautiful fish and other sea creatures. The water was bizarrely warm—almost too warm, but exquisitely beautiful. When we returned to the island, we ate fresh coconut and drank coconut milk, and tried desperately to avoid burning to a crisp. The served us a delicious lunch on another uninhabited island, the highlight of which was an in-depth explanation and tasting of all the island fruit. My favorite was the red banana, which they call the “mzungu banana” since the white people turn red after a few days on Zanzibar. So true! I am as white as ever as I cower from the sun per normal, but the kids are actually starting to look African despite the gallons of sunblock we go through on a weekly basis. We did a few other touristy things—like a highly forgettable spice tour, but mostly we relaxed, swam, ate and read in preparation for the next leg of the journey.

Last Few Days in Rau

Leaving Rau was disquietingly reminiscent of leaving Los Angeles in January. There were lots of tears, in many ways more poignant tears because we may never see many of these people again. In a relatively short time, we created what appeared to be long lasting friendships—even if most will be long distance and facilitated only via email. As we were leaving, Adam and I realized that deciding to volunteer was the best decision that we made with respect to this trip, both because of the extraordinary experiences we have already had, but also because we have been able to forge lasting friendships that would have been impossible if we had traveled only as tourists for six months. Of the growing list of things I did not consider when we set off on this trip is how hard it would be to create connections with people in the places we visit and then have to say goodbye. Particularly for the girls.

Truth be told, Adam and I are also a bit puzzled over how much of an impression our family seemed to have made. I think having a family at the home base altered the dynamics in many ways for both the other volunteers as well as the staff. To our fellow volunteers, I think we became a combination of parents, friends, playmates and (bizarre as this sounds) maybe even role models for what they can do with their kids when they have them. More touching and wholly unexpected was the way that the staff saw us. In Tanzania, they seem to have such a strong sense of family and obligation. Indeed, Adam and I often felt that there was much we could learn from them, not vice versa. Therefore, it was with both surprise and chagrin that we learned that they saw us as this extraordinary family. I was particularly amused, and pleased, when Edward, Mama Grace’s son and a terrific young man, apparently remarked that our family would serve as a model for what his would be. If they only knew… Even so, we were surprised and extremely touched by the fuss that was made for us as we left. We received incredibly thoughtful gifts from the staff—works of art that were created for us about our family. Stephen and Farahani gave me a wonderful bowl that they had shopped for and chosen carefully (and filled with chocolate). I was particularly taken by a wonderful party given by Stephen, his mother (Mama Change) and Farahani. All parties in Rau, it seems, are not just about eating, drinking and small talk. As with the extraordinary birthday party we attended the week before, they use the occasion to speak from the heart about the honored guests. Shockingly, in this case, us. They took turns speaking about each of us and our family and what we had meant to them during our reasonably short stay in Rau. It was hard for me to grasp what was happening and I was focusing on taking in every moment, even as I sat on the sofa and cried. We then (including Maya and Emma) were each asked to say a few words. We stumbled through and thanked them for opening themselves up, resulting in a profound connection that will not soon be forgotten. We had made some cd’s for Stephen and Farahani –a bizarre combination of Beatles, Black Eyed Peas, Queen and Motown—and the party ended with all of us dancing—everyone including Maya, Emma, Mama Change, the 17 year old boys and even Adam! A fabulous party by any measure—one I will never forget.

Another challenge of leaving, albeit less profound, is the nuisance of packing and the constant nag of feeling like we have too much stuff—but can’t figure out what to get rid of. Finishing a book and even a tube of toothpaste is a triumph because it lightens our load by a few ounces. None of us have an extraordinary amount of stuff. In fact, when compared with most other volunteers, ours was an average, if not moderate, amount. But in the aggregate and when we pack it up and pile it in one place it seems overwhelming.

Soul or Efficiency

I had, of all things, a pedicure on our last day in Rau. One of the housekeepers in our home base, Mama Judith-who essentially adopted our kids as her own grandchildren (she actually cleaned their shoes when I wasn’t looking one day)—has a granddaughter, Lulu, who does massages, manicures and pedicures and comes to town periodically to provide these services to the volunteers. Given the level of ground in dirt that had been residing in my feet for the past four weeks, the $8 seemed like a worthy investment despite the incongruousness of it all. Of course, I could rationalize it by saying that I was helping to support this young woman, particularly because her grandmother has been so kind to us, but let’s be real. It felt great, I enjoyed every moment and she did a fabulous job. Lulu is an extraordinary young woman. She is twenty one, the eldest sister of a family of 11 kids. Her father is a former Maasai who is now a Muslim (a rather unique combination) with a moderately successful car service business, but likely not successful enough to comfortably support a family of 13. She is an industrious woman who is determined to be independent and successful and not a burden to her family. She also speaks impeccable English and was fascinating to talk to about Tanzanian life and her view of how it compares to life elsewhere. She expressed what I have come to believe is pretty standard among the Tanzanian people—a matter-of-factness about the way things are—they have little, we (Americans/Europeans) have a lot, life in Tanzania is very challenging, but while they wish they were not so poor they are ambivalent about changing the character of their lives. She reiterated the common theme that family, respect for elders and close relationships with friends and members of the community are paramount above all else in Tanzania.

In talking to Lulu, and in considering my time in Rau (the village in which we are living) and Tanzania, I am constantly contemplating the question of soul vs. efficiency. I have frequently had the thought that if I only had the time and resources, I could inject efficiency into the system; help increase productivity, and perhaps, prosperity. That’s not to say that efficiency would cure all ills here. Corruption is widespread. Healthcare is inadequate. Education is spotty. HIV/AIDS is widespread. Nonetheless, you don’t have to participate in many transactions in Tanzania before it becomes painfully obvious that a little efficiency and process could go a long way. Really—give me an hour to organize a store, or train employees or set up a logical process to allow business to operate more effectively, and you would see profits increase. It’s all I can do to walk into a store and refrain from offering to just organize the shelves for them.

At other moments, I wonder what near perfect efficiency has done to the soul of our country. For all of our effectiveness in business, agriculture and information technology, we fundamentally lack the kindness, warmth, generosity and genuine sense of community that permeates everything here. It is incredibly difficult for me, as an American (an anal one at that) to grasp that people would not have a more burning desire to improve their economic circumstances. At the same time, I have no doubt that most of our Tanzanian friends would be horrified to observe the fever pitch in which we (I, in particular) generally operate and how much of our lives are dedicated to planning for the future, often to the complete exclusion of appreciating the present. As we have described in our blogs previously, during the amount of time that Tanzanians spend greeting each other, an industrious person could have solved some number of the world’s problems. The question, of course, is at what cost? The Tanzanian people are true examples of how to live in the moment. There is a sense among Tanzanians that if someone needs something—that they give it, regardless of how little they actually have and whether doing so will hinder their ability to even feed their own family. I have had many debates over the years with people over why mega rich people, like the Bill Gates’ of the world, continue to work so hard to increase their wealth—when they already have enough for themselves and their family to live the most lavish and extravagant of lives into perpetuity. The opposite principle is at work here. While there is certainly a desire to succeed and improve their lot through education, the pervasive drive to maximize wealth and plan for the future is simply not the motivating force of their lives.

Perhaps, it is somewhere betwixt and between that lies the answer. Clearly, enhanced efficiency could increase the financial performance and well being of Tanzanians. It is equally clear that deemphasizing efficiency, in favor of community, patience and kindness would be a welcome contribution to American society. But really, could I just organize a few shelves before I leave??

Forward Progess. . .and Loss of Yardage

The volunteering experience continued to be a bit of a roller coaster until the final day. There were days that we would walk home elated because the kids seemed to be making progress—recognizing letters and numbers in a context other than sequential order, identifying colors, singing the English songs we taught them and generally falling into a routine that had some resemblance to a proper preschool . I was also pleased that we managed to learn almost all the names (from the oddly normal—“George”, to the truly bizarre “Godbless”), and, from time to time, the kids would even call me “Melissa” or Mwalimu (“teacher”) instead of “mzungu” (which I actually found quite charming). And, I was proud and slightly bemused that I managed to learn most of the Lord’s Prayer in Kiswahili, a somewhat useless skill in the context of the rest of my life. Other days, it seemed like we were back to square one, with even the seemingly brightest kids struggling with the most basis application skills, and us struggling with keeping the kids from just running wild. Also, as the days went on, random new kids, some with severe disabilities, started showing up—perhaps because word got out that there was a mzungu teacher around—even though I was even less equipped to handle that. There were days that my mind was numb from the repetition and monotony of our routine (the same thing 4 times with different groups) that I would look at my watch expecting that an hour had passed when it had only been four minutes. One day, it was pouring rain so hard that we could barely hear each other speak and, since the school is essentially a roof, a few walls and dirt floor, it was all we could do to keep the kids from just rolling in the red clay mud all day. I suspect that all teachers have similar experiences of sensing accomplishment one day and defeat others (one reason I could never actually be a teacher), but in this context it is hard not to feel as though you blew one of the few chances that these kids will ever have.

On our last day, I left with very mixed emotions. I became so attached to these kids and I was genuinely thrilled each morning when the kids heard us coming up the path and ran out to grab us with so much enthusiasm, we had to brace ourselves to avoid falling over. I also felt some sense of accomplishment that we were able to inject some sense of order into an otherwise completely chaotic and ineffectual learning environment, and even observed the kids making some progress. On the other hand, I was shamefully grateful to be relieved of the responsibility for this challenging task of teaching, and engaging these kids without the language, the teaching skills or the resources to do so in any legitimate way. I was pleased that new volunteers showed up before we left so we could orient them to the job and they could continue where we left off instead of starting at square one as we did. Stephen and Farihani, our 17 year old local volunteers actually volunteered to continue until their school starts in a few weeks—so that also gave me some measure of comfort.

Overall, I am grateful for the experience of operating so far out of my comfort zone for a month and living to tell the tale. I also continue to believe I learned more from the experience than the kids did—but I am hopeful that I added some value to their lives and educations. At one point, I was so troubled over feeling useless that I spent a Saturday in the CCS office with Sarah, another volunteer, creating blogs and for all the placements to allow the volunteers to enter information about their experiences and help future volunteers prepare before they come. It was one of the rare days in Tanzania where I was feeling incredibly efficient and almost back to my old Melissa self (Emma was a bit scared). I hope it will be helpful, but perhaps I was just feeding my own selfish need to feel productive.

One aspect of this communal volunteering is hearing heart wrenching stories from other volunteers on an almost daily basis. One was a story about a women—a widow-- who is dying of AIDS. She is so convinced (probably rightfully so) that when she dies there will be no one to care for her kid, that she has started poisoning and burning her son so he will not be left alone. It’s hard to imagine anything more horrifying, particularly when it is likely not a unique story.

End of Tanzania Volunteering-Adam

This past Tuesday (Feb. 13) was my last day volunteering in Tanzania. It was a bittersweet day. Frankly, the volunteering was hard, both from a teaching standpoint and an ego standpoint. The fact is that teaching English to really poor kids who have very limited English is very challenging. I taught three groups of kids, Form 1 (11-13), Form 2 (14-17), Form 3 (18-19). I think that I did ok with the Form 1 and the Form 2 kids, but I don’t feel that I ever succeeded in reaching the Form 3 kids. In the Form 3 class, I always felt like the ignorable substitute teacher. In that regard, I hereby apologize to all of those substitute teachers who I played a part in harassing over the many years of my education. In the Form 3 classroom, I seemed to be largely talking to myself. Of course, I generally find myself scintillating, but not when I’m actually trying to talk to others. And the thing is that learning English is actually important. The economic opportunities for fluent English speakers in Tanzania are much greater than for those who do not speak English. There’s nothing more disheartening than feeling that you’re not reaching your students and that the subject matter is actually important to their lives. I think I’m being a bit hard on myself, but it was definitely tough.

In terms of the Form 1 and Form 2 kids, I felt somewhat differently. The kids seemed to really like me and I really liked them. Many of them were quite smart and seemed eager to learn. To my great surprise, they seemed sad when I told them that I would not be returning. I’m not sure how effective I was, but I think a bond was created. On the last day, I took pictures and videos of the students, which I showed them, they seemed to enjoy that.

All in all, I really enjoyed the volunteering. I relished being confronted with challenges so different than the challenges I face at home. While it was tough, I feel that my confidence has grown such that I feel more certain that I can conquer different and foreign challenges. I also felt that the relationships that I developed with both the students and the faculty were rewarding. Certainly, were we merely traveling from locale to locale, I would never have had the opportunity to make these types of connections.

In ending the volunteering, I have been giving considerable thought to what I can do on a going forward basis. It seems that all I can really do is give money and/or help raise money. But the question is for whom and how to do it effectively. Throwing money at problems is not always the solution. Indeed, it is a key part of the laudatory credo of Cross Cultural Solutions not to give in a way that engenders dependence. I have been considering a number of options. As indicated in a prior blog, I really admire the mission of Second Chance (the name of my school) to provide another avenue for Tanzanians, who have been left out of the system, to further their education. Clearly, they need money for everything from hiring teachers to buying books to improving their facilities. Another possible recipient is one of my students, Evance, who is in the Form 3 class. Evance is from the poor of the poor. Indeed, as a little kid, he would haul bricks for 1,000 schillings (less than $1.00) per day. He is very smart. On my last day, we talked at length about his desire to become a doctor so that he may work on the HIV/AIDS issues in the country. Fortunately, Second Chance has identified him as a top student, which should help, but that, by no means, guarantees him the ability to obtain the education he deserves and needs. I have been thinking that maybe I should give him a few bucks here and there to help him out. Similarly, as also reflected in my prior posts, I have become entranced with one of the neighborhood orphanages, which is so profoundly desperate for resources. Unfortunately, I cannot give to everything and so I’m torn about which if any of these are the right beneficiaries of my small donations or should I be doing something entirely different.

Also, Melissa used to joke, much to my irritation, that it was her objective to return home with an orphan. While I am quite satisfied with the size of my family, it’s hard not to think about how such an action could so transform the life of one of the orphans. Tanzania makes it nearly impossible for foreigners to adopt. I will guiltily confess that I am relieved by this administrative burden.

Nonetheless, it’s hard to not have your heart touched by this place and I feel a real need to maintain a connection that’s both useful and thoughtful.

It’s so hard to figure out, yet I am committed to figuring something out.

Maya at Matumaini

As Adam has previously described, Matumaini is an orphanage we visit many afternoons to play with the kids who live there. It is both a desperately sad and deeply inspirational place. The “facility” is nothing more than a ramshackle structure, the kids are the poorest of the poor, rarely have enough to eat, no toys to play with, no family to care for them, and no one to even care what happens to them. Yet, they are full of joy and love in way that inexplicably transcends their circumstances. A volunteer who visited for the first time remarked that they have nothing we have and everything we don’t. I thought that was a profoundly true comment. While we all enjoy playing with the children and can’t help but be touched by their circumstances, Matumaini has struck a deep, and likely lasting, cord in Maya.

Most first timers at Matumaini, myself included, have a moment or two of hesitation or apprehension over their dire circumstances, or even how to communicate and engage with them. Terrible as it may sound, there’s also a moment of concern about what diseases one might get from hugging or even just touching the kids. Maya has none of this. She seems to be possessed of this empathy that relieves her of all concerns. There is something about the experience of being there with the kids that touches her in a place that I don’t think I completely even understand. Indeed, I suspect she does not even fully grasp—or could even clearly articulate why it means so much to her. I think she intellectually understands that these kids have so little, particularly in comparison to her own life. Indeed, this trip was inspired at least in part by our desire to expose our children to situations like these and instill a sense of responsibility to the world beyond ourselves (as she reluctantly, yet eloquently, stated in her Bat Mitzvah d’var Torah). However, her response to these children clearly transcends a sense of duty, pity, empathy or even guilt. Watching Maya with the kids there is absolutely stunning and I am frequently fighting back tears as I watch her engage with the children in such a kind, open and intensely genuine manner. The moment she walks up the path, the kids flock to her and you can almost observe Maya relaxing into what seems to be her most natural element. She plays hand games with them in Swahili, hugs and cuddles them and never lets the language barrier—or any number of other potential barriers, inhibit her. She is just so at home playing with the kids, making them feel special and loved in a way that they rarely get to experience, except with other volunteers (specifically Kim and Erin who originally “adopted” Matumaini and made it an integral part of the CCS Rau volunteer experience).

One afternoon, Maya insisted on going to Matumaini even though it was late and almost time for dinner (and she had yet to do any of the school work she was supposed to do). I let her go (can you really tell your kid that she can’t go visit the orphans), but told her that she needed to be back by 7:00pm sharp (mostly to ensure her safety)—and if not, she would be punished. As I was walking her there, I asked her what the worst punishment would be and suggested taking her computer away. She was hesitant to tell me what the worst punishment would be, but finally admitted that the punishment she dreaded the most would actually be forbidding her to go to Matumaini because she can’t stand being away from the kids. I cried. On Monday, as we tearfully left our volunteer compound in Rau for our next adventure (more on that later), Maya unequivocally stated that of all the extremely close friends she made during our time in Rau, she would miss the Matumaini kids the most. I know it is a cliché, but she is actually growing up before my eyes and I feel so proud and fortunate to be able to observe it all at such close range.

What Has Been Done With My Wife

With Cross Cultural Solutions, you don’t really have a choice as to where you volunteer. Certainly, they take into account your preferences and skills and, in our case, they had to take into account what would be appropriate for the kids. In any event, as we previously posted, Melissa and Maya ended up being placed at Kigongoni pre-school. Melissa’s already gone into detail about the placement, so I won’t bother repeating. However, this past Wednesday, I went with her and Emma to the school just to get a sense of what she’s been doing the past four weeks.

Suffice it to say that I learned that Melissa was so firmly thrown out of her comfort zone, that it was kind of funny. A brief recap on Melissa: She’s a neat freak, she’s impatient, she’s driven, she cannot stand repetition, she prizes efficiency over almost all else and, let’s be frank, Melissa would not normally choose to surround herself with 50 pre-school kids, even under the best of circumstances.

So, I was truly amazed to see the transformation of my wife. We arrived and all of the kids ran to her like she was Mary Poppins. They fought to grab her hands and just to touch her in some way. Melissa, as is typically the case, arrived before the teacher got there. Yet, there were already 15 to 20 kids running all around the “facility.” After an initial group meeting, which is really the only time that the actual teacher does anything, Melissa takes kids in groups of 10. With each group of kids, she leads them in such classic activities as singing Who Has Come to School Today; Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes; Mister Clown; the Hokey Pokey and then playing Chui, Chui, Simba (Cheetah, Cheetah, Lion which is Tanzanian Duck, Duck, Goose) and Red Light, Green Light. Even more remarkable, after the singing and the games, Melissa had an art project prepared for the kids. To put this in context, I think I can safely say that in the 13+ years that we have had kids, Melissa has not done one single art project with our kids. As a side note, the art project was to create Valentine’s Day cards. Yes, they celebrate Valentine’s Day in Tanzania. Odd. But if this was not enough, Melissa had to repeat this set of activities four times. After the first two times, I wanted to blow my brains out. Yet, Melissa was the picture of patience and equanimity. I can only conclude that someone has kidnapped my wife.

I became certain of her abduction, when she proceeded to take pictures of all of the kids and spent hours assembling the pictures, stickers, pencils, notebooks, etc. as a going away gift for the kids.

A whole new softer side of Melissa. Of course, this only serves to further highlight my own deficiencies in this regard. Oh, well.

PS: We just returned from a small party, where we were the guests of honor. Really, it was Melissa. As Melissa mentioned in one of her postings, two local boys assisted her and Maya at her placement. She became great friends with the boys, who adore her, and with their mothers. At this party, they went around the room and each person told us (Maya and Emma were with us), what a great family we were and how glad they were that we had come to Tanzania. It felt a little bit like the IKAR board “surprise” party. I credit my wife for bringing such warmth and love into everything she does.

The Massai, the Poet-Tour Guide and the Guitar Playing Warrior

This weekend, we decided to go on a cultural safari to learn more about the Massai tribe. I love doing these cultural safaris, but it also always makes me a feel a bit uncomfortable, as if we’re going to a zoo to look at the interesting people. However, it seems that the tribes that we have met are comfortable with the arrangement, which does provide some economic benefit to the tribe. The four of us traveled with two of our fellow volunteers who Maya and Emma have adopted as their personal camp counselors, Jenny and Sarah. After a few stops, first after the radiator exploded, and then in Arusha for supplies (including shoes for Emma who thought flip flops were appropriate for long hikes and visits in villages made of cow dung), we headed to Longido, which is an hour north of Arusha. Longido is an area where a significant number of Massai live. As I related in a previous posting, the Massai are a regal people that lead semi-nomadic pastoral lives, largely unchanged for thousands of years. Core to the Massai belief system is that all cows are the property of the Massai. As you can imagine, this can be a source of some conflict with those who do not share those beliefs. Indeed, back in the day (maybe a 100 years ago or so), they were fierce warriors. Cows have a central role for the Massai. They’re the source of all wealth. They are accumulated, milked, sold and eaten. Milk is a key part of the diet of the Massai. (I could not help but wondering what happens to a lactose intolerant Massai. Maybe, Rake/Light, there’s a series in that?) When slaughtered, the cows are suffocated, so that no blood is lost. The reason for that is that Massai drink the blood, either alone or with milk. The blood is considered essential for their nourishment –particularly for the warriors.

The Massai have a very rigid caste system of sorts where boys, first become junior warriors, then warriors, and then elders. The stage from junior warrior to warrior (usually at around age 15 or 16) is accompanied by a circumcision ritual that, quite frankly, makes Jewish circumcision look downright benign. The women, of course, are subservient and are expected to produce many, many children. Also, while now illegal, the Massai still secretly practice female circumcision. This is apparently because Maasai men have many wives, and are concerned about being able to satisfy all of them if they are capable of experiencing sexual pleasure.

Abbas, our tour guide, is an interesting fellow. He’s 41 years old and is from Kenya. He’s both an artist and a tour guide. He speaks English very well. He has the feel of a zen master or guru. He’s always dispensing life wisdom and, unlike me, people listen to him. Having grown up in a huge family (I think 20 children), with a father who had three wives, he’s particularly concerned about the plight of the African family and African women. In this regard, a lot of his painting pays homage to the tremendous burdens placed on the African woman.



After the drive, due to the muddy conditions, we ended up setting up camp in what seemed like someone’s backyard. Yes, I camped ending my 25 years of assiduously avoiding sleeping in a tent. After 9 weeks in a tent as a 14 year old, I felt that I could move on to more permanent accommodations. As the tents we’re being set up, we met Robert, our Massai guide, who was also a fascinating guy. Robert is a member of the Massai tribe, who has chosen to lead a more modern life. This is a very rare decision for members of the Massai tribe. To be clear, he’s still fiercely proud of his Massai heritage, but has elected to live in an apartment, instead of with his Maasai family

The first item on the agenda, after setting up our tent, was to visit a Massai Boma, essentially a fenced in corral, where a number of Massai families live. Out of respect, we dressed in the traditional Massai shuka.

I’m thinking that it’s a good look for me.

As we walked to the Boma we were accompanied by a number of Massai children on their way back from school. The government has been engaged in a concerted effort to get the Massai to send their kids to school. Many of the Massai elders were initially reluctant to send their kids to school, preferring to not disrupt the Massai lifestyle. It seems that, after many years, the government effort is succeeding. More and more kids attend school. One of the things that we noticed on the walk is that as the kids joined us, they would all go up to Robert and put their heads down waiting for Robert to touch their heads. It is a very simple but touching gesture. The kids started to put their heads down to us, as well.

We shortly arrived at the boma. The outside of the corral is fenced off with various plants, in particular a prickly plant that is kind of like barbed wire. As you enter, you see that on the outer circle are three or four sets of circular huts. The huts are made of grass and cow dung, with thatched roofs. Each set is for one family and the number of huts depends on the number of wives. Each wife gets her own hut. The husband rotates from hut to hut, on no particular schedule, as far as I understood. The other sets of huts are for other families that are all friends. The central area of the boma is for the cows and goats. Each morning, the Massai take their herds to find the best grass and then return to the boma at night.

As you approach, the Boma, as with so much in Tanzania, you are confronted with a sensory bouillabaisse. In the distance, you see the brilliant and regal clothing adorning the Massai. They wear brilliant wraps, in various shades of red and purple. The women wear huge and beautiful jewelry. The men also have pierced ears, with piercings that are big enough to put a coffee cup through-literally. They are really a stunning sight.

The next sensory experience is smell. As you can imagine, with cows living in the center of the boma and huts made up of cow dung, the smell of crap is, well, pervasive. Accompanying the smell are the flies, flies as far as the eyes can see. As you walk in, you’re simply assaulted by flies. In addition, the little children have a moustache of flies around their mouths, eyes and noses. It’s hard to not run away in horror. But, at the same time, the Massai that we met were extraordinarily warm and gracious. Therefore, the emotions are swirling: On the one hand, I had a desire to head for the hills to relieve myself from this sensory assault, and then, on the other hand, I felt crushingly guilty for being so incredibly uptight.

In any event, we entered the boma and then we were escorted into one of the huts. The huts are dark, cramped, dusty and smelly.

As I was sitting there, in the dark, we were invited to take pictures. Imagine my surprise, when I just pointed and clicked, with my flash, and realized that I had taken a picture of a breast feeding Massai woman. It was so dark, I simply did not know that she was there.

After a few minutes in the hut, I had to get out for fear of anaphylactic shock.

At this point, the warriors started to return. They are stunningly attired and carry knives and wood sticks used to prod the cattle. They all gathered together and allowed us to take many pictures. Standing there, they had this air of supreme confidence and certainty. In some ways, they seemed like young men, anywhere, convinced that they’re invincible, that the world is theirs for the taking. Perhaps, this was enhanced by their fierce pride in their heritage.

They then started this interesting dance, where the men essentially jumped as high as they could.

The children stood transfixed, watching the warriors.

The cows then came home and filled the center of the boma. At that point, we were told that we would have the opportunity to milk the cows, which is considered woman’s work. That being the case, I had all the excuse I needed to avoid the opportunity. Yet, of course, my wife took her turn. Let’s just say that if the Massai had to rely on Melissa’s cow milking technique, they would now be extinct.

We then headed back to the camp site, where we had a great dinner. Dinner was followed by an unusual surprise. Robert, our Massai tour guide, pulled out his guitar and started singing, everything from Bob Marley’s Legend to Peter, Paul and Mary’s Leaving on a Jet Plane. He was surprisingly good. He reminded me of a less well trained Hillel, with far less command over popular lyrics.



We went to sleep, where I had an atrocious night’s sleep. I really don’t understand the ostensible charms of sleeping in a tent.

That next morning, we headed to a cave that is used by the local Massai men for a variety of different purposes, training, healing, ceremonies, etc. When we arrived, there were two Massai warriors with two boys. Apparently, the boys were there because they were sick. While the Massai will, from time to time, go seek conventional medical care (such that it exists in Tanzania), they still largely rely on traditional healing techniques.

In this instance, one of the children was sick so a cow was sacrificed and special meals were being prepared to heal the child. By the time that we had arrived, they had been there for a few days already and the child seemed fine. As we arrived, they were preparing another meal. There was meat being grilled and some kind of soup, the color of mud, was simmering. When I peered into the soup pot, it was all I could do to not throw up. In addition, to the “standard” parts of the cow was the stomach and the intestines.



Looks yummy, huh!? I’m all for cultural sensitivity, but it would be a cold day in hell before I ate that. Maya and Emma were great, but were clearly fighting the gag reflex.

The last activity of the day was visiting a foreteller. Quite frankly, other than shaking and pouring out stones, I really had no idea what he does. Apparently, women that cannot conceive go to him to find out if they’ll ever have kids. I’m not sure what else he does. Nonetheless, he was kind of a stunning presence. Interestingly, he had five wives and 20 kids.

Finally, we bought some tchothkes at a small Massai market, which had been assembled for our benefit.

Thus, ended another weekend adventure.

Extraordinary Birthday Party

To assist in my placement, two local 17 year old boys have mercifully agreed to work with me. They are terrific, warm boys. I’m constantly remarking that it’s hard for me to imagine 17 year old US boys agreeing to help out a 42 year old woman at a chaotic and ill-equipped nursery. Yet, they do so and they do it with great love and concern. I have become quite close to the boys and I have had the great privilege of being invited to their homes on a few occasions for tea and just hanging out—sometimes we even watch videos of Tanzanian hip hop artists. Their families are so unbelievably warm and welcoming that the few awkward silences that accompany these encounters are well worth the experience.

One particularly remarkable experience was a 21st birthday party for the brother of Steven, one of the 17 year old boys. His mother, Mama Chenge, happens to be the women to whom many of the volunteers send out their laundry, and is the landlord for a few of the CCS staff. She has also graciously showed a few of us around town and helped us avoid the mzungu prices when making some local purchases.

It is hard to describe what an extraordinary party this was—but I will try.

The house is what I suspect is a fairly typical middle class, village Tanzanian home. The main room is about 150 square feet with simple furnishings, reasonably sparse decor and immaculately clean. There were about 30 people there—though it was not clear to me whether they had planned a much smaller celebration that had expanded due to their extremely welcoming nature. It seemed as though the entire community was in attendance—the local artist/tour guide, the bartender from across the street, most of the CCS staff who live within a few hundred meters of the home base. In many ways, it reminded me of my extended family—long time friends that become indistinguishable from blood relatives. The party started as parties typically do—people sitting around drinking soda and beer and making small talk. Then, the official celebration began. The birthday boy is a cute, hip looking guy—as are his brothers. One of the local guys, Abbas, who is apparently like a son to Mama Chenge, served as the MC. Abbas asked the big sister to start the evening with a prayer that was in Swahili. While I did not understand it, it was clearly very welcoming and sweet. He then asked the birthday boy, to cut the cake into tiny pieces and feed a piece to each of his dad, his mom, his big sister, his brothers and his adorable two-year old nephew. Once the family was fed and shown the appropriate respect, he went around to each of the guests and fed us each a bite of cake. Then, the speeches. Certain people were asked to give the birthday boy some words of wisdom. Many of the speeches were given in English, presumably to make the few mzungus in attendance feel welcome, even though it was clearly a challenge for many of them. Abbas translated the few that were in Swahili. Each speech was a sweet, heartfelt, sometimes funny, sometime serious bit of advice for a 21 year old boy who had so many choices and challenges in front of him. He was told to finish his education, to be careful about the choices he makes, to always keep God first, to always be grateful for what you have, to keep the good friends you have and choose new ones wisely. I was a bit horrified when, after several family members spoke, I was asked to speak, apparently because I had been working with Stephen and I am considered a sort of elder here among the volunteers, thanks to my status as the mother to the two volunteer watoto (children). I managed to string something together, between my own tears, about how fortunate he was to be part of this family and community and how privileged we felt to be part of the celebration. The most emotional moment was when the birthday boy finally spoke. He thanked his dad in a fairly perfunctory manner which I later learned was because Mama Chenge is his second wife and this family is somewhat neglected by the father. He then spoke to his mother in the most profoundly beautiful manner. He spoke of how his mother had sacrificed for him and how fortunate he has been for all she has done for him. He promised to make lots of money and take care of his mother—even to buy her a new Rolls Royce when his ship comes in. There was truly not a dry eye in the house. Indeed, he even left in the middle to compose himself from the tears flowing. I inquired as to whether this was a particularly special celebration because it was his 21st birthday—but learned that this is how they celebrate all birthdays in this family.

My description fails to capture the true sense of community that permeated the entire evening, the genuine love and devotion among everyone in attendance and I was even touched by the way all of the 20 something boys played with their 2 year nephew. My description also makes this all sound a bit formal, when it was in fact incredibly casual and warm even as everyone was intensely focused on the proceedings. We mzungus should have felt like outsiders—but instead, we were treated like honored guests and warmly embraced. In fact his father commented in his speech that he is so special, even the mzungus came to his party. It is impossible for me to imagine a similar celebration in the States. I imagine most boys in their early 20s would have some cake, thank their mom and run out to hang out with their friends at some much hipper venue. Truly one of the most touching experiences of my trip thus far.

From Zen to NY in 6 Seconds Flat

For all my talk about enjoying the pace of life here in Tanzania and the de-emphasis on the material side of things, my baser instincts came out a few days ago. Melissa and I decided that we wanted to change our travel plans a bit. We were scheduled to leave from Kilimanjaro to Nairobi on Feb 23. However, we decided, instead, that we would go to Zanzibar for a few days and wanted to change our flights so that we would fly to Kilimanjaro then to Zanzibar thenn to Nairobi. We assumed that since we had fully refundable tickets and were proposing to use the same airline, Precision Air, this would not be a problem. We were sorely mistaken. After trying to work this out in our nearest “city,” Moshi, we were advised that we had to go to the ticket office in Arusha, a bigger city about an hour and a half away. We planned to go to Arusha to observe the UN Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, so it was not terribly inconvenient. As we were walking into the ticket office, Melissa gently reminded me that I should be nice, to which I hostilely responded: “If you don’t like the way I deal with this, you do it.” A nice beginning to the morning. First, we tried to convince Precision Air that they could apply what we paid for the prior ticket to the new routing. Initially, the agent simply said no. We pressed the issue a bit which prompted the agent to engage in several drawn out conversations in Swahili with other employees. I was getting more and more frustrated. At one point, as frequently happens in Tanzania, they lost electicity, bring the whole matter to a complete halt. After the electricity was restored and after going back and forth for over an hour, we gave up and decided to simply buy the tickets and deal with the refund at a later time. They calculated the amount owed on the new tickets, which was about $1,400. We then offered to pay in credit card and then traveler’s checks—both of which they rejected. Cash only. Understand, this is an airline—not some fly by night operation (pardon, the pun). It appears as though the entire Tanzanian economy is run in cash. The fact that the highest denomination available is 10,000 shillings (about $9) is a reasonably good indication of the dire economic situation this country is in . Needless to say, we were not walking around with $1,400 in cash. At this point, I wanted to fly across the desk and slowly strangle the ticket agent, but I realized it really was not her fault. Nonetheless, I took off, in 5,000 degree sun, looking desperately for a place to cash our traveler’s checks. I found a place that must have been for idiot travelers, because it offered the worst exchange rate that I have seen in my entire time in Tanzania. Substantially worse. Having no options, I cashed our traveler’s checks. I ran back to the ticket office, with a dangerous amount of cash-dodging a multitude of souvenir hawkers along the way. I made it back to the ticket office, drenched with sweat. At this point, Melissa and I were dangerously close to being late to meet our group, at which point our ride home would have left without us—with our children. The ticket agent proceeded to count the money (a mixture of US$ and Tanzanian schillings) at a snail’s pace while applying some incomprehensible exchange calculation. Of course, the first time that she counted the money, she made an error and the whole excruciating process had to start over. At this point, my calm and collected wife was ready to burn down the ticketing office.

I guess the moral of the story is that you can take the kid out of the West, but you can’t take the West out of the kid.

Running in Rau

I heeded my mother in law’s repeated advice and refrained from running while on Safari to avoid being a lion’s breakfast-even though we were sitting in a Landcruiser for 10 days straight and it was hard to restrain myself. After a few days in our volunteer home base where we eat 3 huge meals a day—heavy on the carbs (no such thing as Atkins here, trust me), and sitting on my tush for the rest of the time, I decided it was time to get some exercise. Fortunately, I had some other willing volunteers to venture out with me on my first few runs, but as I am an early riser, and most of the rest of the volunteers are in their 20’s, my 6AM run soon became a solo affair. This is actually fine with me. At home, my early morning solo runs are one of my great pleasures—allowing me to think quietly before I begin my day. Even with the slower African pace here, I still appreciate the quiet time.

Beyond lung and muscle capacity, there are several other challenges to running in Rau. There is, of course, the need to avoid the goats and chickens crossing the road (and it is really hard to avoid thinking of the joke every time). In addition, I must do this while intensely concentrating on the placement of my feet to avoid falling into one of the ubiquitous pot holes, mud puddles on just uneven patches of “road” so I don’t break my leg—or neck. It is some comfort to know that if I did fall, I would undoubtedly have a troop of villagers ready and willing to escort me home.

Another aspect of note when I am running through the village is that I cut quite a figure. Obviously, there is the fact that I’m wearing running shorts (not commonly worn here) with my lily white legs and Jewish hips. As if that were not enough, Tanzanian women simply do not run (and very few men run). At this point, they have seen enough running mzungus to know that I’m not a fleeing felon or running from a lion. However, it’s still a somewhat unusual sight and I am an object of some curiosity to everyone I pass.

In Tanzania, the greeting ritual is an essential and constant part of life. This is one of the many charms of the people of Tanzania, but it does raise some logistical challenges during my morning runs. First, there is the challenge of figuring out which greeting is appropriate. If it is someone older or of higher stature than yourself, you say “shikamoo”, if not, you just pick from one of the variety of greetings—mambo, jambo, nipe tano (give me five), etc… Honestly, it’s hard enough to make these distinctions when I am standing still and focusing completely on the task. Ages are very difficult to discern here, at least for me. Indeed, the teacher with whom I work is insistent that I am 28 (one very good reason to stay in Africa….). So as I am running, without my glasses and doing my best to navigate the above mentioned physical obstacles, I am probably offending everyone I run pass. The other amusement is that Tanzanians customarily say “pole” (sorry), when they greet someone who has engaged or is engaging in difficult labors—or really anything that seems remotely exerting (e.g. walking slowly up a hill). For instance, kids walking home from school will be greeted with “pole.” So are mzunga runners. I only recently learned that the appropriate response is “asante” (thank you).

The 100s of kids I pass also never miss an opportunity to greet me as I run by and often start running with me—grabbing my hand and then dropping off as I move on. I particularly love it when a kid is trying to practice English and s/he yells “What is my name Mzungu,” making the same grammatical mistake that I am certain I make on an hourly basis with my remedial, pidgeon Swahili. Somehow, I suspect my butchering of Swahili is far less charming than when done by the adorable Tanzanian kids.

So, my runs serve a multitude of purposes—exercise for me, English practice for local kids and the endless amusement of the locals.

Random Thoughts (in no particular order)

Trip to a Market:

This past Wednesday, all of the CCS volunteers had a field trip. We visited a number of different sites. It was all very touristy, though interesting. The highlight for me was visiting the Kisombo Market, an open air market. It was amazing. The place had the feel of a Jackson Pollock painting come to life. The smells, the sounds, the colors were like nothing I have ever seen. The market was divided up into rickety wood stands. Everything was sold there: baskets and baskets of different types of beans, fruits, vegetables, brilliant fabrics, shoes, fish. At the back of the market, they were grinding corn into corn flower, which will be used to make Ugali, a staple of the Tanzanian diet (a stiff porridge like substance that takes on the flavor of whatever sauce with which it is served). The women were all wearing brilliantly colorful wraps and head coverings. Some were traditional tops, while some wore American t-shirts (eg. I saw one woman wearing a shirt Daring Me to Stay Off Drugs and another was wearing a Cleveland Indians Jersey). The place was just a kaleidoscope of color and activity.

Existential Considerations:

My mom, when she was deep in her studies for her masters in marriage and family therapy, related to us that there is a theory that says that human beings are generally preoccupied with one of four areas of concern: fear of death, fear of being alone, free choice and the meaning of life (the existential). Clearly, for me, I have always been preoccupied with the existential. I remember that even as a kid, I was always thinking about the existential crap shoot that is life—I was a very cheerful child. Lest you think that I was overly morbid, upon hearing that humans only use a small percent of their brains, I was also obsessed with obtaining super powers through the use of the rest of my brain. It’s a wonder I was not more popular. Nonetheless, it is impossible to not consider existential matters living here in Tanzania. The wealth disparity, the education disparity, the lack of real opportunity for change are inescapable. In contrast, I look at my children and see that they’re only limited by their own imaginations. It’s impossible to not think about the unfairness of the world.

However, on the other hand, there’s an openness and gentleness to the Tanzanian people that seems to belie their circumstances. Starting with our safari, we were struck by the friendliness of the Tanzanian people. They greet us with genuine warmth and openness. As you drive by, people wave to you—yelling out Mzunga. When we walk by, kids grab our hands, adults shake our hands. Can you imagine that in LA or NY? As Melissa said, they seem to live in desperate poverty, but not in desperation. While there is nothing noble about poverty, it is clear that poverty is a relative concept—resulting from a comparison of the haves with the have-nots. Here the vast majority are have-nots, thus rendering the comparison less obvious than it is in, say, Los Angeles or New York. Does the lack of material things, the lack of materialism generally, explain their openness? Maybe without the compulsion to compete or amass property that is endemic in the West, humans have a greater capacity for warmth and contentment. I don’t know, but I hope that when we return to our “real” lives, we can retain some of that openness. However, that said, conspicuous consumption can be fun.

Mzunga Pricing:

We were warned that when purchasing things there would be two prices, one for Tanzanians and one for Mzungas. We were told that we should endeavor to the get the local prices. Indeed, getting local pricing seems to be a proxy for how well you’re assimilating into Tanzanian society. It recently occurred to me that this was a ridiculous way of thinking about this. As a matter of fairness, shouldn’t those with more, pay more? My good friend, Kirk, is a tax law professor at UCLA law school and we frequently discuss tax issues (much to our wives’ dismay and boredom). There is a theoretical approach to taxation, known as an endowment tax, which posits that people should pay taxes based not on their incomes, but rather on their native abilities to earn. Clearly, with all due deference to Kirk, this is an example of an academic theory with virtually no application in real life. However, in thinking about this Mzunga pricing issue, it occurred to me that this was kind of an endowment tax. As a reasonably well-educated American from an affluent background, my earning capacity is great, therefore, maybe I should pay more. Separate and apart from arcane tax theory, there is the reality that you find yourself getting into an intense negotiation and then, when you take a moment, you realize that you’re negotiating over the equivalent of $1.23. What’s the point?

Matumaini Orphanage:

In one of my prior posts, I talked about this orphanage. From time to time, I will walk there with my kids and other volunteers. As the pictures from the prior blog show, the orphanage is in dire straits. It too looks like a crack house. The kids are dressed in tattered and filthy clothes. One or more of the kids often has some injury or open cut. Some of the kids may have AIDS and many are HIV positive. The kids are responsible for walking a 1/4 to 1/2 mile to collect water and are responsible for doing their own laundry, all of which they do with a smile on their beautiful faces. Yet, for reasons that are not clear to me, visiting there is simply uplifting. Seeing the joy on the kids’ faces when we arrive, playing soccer with them, watching my daughters play hand games with the kids, watching the kids run into Maya’s and Emma’s arms, feeling them grab my hands—it is simply inexplicably moving and inspiring.

Coke Is It, Really

One of the first things that we noticed upon arriving in Africa was that every store front sign is essentially split screen with one side advertising Coca Cola and the other side stating the name of the store. These signs are ubiquitous. In one five minute interval, Emma counted 40. You even see these signs used for such non-commercial enterprises as hospitals and even some churches. My speculation is that Coke gives away the signs for free for the sake of spreading its brand. Odd and slightly disturbing.




Julius Nyerere (known as the “Teacher”):

He was the first president of Tanzania. I have only learned a bit about him, but he seems to have been an extraordinary man. If you consider Tanzania’s neighbors, such as Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, you can’t help but wonder how Tanzania became this oasis of peace. This is particularly extraordinary when you consider that Tanzania is made up of over 120 tribes and is relatively evenly split between Christians and Muslims, both recipes for internal strife, if not outright civil war. It seems that everyone agrees that Nyerere is to be credited with this stunning achievement. I have not yet been given a completely persuasive answer as to what Nyerere did, but here are a few factors:

1. He managed to effectuate a reasonably peaceful transition from British control to independence.
2. Based on the African values of community and family, and influenced both by Marx and the Chinese, he advocated communalism, which placed the vast majority of Tanzanians on reasonably equal footing with one another.
3. He adopted Swahili as the national language, which was a unifying force among the 120 tribes.
4. He made sure to appoint ministers from the various tribes in his government to communicate that no tribe was being preferred over another.
5. A couple of years after independence, he managed the delicate combination of Tanganyika and Zanzibar, resulting in the country of Tanzania. Among the many challenges was that Zanzibar was almost completely Muslim, while Tanganyika was primarily Christian.

Clearly, this is just the tip of the iceberg and I want to learn more about this amazing figure, who is really universally revered in Tanzania.

Kilimanjaro

We had a terrific, if harrowing, weekend excursion to a great a little lodge about 9000 feet up Mount Kilimanjaro, roughly the halfway point to the summit. At roughly 19,000 feet, Kilimanjaro is both the tallest mountain in Africa and the tallest free-standing mountain in the world (meaning not in a range with other mountains). We arrived in the rain after an hour an a half ride on a bumpy road that made some of the safari roads we had previously bounced along seem like the Pacific Coast Highway. Bone jarring. We actually did not make it all the way to the lodge. The car spun out on the mud, narrowly missed going down the embankment, and crashed (gently) into a tree. We weren’t far from the lodge, so we happily walked the rest of the way. The kids, who were completely freaked by the drive, did not even complain about the .5 kilometer walk straight up hill in the pouring rain. Some local children ran out with umbrellas for us (indicating that our experience was not particularly unusual) and women from the Chaga tribe greeted us with a beautiful dance. At 9000 feet, the weather was cooler than anything we have experienced thus far in Africa—and no mosquitoes! The mountain was covered in clouds when we first arrived, but then the rain stopped, the clouds parted and we were treated to a magical view of the snow capped peak of Mount Kilimanjaro. It’s quite extraordinary to see this majestic mountain covered in snow rising from the dusty African savananah. I have truly never seen anything like it and it was immediately clear why so much literature has been inspired by the sight.

We had the lodge to ourselves and, after a lovely one hour walk in the rain forest on the mountain, we were treated to more Chaga dances, drumming and even a sing along. This was clearly a bit of a show for the mzungas (white people), but unlike similar scenes I have witnessed in other countries where they seem to be going through the motions, there is a sense here that the singers and dancers are genuinely enjoying sharing their culture. Nonetheless, the whole scene reminded me of IKAR. The women started dancing, the men slowly joined it and soon the entire place was swept up in the joy and rhythm of the dance, including me (of course), Emma, Adam and, briefly and exceedingly reluctantly, Maya. Adam displayed his usual facility with rhythm and vocal abilities and we all, including the locals, had a nice laugh. Adam and I enjoyed our first evening alone together since this adventure started and we awoke to a glorious view of the mountain.

We hiked to a beautiful waterfall called Mnambe, apparently a sacred and spiritual place for members of the Chagga tribe. The walk there was easy and pleasant, if somewhat slippery and muddy. The return journey was straight up hill in the blazing sun for 2.5 hours. The kids kvetched and begged us to call a car (as if we could) but they persevered and made it up, and were both pleased with their accomplishment.

If the trip up the mountain was bumpy and slightly jarring, the ride down was absolutely terrifying. A few minutes into the trip, the rain started again and our minivan slid around the road like an out of control beginning skier on an icy black diamond run. Or, perhaps, like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride—without the track…or seatbelts… or risk of death. Indeed, we learned that slick mud can be every bit as hazardous as snow. Much to my irritation, Adam kept looking back at me with a panicked look, which made it harder for me to assure the girls that all was fine. The driver seemed reasonably unperturbed during the most treacherous parts so I chose to believe that this was not particularly extraordinary. However, when the rain stopped and the road evened out a bit, he turned around and said “we are safe now” ominously indicating that we had not been for the previous 30 minutes. Needless to say, the familiar sight of our little village of Rau was a welcome one.

Volunteering Week 2: Adam--A New School

Week 2 of volunteering presented both new opportunities and challenges. Needless to say, I was very glad when Friday of Week 1 arrived. Certainly, that, in and of itself, is not a novel sentiment. However, as Melissa pointed out, a week of volunteering feels a bit like a month of 70 hour work weeks. This is particularly odd given that we’re only working from 8:00 to 12:00 or so. However, the work is challenging, the conditions are challenging, the language barrier is challenging, etc. Also, while I have always endeavored to excel at what I do, the pressure that I put on myself here is much greater. This, I think, is the way it should be.

As I indicated in my last posting, I decided to change my placement. I just felt that being at a private school, teaching well-off (by Tanzanian standards) kids, was not the best use of my time. Moreover, as I also mentioned, I was taking time away from more talented teachers. Though, given Melissa’s experience, I was somewhat concerned about moving away from a relatively easy placement to a potentially more difficult one. Nonetheless, in the spirit of doing things outside of my comfort zone, for week two I moved to a school called Second Chance. Let me briefly share my understanding of the Tanzanian Education System (which may only be partially correct). There are government schools and private schools. Generally, all kids will go to primary school (some will go to private primary schools). It is worth noting that even the government schools have fees, which while low, present obstacles for the poorest among the Tanzanian children. After completing primary school students are required to take the Standard 7 exam. Only if they pass, will they be permitted to attend the government secondary schools. The primary schools essentially go up to age 11 or 12, but the age ranges vary within each level as the students must develop competency in a given level before moving up. Therefore, Tanzanian teachers are confronted with the additional challenge of multi age classes. Students who fail the Standard 7 exam are in a difficult position. Students who are more well-off may attend private schools. This is where Second Chance comes in. It is for those students who have failed the Standard 7 exam, want to complete further education, but do not have the resources to do so. Many of the students are orphans, living with extended families, with ages ranging from 12 to 20. The school desperately needed English teachers. Therefore, its mission met my objectives of working in an environment that had a broader social objective.

So, I showed up on Monday to a school in disarray. They rent one building that looks a bit like a crack house. There are water stains on all of the ceilings, the walls are pock marked. On my first day, I merely observed. The class rooms are small and have nothing. Indeed, that first day we had to pass back and forth the rag that was doubling as the eraser. Chalk was also in short supply. The students were in uniforms, somewhat. Somewhat because they were dressed in a hodge podge of ripped hand-me down clothes. There was definitely a bleak feeling to the place. Moreover, the school does not have sufficient faculty. Indeed, as I walked around the school, there were many points in time where the students were left alone. However, the students were of good spirits and seemed eager to learn.

On Tuesday, it was time for me to teach. While I was somewhat less intimidated by the teaching because of my prior experience, quite frankly, it is terrifying the first time. When I taught at USC Law School, which was terrifying enough, I had all the resources in the world and the invaluable support of my teaching colleague. Here, I was teaching a bunch of desperately poor kids, who speak very little English, with barely enough chalk to go around. My choices were to teach English and/or Math. When I realized that the math involved teaching quadratic equations, I opted for English. It went ok As I said, the kids are good kids and seem eager to learn. However, I was still struggling to teach English in the manner that they were used to, very grammar and rule bound. Really boring.

The next day, I decided on a new game plan. I determined that the best thing that I could do for my remaining time at the school was focus on conversational English and teaching a bit about America, particularly because the other teacher was going to focus on the grammar anyway. I discussed with him and he thought it was a good idea. The next two days went better, as a result. The kids really enjoyed asking questions about me, my family and America and were practicing their English at the same time. I also cut out pictures of Americana from various magazines to use to initiate discussion. I asked them to guess my age. To my great delight, their guesses were all in the twenties. A nice change of pace from the States, where everyone generally assumes that I’m ten years older than I actually am. The funniest moment was when I also told them Melissa’s age. They literally gasped. They explained that it is simply unheard of for men to marry older women.

On Thursday, I was also invited to join a faculty meeting, which was an interesting experience. The meeting was called to announce the hiring of a new headmaster. The school had never had a headmaster before and this was seen as a very positive step. The meeting was conducted professionally, in English for my benefit, with a thoughtful presentation of the problems facing the school: insufficient resources, insufficient faculty, inconsistent schedule, etc. The teachers there were very committed to the mission of providing the students a Second Chance and were impressive both in their dedication and their knowledge. It was very uplifting.

As the week ended, I felt pretty good about what I was doing, while at the same time feeling pressure to be better prepared for the following week.

Volunteering Week 2: Melissa

The volunteering continues to be extremely challenging. Perhaps I have said this before, it makes being an assistant dean at USC Law and the start-up president of IKAR (combined!) seem like a walk in the park.

We have gotten to know most of the kids’ names at our school placement—though with 50 of them, and so many coming in and out on random days, we are still working on it. It’s hard to know whether this preschool is a good example of the way the educational system works, but if so, I can see why so many people struggle. The focus is clearly on rote memorization without any focus at all on teaching application skills. The teacher spends day after day forcing them to recite and write the numbers 1-10 or a-e-i-o-u (not sure why vowels and not the alphabet). Besides being hideously boring for the kids (and us), it clearly is not working. If you point to, say “9” they have no ability to identify it correctly. We have been attempting to devise activities to do that to help them learn to identify and use the numbers and letters. Some have been successful and some, not so much. For example, the charm of Dr. Seuss is clearly lost on them. Between their extremely limited English skills and the fact that it is so outside their normal learning process, it’s just a stretch. We are really learning as we go and trying to do the best we can. Of course, the introduction of more active lessons has substantially exacerbated the dust problem in the classroom. I can only imagine what the inside of our lungs will look like after two weeks—not to mention the lungs of the kids who are there all the time.

One fortunate devolopment in the volunteering arena is the addition of two 17 year old local boys, Steven and Farahad, who have started to accompany us to the school to help translate. They are terrific kids--completely different from any 17 year old boys I have met in the States. They are both waiting for their exam results to see if they will be able to proceed to the next level of school and seem to have nothing else to do. They do not seem to be plagued with the need to be cool as their American peers would be and, shockingly, don’t seem to mind hanging around with a middle aged woman and a bunch of kids. Spending time with them has been a highlight of the volunteering for me, not only because of translation assistance, but also because they help me get a more complete picture of life in Rau, Tanzania—everything from Bongo Star Search (essentially Tanzanian Idol), to the process of the school system and the favorite local hang outs. We have visited one of their homes a few times and even got a cooking lesson from Momma Changa, Steven’s mom. Of course, I had to fight my anal retentive chef cooking instincts—but once I got past that, it was fabulous experience and quite delicious (green bananas with meat, carrots, onions, tomatoes—really delicious).

Emma has started to come to our placement with us and it has been an interesting change. In many ways, it is very helpful to have her around—she is another pair of hands to help bring order to the chaos, she loves the kids and they adore playing with a Mzunga who is closer to their age. On the other hand, she is nine years old, and from time to time, it feels like I have another kid to keep track of and entertain. In addition, she and Maya bicker from time to time, adding another layer of challenge. I have tried to impress upon them that among their many roles as volunteer teachers is to set an example of appropriate behavior. For the most part, they get it, but they are kids and siblings and a few unpleasant moments are impossible to avoid. Another interesting wrinkle of Emma’s presence is her, shall I say, slightly disheveled appearance. The Tanzanian people are very conscious of presenting themselves in neat and professional fashion and, as anyone who as ever met Emma knows, she does not set the greatest example in than regard. As scruffy as she can look at home, the addition of the dust, dirt and camp atmosphere, has made her less than a shining example of a clean and well turned out American kid.

I am still really struggling with even the most rudimentary Swahili. Each day, the teacher has them go through this routine in Swahili to welcome me. They say “Shikamoo Walimu” (essentially, “teacher, we give you our respect”) and then some other things that I can barely catch. It’s been two weeks and I still don’t think I am responding appropriately. The teacher probably thinks I am a complete idiot. You would think that my 17 plus years of education, much of it at fancy private schools, would be of some use. Not so much. My Swahili needs serious work. Of course, it is hard to imagine any practical long term use for this new found knowledge, albeit limited. With two weeks to go (hard to believe!) it’s extremely difficult to really motivate my slow brain, particularly given that in less than three weeks I will have to start learning Thai! At least Swahili uses the same alphabet.

I think the hardest part of this whole experience is the constant nag that I am really not adding any value. I feel like I have gone from one of the most productive people I know, to the absolute least. My fever pitch has come to a crashing halt. Truly, I am not even sure my vital organs are functioning at normal speed and I know that my blood pressure is significantly lower. I am both proud and horrified by this development. Proud, because I really was not sure that I was capable of slowing down and I simply could not have continued at the frantic pace of the past few years. I am also so pleased to have time to be a mother to my children in a present and unhurried way. I am horrified because I truly want to contribute something of value to this amazing country and feel that I have yet to do so. Thus far, I feel like I am benefiting more from the experience than providing any kind of real service.