Aisha Yusuphu is doing great. Born March 21, 2007 at 3.4 kg. Her father was
beaming with pride when he told me that she is now 8 kg. Two years ago Aisha's parents lost their
twins due to malnutrition. Thanks to Aaron Scott and others Aisha is getting all the formula that
she needs. Thank you!!Aisha's parents are both taking Antiretroviral medicine so we are hoping
that Aisha will be HIV-free.

Tanzania in Ten Days!

Thanks to the Hendrix Lilly program, ten students and two professors from Conway Arkansas
visited with us in May for a high speed, fun filled and inspiring 10 days. They painted the new building for our breakfast program, helped us get care for sick children, cleaned the home of one of our clients with HIV. We also visited the Wamangati tribe, the slavery museum, took the kids on a field trip to see crocodiles, swam in the crystal blue water of one of Zanzibar's beaches, took a tour of the spice island. The Hendrix brought tons of clothes, shoes, toys, medical supplies and vitamins for the kids of Bagamoyo.

Thank you Hendrix!!

Zuhura Back in School Thanks to Little People of America(LPA)!

Zuhura Twaha is the daughter of Mama Saadani, founder of our breakfast program. Zuhura had to leave high school a few years ago because she did not have the money to pay the fees. Zuhura has a condition known achondroplasia. People with this condition are often known as dwarves. Zuhura has never met another person with her condition, but she now knows that she has a community behind her....and reaching out to her.

We connected Zuhura to LPA Online, the Little People of America. Thanks to the efforts of Bill Bradford, LPA awarded Zuhura a scholarship of $500. The Wiseman family of Illionois matched that. Together the two awards will cover food, lodging and education for Zuhura for one year at boarding school. Zuhura starts the llth grade (Form 5) in January and could not be happier. Thank you Bill Bradford, the Wiseman family and LPA!

Building Bagamoyo

Help Arrives!

Last year BH built homes for two families in need (see Newsletter Dec 2007). Both houses benefited the families greatly, but the building methods needed improvement. I (Terri) did some research on natural building and came across a website created by some people in Canada who build homes using “cob”, which is mud mixed with fiber such as straw. I wrote to natural builder Elke Cole to ask if there was a way that The Baobab Home could use more sustainable building methods. At best I hoped for some email advice and maybe an expressed longing to visit one day and help. Instead, Elke flew to Tanzania with enough donated funds to build a house for a family in need. She even repaired Mama Habibu’s house to prevent water damage.

In October 2006, we were asked by ward leaders to help Mama Rehema and her family- four generations of women and children living in a completely run down house. We teamed Elke up with some great local builders who call themselves the Renovators (more on them soon). Together they used traditional methods with new knowledge added by Elke. The Renovators and Elke exchanged technology and laughter while building a gorgeous, structurally sound house for Mama Rehema and her family. Mama Rehema pitched in and the team taught her how to perform maintenance on her new walls. She is thrilled, grateful and proud about her family’s new dwelling. You can see more of Elke’s work at www.elkecole.com Elke, thank you for gracing us with your vast knowledge, team spirit and joyful presence!! Karibu Tena! (Welcome Again!)

Building in Bagamoyo

I often describe the state of housing using the story of the Three Little Pigs. The poorest of the poor live in houses of thatch. The vast majority of people live in houses of mud and stick. For most though, the “”goal”’-- the status symbol--is a house of made of cement. Many believe that cement is more modern and therefore ‘’better’’ than dirt as a building material. However, even as early as 1975, the first President of Tanzania, Julius Nyerere said that “The widespread addiction to cement…is a kind of mental paralysis”” He urged Tanzanians to get out of the trap of coveting western ways and to work with what they had and could afford, and what worked for this climate.

Good, sticky soil for building is hard to come by in Bagamoyo because the soil is often sandy. Sometimes cement is helpful as a foundation, however, our goal is to build houses and to teach people to build houses that do not use up natural resources like wood, faster than they can be replenished. Also mud is cooler than cement, much more energy efficient and far more environmentally friendly. Thanks to Elke, we know it is possible to build strong, comfortable houses made predominantly out of mud and clay.

“”Sustainable Construction .”supports human dignity, while minimizing negative impacts on the natural environment- Building Without Borders- Joseph Kennedy

BH Wants to Build MORE!

Hundreds of families are without adequate housing in Bagamoyo. Heavy rain can blow a thatch roof off, erode a mud wall, or create dangerous molds in poorly built houses. If you are interested in joining us here in Tanzania or if you would like to donate the money for a house from afar, please write to us at info@tzkids.org. We would love to tell the next family that we are ready to build again. We can’t build homes for everyone however and we hope in the future to pay the Renovators to teach the techniques to people who can build their own houses.

If you are interested in natural building, we highly recommend that you get a copy of Building Without Borders, edited by Joseph Kennedy. Also check out http://www.interglotz.de/engl/clay.html

(Ir)responsible Advertising

I missed my chance during the ad campaign to write an editorial, so I will write here. While I am looking for a copy of the ad, picture one of their ads if you will. The VodaCom Celular phone service VodaMillionaire Contest! The advertisement is tinted in gold. A man and a woman are poised regally…he on a throne-like chair, she draped on him. They are wearing glittery clothes and displaying a rich, sedentary life- lounging around. The message is that if you win the million shillings (less than one thousand US dollars) this life can be yours! Why not a picture of a woman using her winnings to pay her nephew’s school fees or a man getting his wife the heart operation she needs?

What is development? Spreading ridiculous values of abundance and over- consumption? An ad for the casino (yes, CASINO) in Dar features ONLY white people in tuxedos and fancy gowns. The message here is, if you come here, you can play with your money like the foreigners! Who is coming up with these ads and do they live in the same Tanzania that I do? And don’t get me started on the dangerous skin bleaching products, and advertisements featuring only light skinned blacks. Advertising is such a powerful ………and potentially dangerous tool in development. When I hear people singing jingles, I warn people here…….keep your mind to yourself while you still can. There are still relatively few jingles out there in Tanzania, but they are spreading like a fungus….

AIDS orphan # ??? million

I am not a doctor or nurse, but I believe that my neighbor, Mama Issa, died of shame today. It could have been one of the other AIDS related illnesses, but I am pretty sure that it was shame. Had she not had this case of shame, she would have gotten the free and necessary medicine months ago and probably been on the road to recovery right now, instead of having her sisters clean and prepare her body for burial. For so long, people said “Mama Issa has a stomach problem……..Mama Issa is in the hospital again””. She wasn’t around much so I could put it out of my mind and assume that it really was a stomach ailment. Then finally, I saw her last week, laying outside on a woven mat. Her mother said “they took her blood to Kibaha”” which, among people in the know serves as a code for saying that they tested her CD4 count, and she was getting Anti Retrovirals for HIV. She was extremely skinny, but I had seen people who looked far worse recover so naively assumed that she would get better. Although we know them quite well, and have helped other kids in the family, I had barely met Mama Issa. The last thing I saw her do, despite her apparent lack of strength was reach up and smack her niece. I told her that I was glad she was getting what she needed and I went home.

Today, Caito watched the activity at the house and knew that someone had died. I was invited to mourn so I donned a kanga. We sat in a dark mud room on the floor. Mama Issa’s body lay in the next room and her mother and sisters stayed with her. I sat next to Mama Mwajuma, who has been attending the ARV clinic for a year and tried to find the right words to say. Women filtered in and, as they crossed the threshold began to wail. This upset everyone, including me, and a fresh shower of tears would flow. Her sister, Mama Rama moaned Jamani over and over. Then, things would settle down until someone new arrived. I left and brought cooking oil to contribute to the large pot of food being cooked.

I feel cold. Mama Issa is lying not 300 feet from me. Caito sits with the male mourners. I sit behind our fence and type. Have I no respect? Her son has no mother, a family grieves, but all I can think is “why did she wait?””

Fight Club

The boys wanted to watch a movie. I explained what little I had. Fight Club, they chose. I tried to tell them that I didn’t think they’d like it. “there’’s a lot of fighting’’ I told them. They laughed. “We’ll like it”, they insisted. They were no doubt thinking of Jean Claude van Damme, Rambo or some other violent film that has made it here. In each section of town there is usually someone with a tv and a vcr who gets hold of these movies and plays them- again and again- for a dime or so entrance fee. I tried to give the boys some background on Fight Club so that they might see past the violence. But how could I explain the alienation of men in America? That so many feel so dead inside that they have to start a club to hurt each other just to feel alive? They hated the movie and never finished it.

Eid el Fitur

The muslim holy days of Eid el Fitur here, at least on the surface, is like Easter for Christians in the United States. Eid follows Ramadhan, a period of self denial that makes Lent look like a walk in the park. Most Muslims, except if they are old, ill, or children, fast all day long until evening. In Tanzania, they break their fast with a little binge of food and a special tea. But after the 40 days is over the real celebration occurs- two or three days of eating and celebrating. In some ways it seems more like relaxing- the tension of all that denial over. Almost every child, even ones who are living inn squalor or malnourished, get something new to wear. They wear that outfit all week as the celebration fades.

The week after Eid this year three kids in our breakfast program wore one piece, long sleeve, zip-up snow suits for days in a row. The sun was blazing and these kids had on their snowsuits. Two of them pulled them down around their waists and wore just the pants, but they didn’t want to take them off. What stood out to me was that SOMEONE loved these kids and wanted them to have something and that they, wanted to be part of the celebration at whatever cost. But I also wondered how many meals it cost to buy those snow suits. And who in the used clothing business was stupid enough to send them here in the first place? And where are the snowsuits now that Eid is over?

Help from Down Under

We are grateful to all of our volunteers, but I need to make special mention here of Lauren and Monica, sisters from Australia. They have left their mark all over Bagamoyo and Caito and I are deeply grateful to them for keeping Baobab Home matters under control in Tanzania while we went to the United States. We couldn’t have done it without them.

Lauren arrived first and began volunteering at the breakfast program. For those not in the know, this consists of 4 hours a day of managing a lot of small children with a LOT of energy and strong vocal ability. Meanwhile, using money that Lauren and Monica had raised in Australia, Lauren helped us by paying for the finishing touches on the houses that we built for Mama Habibu and Mama Salama since we had gone over budget. Lauren also used about $1000 USD of the money they raised to buy science equipment for the Matimbwa school, a government run secondary school that had no laboratory equipment. Among the items she bought were microscopes, test tubes, scales and a periodic table of the elements poster.

Just in case all of that wasn’t enough, Lauren held English classes for about 6 young women in secondary school. Mwajuma, Liziki, Halima, and all loved the classes and the field trips their teachers took them on. When Monica arrived from Kenya in December, she joined Lauren at the breakfast program, helped instruct the young women in English and helped to make sure that the street boys got their food money while we were away.

In their spare time, Lauren and Monica became connoisseurs of kangas, the brightly colored cloth women wear here (see poem below). We trust that they will one day return to us because they seemed to have developed a little addiction to the cloth…..

ASANTENI SANA

KARIBUNÍ SANA

Coming Home-January 2007

Coming Home

I know that I am home now because my feet never stay clean for more than an hour after I bathe. My coffee just doesn’t have that same taste and our mattress is on a slope. When we got off the plane in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania wrapped her loving arms around us in a humid hug. But by the time we got home to Bagamoyo she was blowing kisses on the strong winds that kept us cool since the power was out. It was such a lovely night. Now it’s been more than two weeks and the United States seems a bit like a fleeting dream. It wasn’t always an easy journey, but it was like when Dorothy and the gang got to Oz. Caito got new stuffing (6 kilos of it) and I got to take great showers and get cleaned up like Dorothy. We were energized by all the support we were met with, and deeply renewed of purpose.

Some observations that I can’t quite wrap up in a common thread, but I trust you to find for me:

My Aunt Mary was right when she taught me that poverty is relative. I grew up in middle class America. I often felt a sense of lack- the right clothes, better furniture, a vacation, but I lived in the absolute lap of luxury! Here, we are perceived by our immediate neighbors as being extremely wealthy. The feeling is contagious because I feel wealthy and thankful. When I go to the city and see other expatriates, however, I feel like a pauper. Some teenagers in the United States worried that we were abusing our son for deliberately raising him ‘’in poverty’ yet he has never known lack a day in his life. In fact, he lives at the Baobab Home which is the Disneyland of Bagamoyo.

The other day I tried to get work done in the afternoon and a neighbor girl named Mwajuma came over. She is in the second grade. Her mother, sister and brother all are HIV+. We have tried to do income generation projects with her mother, but they haven’t worked so we help the family with food often. Mwajuma had gotten the ruler smack and was kicked out of school for not having notebooks. She was crying and her mother sent her to me. I could have just given her the dollar for the notebooks but I had a little righteous anger that needed to get out. I went to talk to the principal about her educational philosophy. I needed to ask her how she thought a ruler smack would help a child who the ‘headmistress’ is a stern, unsympathetic soul, who had no answer for me but she said she’d put Mwajuma on the list of especially needy children (the no- beat list?) and that God would bless me. I wondered how she knew this.

Two nights ago we listened all night to the sound of neighborhood women drumming, singing and celebrating two girls becoming women. They played all night and I wondered if at some point the girl’s celebration had just turned into a big party for the women. Part of me wanted to drop in, but it was also nice to just listen. The girls are different now. They hold their heads higher. I hope the feeling carries on long past when the beautiful henna tattoos wear off their skin.

It is good to be home. We have three new street boys in our care. More mouths to feed, more school supplies, more hands to work, more love, and more joy in the house. We are going to make 2007 a very good year.

The Brilliant Baobab Boys

Our boys came home this week for a short break from school. One night Benedictor and Yassini solemnly brought their report cards to me, stapled shut- “to the parents of ……..”. In Tanzania all grading is quantitative and students are ranked against their classmates. I don’t care for the practice much, but I have become as curious as everyone else about the results. I opened Benedictor’s first. Third in his class of 40, wow! It was a great moment, but I quickly thought…..”mmmm….how will I handle it when Yassini is number 15 or 20?” I needn’t have worried, as he was 4th in the same class. “HONGERENI!” (Congratulations!!) I kept telling them. A few hours later I learned that Emmanuel was 2nd in his class of 54 and that’s when the tears came. How did we get so lucky to find such terrific kids to help?? Caito was just as amazed and proud as I was. It didn’t stop there- Benard was 4th among 50. We haven’t gotten results for William and Gabriel, but I am sure they did fine. When I look back at how they were living before and how they passed their primary exams in spite of so much, I am awed by their determination. Every break they ask for, and we arrange for them, extra tutoring. To those of you who have helped them, thank you so much, from all of us. Please be absolutely confident that your help is working, and bettering lives.

Omari

There is a boy here named Omari. He is 9 and AIDS has ripped through his house like a rusty knife, killing most of the middle generation and leaving just the very young and the very old. He is HIV+. He lives with his great grandmother, small sister, and great uncle who has leprosy. These days his "little mother" (maternal aunt), cousin and infant twins live there too. A little mother IS your mother, especially if your birth mother is dead.

Back when our work was new to us, Caito and I maintained lots of boundaries and we only helped kids under three years of age. But each time we visited one of our little girls, we saw that her brother Omari had cotton in his ears. His great grandma told me that they’d given him ‘local’ medicine, but I just couldn’t bear looking at him with this problem anymore. I took him to several doctors, but it wouldn’t clear. Finally, an HIV test told us why the ear infection was so persistent.

Our counselor Elice was alive then and she talked to Omari’s family. AntiRetroviral Therapy (ART) was available, did they want it? Did they understand how important it was to keep to the regimen? Yes, yes. We got him started on the life saving drugs and watched him closely for a week or two. We figured that, like other people we helped, he and his family would cling to the lifeline we had thrown and adhere to the daily med schedule. We stopped the daily visits, happy that he was getting what he needed. We came back after two weeks and were horrified to learn that he had missed a lot. I cried.

Some people who get very very sick from AIDS related illness, get on ART and when they regain weight and power, think that they are "cured"- so they stop taking the medicine and their body becomes resistant to it if they start again. Then their health takes one last speeding nosedive before they die. I imagined Omari, wasted and skinny, dying like those people. It seemed to me a fate worse than "normal" death by AIDS- to have had the second chance at a normal life and blown it. Being a martyr type, I knew this had to be my fault so I vowed to repent. I went to his little mama as she lay in bed with a hurt leg BEGGING her to watch over Omari and reminding her of how important the medicine was, how he would die without it. Then my husband and I began a daily ritual. EVERY night we went to make sure that Omari took his evening dose and count pills to see if he took his morning dose. I would panic if we had to miss a day even if we warned them ahead of time. I was convinced it was futile, that resistance to the drugs had happened, but guilt drove me.

Months went by and we visited him daily, spending gallons of gas and hours of time. His health was awful- his ear infection never went away for more than a week, and he coughed a lot, but he was maintaining weight and going to school. Then, some excellent volunteers took over, visiting daily. After the volunteers, Caito and I resumed for a little while, but Omari seemed like he was in a groove. We were very overworked at the time and all of the hovering we were doing felt wrong. We felt that it was time to graduate him. We pulled back, talked to the family and reminded them of the importance of the meds.

From time to time we stopped by, but it was all verbal " are you taking your meds?" Always we got nods and yeses. We believed them. Strangely, Omari started to glow. Truly, one day I was amazed at how vibrant he looked. He talked more and had grown. Often he had no cotton in his ears. In May we went to remind him of his appointment. Caito and I agreed that we had never seen him look so good. We thought that meant that he was on top of his medicine regimen. I even wrote to the American nurse who had initially tested him to say that maybe us pulling back was exactly what he needed.

June, a week after his appointment date, Caito remembered that we had not reminded Omari to go to the clinic. PANIC. Not only had n o one taken him, but they had sent him away for the city on his school holiday. His "little mama" assured Caito that he had taken his medicines with him, which I later learned was not true. We insisted that Omari be brought back immediately. I told his grandfather that he could die without the drugs. They wanted bus fare for the inconvenience. Omari got the drugs and went back to the city for his vacation, far out of our range for a month.

So now I am left trying to find the lesson. Part of me says, that me must take responsibility for our action and inaction. We screwed up, own up to it! If you don’t, it could happen again. We were too busy and should have known better from the first time that his caretaker just wasn’t responsible enough.

The other part of me forgives and says that it is not our job to lead the ""horses"" or people to water and sit there all the time forcing them to drink. We, and the doctors, taught the family all we could, and reminded them. We thought that they understood. Outreach is about teaching people to do things for themselves and their children.

The truth I think, lies somewhere in between. Despite our good intentions, we let down Omari as much his little mama did. As terrifying as it sounds to me, we had to learn a lesson on a 9 year old boy’s life. The relieving coda to this story is that if and when Omari does show signs of resistance, there is now a second line drug available in the city that we can get for him. It will not be easy, but he will get yet another chance, and we will make sure of it.

Lyle Lovett TZ style

If I had a boat, I’d go out on the (Indian) ocean, and if I had some cows……..
Well, I’d shove them on the boat too, along with some really ornery goats. We would all together, set out for Zanzibar where apparently they don’t have enough cows and goats of their own. ....

Slightly Sticky Situation

I want to thank everyone for the incredible toys, games and books you have sent. The kids love them and benefit tremendously. I can see the skill building that things like puzzles and flash cards do for them. It is a joy when they make music with the instruments and draw with the crayons you have sent. The last thing in the world I want is to sound ungrateful but I just need to make a little announcement……….
HEAR YE, HEAR YE! NO MORE GLUE STICKS!!!
We now have more glue sticks than we do orphans. We are up to our knees in them and we have nothing to glue together! I try to be creative with it-yesterday I used a wad to keep a closet door closed that keeps flying open- but there are only so many things for which one can use this mildly adhesive substance. It would take a lifetime and gallons of glitter to use up all this glue …….Maybe we could donate them? Is there anyone out there who is glueless? If so, there are some orphans in Africa who want you to benefit from their largesse. Please apply (no pun intended) to the Baobab Home and if you qualify, we will send you some orphan glue.

Grief

A few weeks ago I met a woman in the road- she and her friend sort of bounced into my range of vision-they were laughing. I didn’t recognize her at first, but she asked me how my son Justis was. He was fine. OH! She was the one in the hospital bed across from ours when Justis had pneumonia last month. Her daughter had it too. I asked her "mtoto hajambo?" meaning, "how is your child?" She died. I was a little stunned and offered my sympathy, but I saw no sadness in her face at all. She said that it had been God’s will. She bounced back out of my day.

That same day, my neighbor Sina, who is HIV+ and has birthed 5 children, told me that she had just lost her second. She had asked me two days before for bus fare to go see the child (staying with a relative) because he was ill. I didn’t have it and was in a hurry and wanted to research the matter further because Sina had been asking several people for money lately. It turns out that by the time she asked me, the child had already died. Sina told me this news in much the same way one would report the contents of one’s lunch. My arms wanted to hug her, but I held back, deciding it wasn’t appropriate. Since then I have seen her dancing and laughing as she always does.

I recall an anthropological study of mothers in Brazil who do not name their children for a full year after they are born. With such a high infant mortality rate, they hold back on naming because to name them is an investment of hope, a recognition of their humanity. I always wondered how that worked- is love therefore held in store for a year? After a year, if the child is still alive, then it gets a name. A week after my friend died last year, I ran into her young son for the first time. Tears flooded my eyes to think how many orphans she’d helped and now her son was one. People were shocked that I was crying a full week later!! How long would I cry for?? Since then I have felt hesitant about showing my grief especially when a child’s own mother tells me "it’s ok".

When I used to work in the childbirth industry in the United States I met mothers who had lost their children. The grief consumed them utterly. They shut down for months or even years, they formed associations, celebrated birthdays annually, and always referred to the deceased child by name. In many ways they just did not recover-refused to recover because if they ever got back to "normal" that would somehow devalue their child’s life. Here, there is no time for protracted grief because too many people die. If people grieved for months or years for each child, the whole country- most of the continent- would become paralyzed. But whereas I must stifle my grief here, the Tanzanians I meet truly seem released from it quickly. Where does it go? I am not judging such persobnal emotion as grief, nor am I saying that there is no variation to the pattern I have seen, there is. I am just in awe at how different humans can be.

I'll be Back!

Don't lose faith in me! With the laptop still down, I just can't blog or load pictures very easily. August 17 the brand spanking new laptop, donated by Mr. Eric Plue arrives and blogs will resume and be steady.

bad geography

Mwajuma, a young girl who we sponsor to attend secondary school, was over the other day to get help from me on geography. The topic was longitude and latitude lines and how to differentiate time zones using the former. I looked at the examples and saw these odd math problems using something akin to what I remember as algebra. I looked closer and saw the answer........If it is twelve o clock noon in X place at y longitude, what time will it be in Z place....the "answer" from her teacher was 2:40 pm!!!

It so happened that 5 of the (former) street boys who we also sponsor in school were there. I asked for their help and each of them were familiar with the (incorrect) formula. There is a standardized curriculum for the entire country. All government schools use the same books. The teacher writes everything on the board and the kids copy word for word. They do not get a book. Many of the schools don't even have a library.

I asked the kids "what are you going to do about this? Will you tell your teachers that they are wrong?" One boy said that if they do that, they risk getting into a lot of trouble- they aren't allowed to tell a teacher they are wrong. They saw the now familiar look on my face when I am about to launch into protest mode. Mwajuma said "I am going to tell my teacher!" Emmanuel followed and said "I will also tell". The others were quiet.

The boys are on holiday still, but Mwajuma told her teacher and he said he had just been "testing" the students to see who was clever enough to spot his error. Right. I don't want to use this blog to complain about Tanzania, but this disturbed me a lot. In defense of the education system, the problems seems to correct itself because all of the older students I have asked know the correct formula, but what is most disturbing is that in general, independent thinking and creativity are just not rewarded- just obedience and memorization.

I welcome dissenting opinions and stories that would cheer me up.

Sand and Babies

I came here to work with orphaned children, but as an administrator, and mother, I don't have much time for that. I have to create ways and generate funds for others to do that. Several of the kids who live near the Baobab Home are orphans, but I suppose I don't think about that a lot. So many kids visit daily and are all familiar to me. I dress wounds, break up arguments, and encourage silliness. I know who to watch for danger signs, but most are skinny, but stable. There is a house across the street that has several orphaned children passing through- they stay a few months with their grandmother (who is always away in the fields anyway) and then leave and new faces appear. Recently, a small girl (2?), named Yusra has been around. She is so quiet I barely noticed her, until her "aunt" and "uncle" who ostensibly care for her, took the time to make some jokes about her. The last time these two mistreated an orphan in their care(Yusra's older sister), I made it a very public issue and stopped the problem, so I am surprised they made the jokes. I picked Yusra up and took her home. I held her while my son played. I said her name gently. She clung to me. I gave her juice and she couldn't get enough of it. Her feet were as dry as leather. She has light hair around the edges- tell tale signs of malnutrition. My son Justis fell asleep. The power went out and I just held this quiet child who wanted nothing but my arms around her. I wanted to bathe her, but I didn't want to disturb our quiet time. So I thought how, sometimes, to bathe my son seems a chore because he is so active. Justis has so so many people who love him. Yusra has no one, well, now me- and Justis too. We saw her today and he went over to hug her-really embrace her. I think he scared her, but we fixed all that. I know that all my life I was treated as a unique individual- by my parents ,teachers. How incredibly lucky I am. The word in Swahili for infant is the same as sand and everytime I remember that it feels so sad. Yusra.. Yusra...human being, alive, sick, needing love..so much more than a grain of sand.

Kazi Nyingi

Once I wrote an entry for a different blog (www.loungechicken.org) about a man named Kazi Nyingi here in Bagamoyo. I am going to print it here because on Tuesday, Kazi will start to withdraw from heroin. He confided in Caito, my husband several times about it and finally, Caito took him to the doctor. I want to republish the blog and tell Kazi about any comments so that he knows people are rooting for him. Kazi has done so much more than clean nappies. He has helped us build a home for some kids, he delivers formula on the fly if we need it for a baby..he is always there helping us and I hope we can be there for him.

Even if reprinting blogs is not good etiquette, I think the folks at loungechicken will understand.

Kazi Nyingi vs the Machine

Some people might find it appalling that we pay a man two dollars to clean our son’s dirty diapers, or maybe shocked to learn that he’s a heroin addict. I was my own version of shocked and appalled, but I am over it. It's Tanzania, and I don't know if the rules are different, but most of the time it doesn't even look like the same game. Kazi Nyingi is his name and it means "a lot of work" in Swahili. At first I thought this was a hilarious, but admirable, tool of self promotion, as I imagine that there is a lot of competition for day labor, but I've learned he is most worthy of it. The first time I met him was when my husband Caito’s bicycle was stolen. Caito went to where the heroin smokers hang out and asked for help. Kazi and his friend found the guy who stole it and got the bike returned somehow. I was impressed. I remember him telling the story of the bike retrieval and thinking "Maybe Caito meant cocaine? This guy has a lot of energy!" He’s probably in his late twenties, thin, but muscular, and he smiles a lot. He’s got big eyes that are a little wild. He often wears cut off jean shorts with a rope for a belt.

When our son Justis was born by c section, Caito washed the diapers the first week, but he had 800 other things to do, so naturally that was the first thing he attempted to outsource. I tried to do it once in the second week, but I knew I'd hurt myself. Caito asked Kazi. This is how I know some people might be appalled, because I was. I couldn't even look at him at first because I thought he'd hate me for being such an inept white woman. I imagined he felt degraded, but too in need of money to say no, and it was my/our fault. I also wasn't thrilled that "this man" was cleaning my kid's diapers. We'd had a US government surplus washing machine donated to us, and I kept hoping it would be repaired soon so my conscience would be cleared, and I could deal with defecation the way rich people do... by whisking it away. But Kazi always greeted me in the same, almost jubilant way, and without fail, he asks how Justis is. I started to feel less hung up and gave him some of my old dresses for his mom. One day I asked him about his only daughter and, although she is not of school age, he just said "she's learning, she's learning". I gave him a pair of white patent leathers to give her, and thought it was sweet the way he looked at the shoes. And while I'm sure he has a gruffer, street wise side that he doesn't show me, he has an innocence about him that to me is unusual, and very definitely not simpleminded . One day he and another guy were at the house doing some work to help us prepare the house for the orphanage we are starting. Kazi said that we should have just let him do it all because the other guy was lazy. My admiration grew. Even still, I resorted to assumptions and stereotypes when he just didn't show up one day. I figured he probably hadn't had steady work in awhile and had taken a day or two to score some heroin to smoke and he'd turn up in a few days.

Then one day I was sitting in front of a store and saw a big blue flat bed and a bunch of men, one of whom was Kazi. Shopkeepers get together and rent one truck to haul supplies to our town from the port of Dar es Salaam. The bags in back were enormous-almost the size of a full grown person. 50 kg of sugar, 100 kg of beans, some even more. There must have been 10 men standing around the truck, but only Kazi was lifting anything. I stared at him as he maneuvered the bags onto his back and made his way slowly to the stores without help. Again, he is not a large man and the strain looked incredible. Did he insist on doing this alone? Were the bags too wide for two people to carry? The other men, and the ones playing cards nearby, all watched him too, but not with the same awe that I did. They seemed used to it, as if saying “whew, that’s kazi nyingi!", and I saw where his name came from. He will not turn work down and he laughs at people who do. Now I can't figure out when he has time to smoke heroin. I think that the times he doesn't show, he just finds some other, more profitable work.

Meanwhile, the big American washing machine was fixed and I had a month of blissfully mindless diaper cleaning. I’d been away from the USA long enough that it amazed me I could get work done in my sleep! Add soap, press button, do something else! Wow,and it may be cheaper! But the machine got the diapers all tangled and it frayed them. Maybe it was just that they've gotten older, but the machine doesn't get them as clean as Kazi does, and now it's broken again. Since ours is probably one in 5 washers in the town (the others are at hotels), there aren't any Maytag repairmen around and getting it fixed is not easy. Perhaps because both are black men, I am reminded of John Henry- the real man and not the tall tale one. I think about how the whiteys building the railroad in the US, eager to save money and time, brought in the steam engine† to replace the laborers, many of whom, like John Henry, were ex slaves. John Henry challenged the machine and won (although unfortunately it killed him). I wonder if the steam engine ever broke down? Kazi beat my machine, and he didn't show again today. Man vs machine 0/0. Woman against stinky pile of diapers, outcome unknown

Untitled Poem

It makes sense that our first post from a volunteer should be from our first volunteer, Carissa Guild. Actually, she sent it to me a while ago and said I could post it.

A kanga is a piece of cloth the size of a sarong that almost all women wear here. They have designs and a proverb on them.
Asante Carissa...........

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an elegant wisdom
wrapped up in
dirty colorful kangas

skinny girls in beauty-filled
hole infested
dresses with swollen feet and penetrating glances

intoxicating incense of trash that’s
burning ash
is hovering in the air captured by the

sun’s setting dancing drums carried on a
salty breeze
unreadable faces silently questioning

carrying thin children
wrapped up in
dirty colorful kangas.

gracefully stirring a meal above a fire chin raised with
dignified
indignation a subtle violent nod

erupting from an inside her head regally
wrapped in red
cloth distorting her fragility fighting with immunity

a child’s playful nobility watching as if torn from
a vibrant
erased painting--yet breathing

the song’s a conversation, the hope
has hardened
unbelieved, their laughter remains uninhibited

lying in hospital beds
wrapped tightly
in dirty colorful kangas.

black arms hugging bones of shoulders
ripped and tied
back together blue t-shirt standing in the sand seeing

overfed and manicured tourists drift
in and out
and by down along the seams of ocean and his

life? something a little unnerving for feeling too
intrusive
to see too needy for lack of receiving outside his own

twelve year old body like the caged bird’s bars
created
by society a broken shell wildly escaping oxygen
then forced ashore by the tide just
another
child mchanga malaika

elegantly
wrapped up in
a dirty colorful kanga
or torn t shirt.