For more Christmas photos and fun, click HERE!
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Msamaria Street Center
So there I was, sitting at a table with some chipper young boys chattering away in Kiswahili (surely poking fun at each other, or, more likely, the blonde mzungu across the way) while stringing brightly colored beads onto thin pieces of wire, when I started thinking about survivors and scars.
Let me take two steps back. Last week, just before Christmas, Amka School closed until January 10th for the holiday/ summer break, leaving me without an assigned volunteer placement. No problem! There are plenty of places with kids that stay open all year round... namely, orphanages and street centers. My more cynical readers might be thinking, Oh yes, what's more cheery and uplifting than an orphanage on Christmas? Nothing could be more sad than saying goodbye to my tiny, adorable students that I've come to know and love, however (more on this particular last-day-goodbye in another post)... and you'd be surprised. Truthfully, I was excited, too, to check out other volunteer opportunities, dive deeper out of my comfort zone, and make a few new kids laugh, so... enter Msamaria for a day.
Unfortunately, my information on this particular street center is somewhat limited. What I have gathered from others (largely volunteers like myself) is that the center itself suffers from the usual suspects -- overcrowding, underfunding, and my new favorite, corruption. During most of the year, the center is chock-full of children of all ages (nearly all young boys). Some of them are orphans, while many others are children who decided all on their own that the center -- with it's pee-soaked mattresses and pealing- paint walls -- was a better option than the homes they came from. While some (even as young as 7 years old) arrive at the gate by themselves "merely" tattered and malnourished, others wander in with a lifetime's worth of suffering and sadness. Abuse. AIDS. Abandonment. Pick your poison.
Yet there I was that sunny day in December, two days before Christmas, watching the older kids play soccer and sharing a dish full of green and blue beads with a 10-year-old boy, laughing and arguing about which international "football" team we preferred. He eventually grew frustrated with what he deemed my "minimal" knowledge on the subject and took up comparing Ally (another volunteer) and I to different animals in snickering Swahili, assuming we wouldn't understand what they were chatting about. Guess what, though, little guy? I just spent the last 7 weeks practicing animals name with nursery school kids, so I know your game! Naturally, we called him out on it after he determined I looked like a "simba" (lion) with my hair like the "jua" (sun). Busted. Granted, the humidity has been particularly smitten with my curls in the worst kind of way, as of late, so I guess I can't really blame him.
I digress, but little boys seem to be the same all over the world, don't they? These kids, though... they're a little bit different. They face more difficult conundrums than which superhero to be for Halloween, if you know what I mean. Rather, they wear their every-day outfits down to thin pieces of fabric and sleep multiple boys to the same smelly bunk bed. The morning I arrived, they spent the first twenty minutes sweeping up the dirt front yard with a broom made of sticks and washing plastic dishes in a concrete sink. And, believe it or not, they bead jewelry to pay the bills.
You read that right -- the boys come and go, but a steady stream of them sit with CCS volunteers every morning, beading bracelets, necklaces, anklets and earrings to sell in town in order to pay the Center's water bill. Because, for a while? Yeah. They didn't have running water, and SOMEBODY has to pay for it.
One look at these kids and their decaying Center and anyone would be filled with a sense of injustice. Never mind Pity, jump straight to Indignant Frustration; do not pass Go, and do not collect $200. How can there not be enough money to pay the monthly water or electricity bill for these kids? Why has this simple but now seemingly impossible responsibility fallen on the shoulders of street children (and the occasional, high-turnover volunteer)? Seriously. They already have nothing! Whose not doing their job?
That's the funny thing about having nothing, though; it's never really the full story. People who have nothing, like these kids -- the people who appear to all the world like nobody's, invisible to everyone save for themselves -- often have more "somethings" than a real Somebody (not to completely Dr. Seuss you). These kids... well, as far as I can tell, they have energy and pride and sense of brotherhood the rest of us dream of... and a will to live like I've never seen. With physical reminders in the form of deep gnarled scars, many must relive their already long, painful histories we can only dare to imagine every time they look into a mirror. But they're stronger than that.
The kid sitting across from me at the beading table? He has scar, wide and raised, down the side of his left jaw bone that looks for all the world like it should have split his face in two. The first time I saw it, I inadvertently shivered, the ways he might have acquired it swiftly flooding into my brain... and then I felt wildly ashamed. It suddenly reminded me of a passage I read in a book last week. The narrator, a young, female Nigerian refugee, pleads with the reader, "I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived."
And so I smiled at the little survivor in front of me, as that's exactly what he was, and thought about how his (and every other) scar was actually infinitely more beautiful than any bracelet we could create. (Those kids make some beautiful things, too, I have to say.) Scars mean healing, and life... and right then, life demanded that the water bill be paid, so I went back to beading with new spirit in spades.
Let me take two steps back. Last week, just before Christmas, Amka School closed until January 10th for the holiday/ summer break, leaving me without an assigned volunteer placement. No problem! There are plenty of places with kids that stay open all year round... namely, orphanages and street centers. My more cynical readers might be thinking, Oh yes, what's more cheery and uplifting than an orphanage on Christmas? Nothing could be more sad than saying goodbye to my tiny, adorable students that I've come to know and love, however (more on this particular last-day-goodbye in another post)... and you'd be surprised. Truthfully, I was excited, too, to check out other volunteer opportunities, dive deeper out of my comfort zone, and make a few new kids laugh, so... enter Msamaria for a day.
Unfortunately, my information on this particular street center is somewhat limited. What I have gathered from others (largely volunteers like myself) is that the center itself suffers from the usual suspects -- overcrowding, underfunding, and my new favorite, corruption. During most of the year, the center is chock-full of children of all ages (nearly all young boys). Some of them are orphans, while many others are children who decided all on their own that the center -- with it's pee-soaked mattresses and pealing- paint walls -- was a better option than the homes they came from. While some (even as young as 7 years old) arrive at the gate by themselves "merely" tattered and malnourished, others wander in with a lifetime's worth of suffering and sadness. Abuse. AIDS. Abandonment. Pick your poison.
Yet there I was that sunny day in December, two days before Christmas, watching the older kids play soccer and sharing a dish full of green and blue beads with a 10-year-old boy, laughing and arguing about which international "football" team we preferred. He eventually grew frustrated with what he deemed my "minimal" knowledge on the subject and took up comparing Ally (another volunteer) and I to different animals in snickering Swahili, assuming we wouldn't understand what they were chatting about. Guess what, though, little guy? I just spent the last 7 weeks practicing animals name with nursery school kids, so I know your game! Naturally, we called him out on it after he determined I looked like a "simba" (lion) with my hair like the "jua" (sun). Busted. Granted, the humidity has been particularly smitten with my curls in the worst kind of way, as of late, so I guess I can't really blame him. I digress, but little boys seem to be the same all over the world, don't they? These kids, though... they're a little bit different. They face more difficult conundrums than which superhero to be for Halloween, if you know what I mean. Rather, they wear their every-day outfits down to thin pieces of fabric and sleep multiple boys to the same smelly bunk bed. The morning I arrived, they spent the first twenty minutes sweeping up the dirt front yard with a broom made of sticks and washing plastic dishes in a concrete sink. And, believe it or not, they bead jewelry to pay the bills.
You read that right -- the boys come and go, but a steady stream of them sit with CCS volunteers every morning, beading bracelets, necklaces, anklets and earrings to sell in town in order to pay the Center's water bill. Because, for a while? Yeah. They didn't have running water, and SOMEBODY has to pay for it.
One look at these kids and their decaying Center and anyone would be filled with a sense of injustice. Never mind Pity, jump straight to Indignant Frustration; do not pass Go, and do not collect $200. How can there not be enough money to pay the monthly water or electricity bill for these kids? Why has this simple but now seemingly impossible responsibility fallen on the shoulders of street children (and the occasional, high-turnover volunteer)? Seriously. They already have nothing! Whose not doing their job?
That's the funny thing about having nothing, though; it's never really the full story. People who have nothing, like these kids -- the people who appear to all the world like nobody's, invisible to everyone save for themselves -- often have more "somethings" than a real Somebody (not to completely Dr. Seuss you). These kids... well, as far as I can tell, they have energy and pride and sense of brotherhood the rest of us dream of... and a will to live like I've never seen. With physical reminders in the form of deep gnarled scars, many must relive their already long, painful histories we can only dare to imagine every time they look into a mirror. But they're stronger than that.
The kid sitting across from me at the beading table? He has scar, wide and raised, down the side of his left jaw bone that looks for all the world like it should have split his face in two. The first time I saw it, I inadvertently shivered, the ways he might have acquired it swiftly flooding into my brain... and then I felt wildly ashamed. It suddenly reminded me of a passage I read in a book last week. The narrator, a young, female Nigerian refugee, pleads with the reader, "I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived."
And so I smiled at the little survivor in front of me, as that's exactly what he was, and thought about how his (and every other) scar was actually infinitely more beautiful than any bracelet we could create. (Those kids make some beautiful things, too, I have to say.) Scars mean healing, and life... and right then, life demanded that the water bill be paid, so I went back to beading with new spirit in spades.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Christmas Eve Musings
So there I was, the blazing hot morning of Christmas Eve, briskly walking down a dirt path into Moshi town, when my usually outwardly-vigilant mind turned inward. "I've been in Tanzania for nearly 8 weeks already. I've been living in Africa for almost 2 months." Wait. What?
Don't get me wrong, I've totally been living in the moment, enjoying and appreciating every inch and minute of this experience. But sometimes, I get so entrenched, so comfortable (or at least so busy) that the novelty of the statement "I live in Africa and will for many months yet" doesn't compute. In fact, it doesn't even occur to me organically. I find myself sitting somewhere, or walking somewhere, or doing something that has become some kind of familiar and ordinary -- looking out at Mt. Kilimanjaro as I read a book on the front porch, for instance, or strolling into a coffee shop and ordering a chai in Swahili -- and I have to actively remind myself, "You are in Africa, Sarah. You live in Tanzania."
"No. Seriously. Rwanda is your next door neighbor."
It's truly an exciting (and odd) revelation every time... and it actually happens more often than you would think. I have wanted to come to Africa for as long as I can remember. Now, I'm actually here. Maybe that's part of it; it's always felt like a distant, possibly unreachable pipe-dream. But it's December 2010, I'm 24-years-old, and I'm living in East Africa... unreal... and it's largely due to all of you.
Truthfully, the other large part of it is that I'm just... living my life. I've made a home here. I have a schedule, I work, and I occasionally go on a weekend holiday (to the Serengeti, granted, but whatever). I had a lunch date scheduled for that afternoon (with some Tanzanian schoolboys) and I dropped off some Christmas pastries I bought at the bread shop for local friends (Athumani the Taxi Driver and Teacher Olivari's family in Njoro) before that. I have a cell phone here, for goodness sake. It may be the original Nokia, but I have Tanzanian phone numbers in it. I LIVE here. All of this occurred to me (for the hundredth time) as I walked down that footpath, sweltering under the 9AM summer sun.
The hardest part to reconcile is that while I may feel some sort of at home here, half of me (a big, weighty half) is still my old self -- I am a Western mzungu. I think about things like "which color kanga would look best with my hair color," and "I would love to go to Uganda for a weekend, because its right here, and wouldn't that be amazing? I could visit a school, maybe see the start of the Nile...." But I cannot afford/justify the plane ticket, and I'm actually frustrated by this on a regular basis. I've only been here eight weeks, and I've gone the couple of hours east to witness the Ngorongoro Crater at sunrise. Meanwhile, some of the people who have lived here their entire lives haven't even been close. Also, I carry around an embarrassingly nice water bottle.
I am spoiled rotten.
Granted, I wouldn't be here if I hadn't worked and fundraised for every cent. And granted, what little spending money I do have, I've largely been spending on school supplies and paint for my school. And granted, I am here as a volunteer, with nearly all of my waking hours devoted to planning lessons, hugging babies, and teaching 3-4-year-olds their 1-2-3s... and generally living my dream. But living here for as long (and as short) as I have, seeing what I've seen -- the poverty, the illness, the general struggle as well as the will -- and knowing what I know about all of it, I find it harder and harder to justify some of my "Western" worries and/or wants.
It would be a lie if I said something dramatic like "this is huge character-changer for me." I've always struggled with distractions silly, vane, and vile at home to some degree. I never bought an iPhone, for instance, because I knew that I didn't need to stare at it all day long (and I absolutely would). The dribble of reality TV always made me feel wildly irritated. And nearly every time I bought Starbucks, I thought about how many school pencils I could purchase with that money instead (the picture at the top of my blog being a constant reminder of my kids in the D.R. Congo). Somehow, though... I found ways to excuse it. (Pumpkin Spice Lattes are really, really good... and seasonal, don't you know?) But now? Umm. It's exceptionally more difficult to cut myself some slack. And yet here I am, still wishing I could go to Uganda. Or Rwanda. Or trek to the top of Mt. Kili. Sigh.
These are the musings and plights of a girl out of her comfort zone; of a Westerner with the blinders off. I've been blessed with many things... this opportunity, for one, and a superb support system and excellent education, to name a few others. I have library cards in three different cities and the ability to push a few buttons and have clean laundry within the hour when I'm back in the States. I'm going to get to try South African wine IN South Africa. But I still want. That's the trouble with being human. I know, but I want.
I'm not perfect, friends and family. But I'm learning, and I'm growing, and as I plopped my kanga-clad backside down on that African curb to wait for my Christmas Eve lunch dates... I was all kinds of grateful. That's me, and it's enough for now.
Don't get me wrong, I've totally been living in the moment, enjoying and appreciating every inch and minute of this experience. But sometimes, I get so entrenched, so comfortable (or at least so busy) that the novelty of the statement "I live in Africa and will for many months yet" doesn't compute. In fact, it doesn't even occur to me organically. I find myself sitting somewhere, or walking somewhere, or doing something that has become some kind of familiar and ordinary -- looking out at Mt. Kilimanjaro as I read a book on the front porch, for instance, or strolling into a coffee shop and ordering a chai in Swahili -- and I have to actively remind myself, "You are in Africa, Sarah. You live in Tanzania.""No. Seriously. Rwanda is your next door neighbor."
It's truly an exciting (and odd) revelation every time... and it actually happens more often than you would think. I have wanted to come to Africa for as long as I can remember. Now, I'm actually here. Maybe that's part of it; it's always felt like a distant, possibly unreachable pipe-dream. But it's December 2010, I'm 24-years-old, and I'm living in East Africa... unreal... and it's largely due to all of you.
Truthfully, the other large part of it is that I'm just... living my life. I've made a home here. I have a schedule, I work, and I occasionally go on a weekend holiday (to the Serengeti, granted, but whatever). I had a lunch date scheduled for that afternoon (with some Tanzanian schoolboys) and I dropped off some Christmas pastries I bought at the bread shop for local friends (Athumani the Taxi Driver and Teacher Olivari's family in Njoro) before that. I have a cell phone here, for goodness sake. It may be the original Nokia, but I have Tanzanian phone numbers in it. I LIVE here. All of this occurred to me (for the hundredth time) as I walked down that footpath, sweltering under the 9AM summer sun.
The hardest part to reconcile is that while I may feel some sort of at home here, half of me (a big, weighty half) is still my old self -- I am a Western mzungu. I think about things like "which color kanga would look best with my hair color," and "I would love to go to Uganda for a weekend, because its right here, and wouldn't that be amazing? I could visit a school, maybe see the start of the Nile...." But I cannot afford/justify the plane ticket, and I'm actually frustrated by this on a regular basis. I've only been here eight weeks, and I've gone the couple of hours east to witness the Ngorongoro Crater at sunrise. Meanwhile, some of the people who have lived here their entire lives haven't even been close. Also, I carry around an embarrassingly nice water bottle.
I am spoiled rotten.
Granted, I wouldn't be here if I hadn't worked and fundraised for every cent. And granted, what little spending money I do have, I've largely been spending on school supplies and paint for my school. And granted, I am here as a volunteer, with nearly all of my waking hours devoted to planning lessons, hugging babies, and teaching 3-4-year-olds their 1-2-3s... and generally living my dream. But living here for as long (and as short) as I have, seeing what I've seen -- the poverty, the illness, the general struggle as well as the will -- and knowing what I know about all of it, I find it harder and harder to justify some of my "Western" worries and/or wants.
It would be a lie if I said something dramatic like "this is huge character-changer for me." I've always struggled with distractions silly, vane, and vile at home to some degree. I never bought an iPhone, for instance, because I knew that I didn't need to stare at it all day long (and I absolutely would). The dribble of reality TV always made me feel wildly irritated. And nearly every time I bought Starbucks, I thought about how many school pencils I could purchase with that money instead (the picture at the top of my blog being a constant reminder of my kids in the D.R. Congo). Somehow, though... I found ways to excuse it. (Pumpkin Spice Lattes are really, really good... and seasonal, don't you know?) But now? Umm. It's exceptionally more difficult to cut myself some slack. And yet here I am, still wishing I could go to Uganda. Or Rwanda. Or trek to the top of Mt. Kili. Sigh.
These are the musings and plights of a girl out of her comfort zone; of a Westerner with the blinders off. I've been blessed with many things... this opportunity, for one, and a superb support system and excellent education, to name a few others. I have library cards in three different cities and the ability to push a few buttons and have clean laundry within the hour when I'm back in the States. I'm going to get to try South African wine IN South Africa. But I still want. That's the trouble with being human. I know, but I want.
I'm not perfect, friends and family. But I'm learning, and I'm growing, and as I plopped my kanga-clad backside down on that African curb to wait for my Christmas Eve lunch dates... I was all kinds of grateful. That's me, and it's enough for now.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Happy Holidays from CCS!
Gerald (one of our charming, no-nonsense security guards, pictured here) set this up in our meal area overnight so we'd walk out to breakfast in the morning and... SURPRISE! Merry Christmas from Africa, everyone!
Yes, those are hot pink balloons. Twinkle-lights included.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Magical Rangi from Rau
Josie, Nickson, and Rogers are three teenage boys (age 18 and 19) from Rau that Jennifer (a fellow volunteer) found studying at Upendo Art Association and School in Rau a couple of weeks ago.
The information I've gathered on them so far is that they all live together in a one-room concrete home (literally called a "ghetto," wherein at least three other boys and zero parents live with them) next door to the Tuleeni orphanage and are prime candidates for falling between society's cracks. Honestly, these guys could succumb to drugs, crime, and/or "mere" malnutrition in a heartbeat... it's just to easy here.
I mean... sincerely? Half a dozen teenage boys shacking up together with no real responsibilities, authority figure, or resources doesn't exactly conjure up the vote of confidence or image of productive morality one hopes for a bunch of decent kids... nor does it seem a likely catalyst for ardor, innocence, and enterprise... in the States OR rural Africa, for that matter. (A "give them a TV, an Xbox, and a gift-card for the nearest BP convenience store and you'd never see them again" sort of image comes to mind... only Africanized, of course. It'd be a real Christmas Miracle if we went a day here without losing electricity.)
These guys, though... they've got it; all of it, and I don't mean food, cash-money, or that hypnotizing gaming system. They've got drive. Growing talent. And a hunger to help... despite the odds. Suddenly, my meaningful painting project just grew a little more meaningful.
After seeing Josie's artwork at Upendo and realizing his eagerness to have anything to do during his time out of school, Jennifer introduced him to me, thinking perhaps we could put our heads and skills together to create something beautiful. Upon meeting up with him, I threw out some basic ideas about jovial animals and ABCs for the wall of the preschool... explaining to him that this was strictly volunteer work and floundering a little bit with the language barriers along the way. I journeyed home a little skeptical about whether or not this new project would really materialize, to be honest. Projects in Africa, experience has shown, usually take a while to happen, if at all. Josie, meanwhile? Oh, he promptly went home to his ghetto with his roommates (two of whom immediately decided they wanted in on this volunteer-business) and began sketching majestic giraffes and beautiful African sunsets that very weekend. No joke. We had our first paint-date scheduled with him within the week.
One week later, I arrived at Step Up Amka ready to drop to my knees with gratitude and amazement... the boys, my new, adoptive baby brothers, are AWESOME. We may be able to talk to one another only just barely (though we desperately try, and it's hilarious), and they may come from a ghetto in Rau, but they can PAINT. Moreover, I've never seen any teenage guy more eager to do anything so arduous, time-consuming, and high-pressure for FREE. Heck, forget "eager"; these young men are earnest, and the quality of their work and dedication to it proves this.
Don't take my word for it, however; check out some of the pics to follow. The transformation is like night and day. My kids come in to school every day so completely pumped about their new classroom, it makes my heart nearly burst. I am so, so thankful to have Josie and Co.'s help and talented art for my preschoolers to enjoy. Bonus, it's been such a pleasure so far to work and chat and hang with them, as they are great guys.
More than that, though... I'm thankful for this opportunity to give Josie and his comrades some quality time outside of the ghetto in Rau, and to share with them a sense of community and adult responsibility, as well as to instill in them, hopefully, a sense of pride about their work... because they should be proud of what they've done. It's an amazing (not to mention aesthetically pleasing) act of selfless giving. And who'd have thought it could all get done so quickly (or ever), and with such cool results? Not me, really... it's ridiculous... but it's such gratifying work when all of this is accomplished.
Again, as is now often the case... my cup runneth over. Meet Josie (above), Rogers, and Nickson:
The information I've gathered on them so far is that they all live together in a one-room concrete home (literally called a "ghetto," wherein at least three other boys and zero parents live with them) next door to the Tuleeni orphanage and are prime candidates for falling between society's cracks. Honestly, these guys could succumb to drugs, crime, and/or "mere" malnutrition in a heartbeat... it's just to easy here.
I mean... sincerely? Half a dozen teenage boys shacking up together with no real responsibilities, authority figure, or resources doesn't exactly conjure up the vote of confidence or image of productive morality one hopes for a bunch of decent kids... nor does it seem a likely catalyst for ardor, innocence, and enterprise... in the States OR rural Africa, for that matter. (A "give them a TV, an Xbox, and a gift-card for the nearest BP convenience store and you'd never see them again" sort of image comes to mind... only Africanized, of course. It'd be a real Christmas Miracle if we went a day here without losing electricity.)
These guys, though... they've got it; all of it, and I don't mean food, cash-money, or that hypnotizing gaming system. They've got drive. Growing talent. And a hunger to help... despite the odds. Suddenly, my meaningful painting project just grew a little more meaningful.
After seeing Josie's artwork at Upendo and realizing his eagerness to have anything to do during his time out of school, Jennifer introduced him to me, thinking perhaps we could put our heads and skills together to create something beautiful. Upon meeting up with him, I threw out some basic ideas about jovial animals and ABCs for the wall of the preschool... explaining to him that this was strictly volunteer work and floundering a little bit with the language barriers along the way. I journeyed home a little skeptical about whether or not this new project would really materialize, to be honest. Projects in Africa, experience has shown, usually take a while to happen, if at all. Josie, meanwhile? Oh, he promptly went home to his ghetto with his roommates (two of whom immediately decided they wanted in on this volunteer-business) and began sketching majestic giraffes and beautiful African sunsets that very weekend. No joke. We had our first paint-date scheduled with him within the week.
One week later, I arrived at Step Up Amka ready to drop to my knees with gratitude and amazement... the boys, my new, adoptive baby brothers, are AWESOME. We may be able to talk to one another only just barely (though we desperately try, and it's hilarious), and they may come from a ghetto in Rau, but they can PAINT. Moreover, I've never seen any teenage guy more eager to do anything so arduous, time-consuming, and high-pressure for FREE. Heck, forget "eager"; these young men are earnest, and the quality of their work and dedication to it proves this. Don't take my word for it, however; check out some of the pics to follow. The transformation is like night and day. My kids come in to school every day so completely pumped about their new classroom, it makes my heart nearly burst. I am so, so thankful to have Josie and Co.'s help and talented art for my preschoolers to enjoy. Bonus, it's been such a pleasure so far to work and chat and hang with them, as they are great guys.
More than that, though... I'm thankful for this opportunity to give Josie and his comrades some quality time outside of the ghetto in Rau, and to share with them a sense of community and adult responsibility, as well as to instill in them, hopefully, a sense of pride about their work... because they should be proud of what they've done. It's an amazing (not to mention aesthetically pleasing) act of selfless giving. And who'd have thought it could all get done so quickly (or ever), and with such cool results? Not me, really... it's ridiculous... but it's such gratifying work when all of this is accomplished.
Again, as is now often the case... my cup runneth over. Meet Josie (above), Rogers, and Nickson:
Painting Progress!
After many, many trips back and forth from home-base to the paint store, and home-base to Rau, and Rau to Amka in Njoro and back to home-base again... marvelous, tremendous, stupendous progress has been made on the cheering-up of Step Up Amka School! As per usual, I will fail to find the most accurate words to describe my feelings about this, but "immense pride," "amazement," and "ridiculous excitement" come fairly close.
Almost every afternoon last week (and at least one day each of the last three weekends in a row), I have made the trek over to Njoro (the neighborhood where Amka Nursery School is located) in Athmuni's dependable Moshi taxicab (Yes. I do in fact know my cab driver by name; it's my latest stint in "product" loyalty, calling him up nearly every day for a ride and getting a jovial, impromptu Swahili lesson along the way) to continue painting the classroom walls the happiest shades of blue and green imaginable. Every morning, I had the immense pleasure of watching my tiny students arrive one by one and burst with incredulous delight as they saw the latest brilliant new coat and color. Then the real fun began. To be continued...kesho!
Almost every afternoon last week (and at least one day each of the last three weekends in a row), I have made the trek over to Njoro (the neighborhood where Amka Nursery School is located) in Athmuni's dependable Moshi taxicab (Yes. I do in fact know my cab driver by name; it's my latest stint in "product" loyalty, calling him up nearly every day for a ride and getting a jovial, impromptu Swahili lesson along the way) to continue painting the classroom walls the happiest shades of blue and green imaginable. Every morning, I had the immense pleasure of watching my tiny students arrive one by one and burst with incredulous delight as they saw the latest brilliant new coat and color. Then the real fun began. To be continued...kesho!
Friday, December 17, 2010
Ceremony Season
It's been a busy month, friends! I cannot believe we're a week away from Christmas! It's sunny and sweltering here in TZ, so it doesn't really feel like Santa Clause is coming to town, to be honest. I also don't have any Christmas Day plans, as of yet, but I'm sure something new, different, and wild will come up. Here's hoping.
Earlier this month, I had the pleasure of attending a Tanzanian-style graduation ceremony for a group of young men and women at WEECE (a women's education and empowerment center in town). It was, in fact, the first ever graduation ceremony the vocational school had ever had, so it was a really special occasion... complete with donated robes and a courtyard completely decked out in balloons (which I helped blow up, thanks very much), ribbons, and brightly colored fabrics. The students' handy-work -- neatly sewn dresses, skirts, bags, and pants galore -- were displayed around the school, and many of the young women had gotten their hair redone and braided especially for the occasion.
WEECE, among many other things, functions to provide these young women (and few lucky young men) with practical skills they can use to support themselves and their families out in the community, including lessons in English, computers, and sewing (in addition to they usuals, reading and math, etc.). On the morning of the ceremony, upon walking into the transformed courtyard, I saw the "stage" fashioned out of an array of vibrant fabrics, the dozens of plastic chairs lined up all over the stone patio, and the nervous, smiling faces of the graduates-to-be... and I IMMEDIATELY started getting weepy. It was truly pathetic. The amount of work that Mama Mrema (who started WEECE) and her staff went through to make these kids feel special and accomplished, after preparing them for a productive adult life outside WEECE... well, let's just say it was crazy cool and emotional.
After tons of speakers, some amazing singing and dancing (by the students themselves, as well as a guest group of Maasai singers), and the handing out of the certificates, the family of each graduate swiftly ran up out of the sea of plastic chairs to place necklaces, flower leis, and kisses/hugs onto each student... so of course I broke down and wept (for real) again.
There was once a time when I didn't cry in front of anybody. So much for that. In a country where many do not have the opportunity to complete secondary school, it was really amazing to be a part of this celebration of academic achievement.
The best part about this hot, long, and exciting day, however, was that I was asked to film all of it. That's right! I was the volunteer videographer, photographer, and keeper of cameras, and it was a welcomed (though exhausting) responsibility that I wouldn't trade for anything. Not only does WEECE now have video footage to keep as a memory of their first ever graduation ceremony, but I also have the beautiful voices of the young graduates singing on my camera card forever. Plus a new line of electronic skills that I can add to my resume. Win-Win-Win.
Earlier this month, I had the pleasure of attending a Tanzanian-style graduation ceremony for a group of young men and women at WEECE (a women's education and empowerment center in town). It was, in fact, the first ever graduation ceremony the vocational school had ever had, so it was a really special occasion... complete with donated robes and a courtyard completely decked out in balloons (which I helped blow up, thanks very much), ribbons, and brightly colored fabrics. The students' handy-work -- neatly sewn dresses, skirts, bags, and pants galore -- were displayed around the school, and many of the young women had gotten their hair redone and braided especially for the occasion.
WEECE, among many other things, functions to provide these young women (and few lucky young men) with practical skills they can use to support themselves and their families out in the community, including lessons in English, computers, and sewing (in addition to they usuals, reading and math, etc.). On the morning of the ceremony, upon walking into the transformed courtyard, I saw the "stage" fashioned out of an array of vibrant fabrics, the dozens of plastic chairs lined up all over the stone patio, and the nervous, smiling faces of the graduates-to-be... and I IMMEDIATELY started getting weepy. It was truly pathetic. The amount of work that Mama Mrema (who started WEECE) and her staff went through to make these kids feel special and accomplished, after preparing them for a productive adult life outside WEECE... well, let's just say it was crazy cool and emotional.
After tons of speakers, some amazing singing and dancing (by the students themselves, as well as a guest group of Maasai singers), and the handing out of the certificates, the family of each graduate swiftly ran up out of the sea of plastic chairs to place necklaces, flower leis, and kisses/hugs onto each student... so of course I broke down and wept (for real) again. There was once a time when I didn't cry in front of anybody. So much for that. In a country where many do not have the opportunity to complete secondary school, it was really amazing to be a part of this celebration of academic achievement.
The best part about this hot, long, and exciting day, however, was that I was asked to film all of it. That's right! I was the volunteer videographer, photographer, and keeper of cameras, and it was a welcomed (though exhausting) responsibility that I wouldn't trade for anything. Not only does WEECE now have video footage to keep as a memory of their first ever graduation ceremony, but I also have the beautiful voices of the young graduates singing on my camera card forever. Plus a new line of electronic skills that I can add to my resume. Win-Win-Win.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Painting Party
Guess what, you guys?
I STARTED PAINTING AMKA! Hooray! After rallying several of the other volunteers, organizing a time to paint, and going into town to find and purchase brushes, rollers, tape and two huge buckets of paint (cheery "ripple green" and "summer blue"), we got started on Operation Colorful-Classroom... and it's looking AMAZING so far! No longer will my children learn in a front porch jail cell -- oh, no. Now they'll be surrounded by a brilliant oasis! Sound dramatic? It kind of is; the contrast is unreal.
I am so happy I decided to do this. It feels so good to brighten up these little punks' learning space. Just the knowledge that I'm leaving something physical and lasting of myself behind there, too, feels terrific.
The plan now is to go back on Sunday to give it a second coat (because I want it to last more than five seconds, being that they are prone [literally] to climb the walls)... and then I'm (FINGERS CROSSED) looking into "hiring" a local student artist at Upendo Artist Association (a local NGO in Rau where my roommate is volunteering) to paint some friendly safari animals on one of the walls. The kid I talked to is so sweet and talented, I think he and I could come up with something pretty great. Nothing says preschool in Africa like smiling twigas, tembos, and simbas, yes? Thus this could, potentially, turn out awesome. Long story short, I'm going to bend over backwards until I'm satisfied this classroom looks like a warm, bold, and happy haven.
Anyway, just an update on one of the better projects I've thrown myself into recently! More pictures to follow...
The best paint crew this side of Mt. Kilimanjaro: Craig, Jennifer, Some Blonde Chick, Lucetta, and Ian! Magicians with a paint brush, each and every one of them.
Many thanks to Sarah S, Mama Sarah, and Lois, too! Woo!
I STARTED PAINTING AMKA! Hooray! After rallying several of the other volunteers, organizing a time to paint, and going into town to find and purchase brushes, rollers, tape and two huge buckets of paint (cheery "ripple green" and "summer blue"), we got started on Operation Colorful-Classroom... and it's looking AMAZING so far! No longer will my children learn in a front porch jail cell -- oh, no. Now they'll be surrounded by a brilliant oasis! Sound dramatic? It kind of is; the contrast is unreal.
I am so happy I decided to do this. It feels so good to brighten up these little punks' learning space. Just the knowledge that I'm leaving something physical and lasting of myself behind there, too, feels terrific.
The plan now is to go back on Sunday to give it a second coat (because I want it to last more than five seconds, being that they are prone [literally] to climb the walls)... and then I'm (FINGERS CROSSED) looking into "hiring" a local student artist at Upendo Artist Association (a local NGO in Rau where my roommate is volunteering) to paint some friendly safari animals on one of the walls. The kid I talked to is so sweet and talented, I think he and I could come up with something pretty great. Nothing says preschool in Africa like smiling twigas, tembos, and simbas, yes? Thus this could, potentially, turn out awesome. Long story short, I'm going to bend over backwards until I'm satisfied this classroom looks like a warm, bold, and happy haven.
Anyway, just an update on one of the better projects I've thrown myself into recently! More pictures to follow...
The best paint crew this side of Mt. Kilimanjaro: Craig, Jennifer, Some Blonde Chick, Lucetta, and Ian! Magicians with a paint brush, each and every one of them.Many thanks to Sarah S, Mama Sarah, and Lois, too! Woo!
Thursday, December 2, 2010
I ate Wildebeest!
Sincerely, I did! And it was delicious, let me tell you. Earlier this week, a new Tanzanian friend invited several of us mzungus over to his house in Rau for a traditional dinner, and he cooked us tender, flavorful wildebeest. I'll try [nearly] anything once, and I'm so glad I did.
In other news, I also have neglected to blog about the following activities:
On Thanksgiving night, we American volunteers were served a delicious Tanzanian-American T-day feast, complete with sweet potatoes, green beans, and cranberry sauce... and, most importantly, a turkey! The cooks truly out-did themselves, traveling all the way to Arusha the day before to find us that bird. Sitting around the dinner table, we cheered their names, counted our blessings, and gave thanks that we were all their together -- an adoptive, international family of volunteers.
Several weekends ago, I went on a day hike along the base of Kilimanjaro to a humongous and beautiful waterfall. Words cannot accurately describe how gorgeous an African waterfall in the rain forest is and can be... or what a good workout it is to get there, haha.
I was lucky enough to be led by a nice guy named Oscar, who also welcomed us into his home and showed us how his family harvests fresh organic coffee -- start to finish. We helped him pick the coffee berries, clean, peel, dry, roast, and grind them, and then -- most importantly -- drink several cups of it. I don't think I've ever tasted better. It was a great and much needed energy boost for the forthcoming waterfall hike, as well.
Last Wednesday, the new volunteers and I also had the rare and unforgettable opportunity to visit the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda. Located in Arusha, the Tribunal continues to try high level government officials for their involvement in the 1994 genocide in Rwanda... and we got to sit in on one of the trials. I was particularly excited to visit the ICTR because I spent some time researching and reading about the genocide and Tribunal work while in University. To see it in action, however, was completely unreal.
The existence and impact of the Tribunal for Rwanda cannot be understated. It has served as a huge step in the administration of criminal justice, not just in Africa, but internationally. Since its creation, several other tribunals have been created around the world to try everyone from heads of state to top military generals, sending the powerful message that no one is above the law when it comes to war crimes, genocide, crimes of aggression or crimes against humanity. Further, in addition to promoting global justice, it has created an indispensable archive of the events of the '94 genocide, so that future generations may learn from what has come to pass and guarantee that history never repeats itself.
So far, the Tribunal has arrested 81 people and among those completed 53 trials. 11 people indited are still missing. On that particularly day, the former Minister of Planning was on trial, and we listened in as he was questioned about documents and cables he had received in 1994 concerning violent attacks, stolen weapons, and squelched protests. The courtroom was full of tension and frustration, as there were several disputes over the documents validity and who had said what -- the translators there having a hell of a time since the defendant spoke French while the judge and counsel spoke English. Wildly interesting stuff; my ears were glued to my translating head-set.
Okay... that's enough blogging about my various feasting and pursuits of knowledge for today, eh? Pole! Kwaheri, my friends!
In other news, I also have neglected to blog about the following activities:
On Thanksgiving night, we American volunteers were served a delicious Tanzanian-American T-day feast, complete with sweet potatoes, green beans, and cranberry sauce... and, most importantly, a turkey! The cooks truly out-did themselves, traveling all the way to Arusha the day before to find us that bird. Sitting around the dinner table, we cheered their names, counted our blessings, and gave thanks that we were all their together -- an adoptive, international family of volunteers.
Several weekends ago, I went on a day hike along the base of Kilimanjaro to a humongous and beautiful waterfall. Words cannot accurately describe how gorgeous an African waterfall in the rain forest is and can be... or what a good workout it is to get there, haha.
I was lucky enough to be led by a nice guy named Oscar, who also welcomed us into his home and showed us how his family harvests fresh organic coffee -- start to finish. We helped him pick the coffee berries, clean, peel, dry, roast, and grind them, and then -- most importantly -- drink several cups of it. I don't think I've ever tasted better. It was a great and much needed energy boost for the forthcoming waterfall hike, as well. Last Wednesday, the new volunteers and I also had the rare and unforgettable opportunity to visit the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda. Located in Arusha, the Tribunal continues to try high level government officials for their involvement in the 1994 genocide in Rwanda... and we got to sit in on one of the trials. I was particularly excited to visit the ICTR because I spent some time researching and reading about the genocide and Tribunal work while in University. To see it in action, however, was completely unreal.
The existence and impact of the Tribunal for Rwanda cannot be understated. It has served as a huge step in the administration of criminal justice, not just in Africa, but internationally. Since its creation, several other tribunals have been created around the world to try everyone from heads of state to top military generals, sending the powerful message that no one is above the law when it comes to war crimes, genocide, crimes of aggression or crimes against humanity. Further, in addition to promoting global justice, it has created an indispensable archive of the events of the '94 genocide, so that future generations may learn from what has come to pass and guarantee that history never repeats itself.
So far, the Tribunal has arrested 81 people and among those completed 53 trials. 11 people indited are still missing. On that particularly day, the former Minister of Planning was on trial, and we listened in as he was questioned about documents and cables he had received in 1994 concerning violent attacks, stolen weapons, and squelched protests. The courtroom was full of tension and frustration, as there were several disputes over the documents validity and who had said what -- the translators there having a hell of a time since the defendant spoke French while the judge and counsel spoke English. Wildly interesting stuff; my ears were glued to my translating head-set.
Okay... that's enough blogging about my various feasting and pursuits of knowledge for today, eh? Pole! Kwaheri, my friends!
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