To my delight, the shower works, despite the loss of power!  For breakfast I have chipati, avocado and lime.  I spend quite some time trying to figure out how to:

a. wash my avocado and lime before slicing/peeling

b.wash the knife to do said slicing/peeling

Finding no soap, I try scrubbing my avocado with my handsanitizer, then rinse with tap water.  Really?  in Moshi, they say, “Sure?”  (shoe-ah) with a soft, elongated drawl.  I decide that since there is no soap that I can find in the kitchen (or anywhere else) and I don’t have a belly ache yet, I will trust that my avocado and lime will be safe.  Neurosis notwithstanding, I remember my Canadian doctor friend reminding me to wash all veggies in soap.  Then I remember another young Tanzanian friend reminding me “TAB!  This is Africa, baby!”  

I proceed to peel the biggest, richest, deepest green but ripe avocado that god ever grew on a tree.  It is huge, perhaps the size of my two fists. I ponder saving half of it for later….. where would I save it?  I have no baggies, no plastic wrap.  If I put it in the frig for later it will not be as savory and buttery.  I think of all the hungry people I know and feel slightly guilty for eating the whole damn avocado at once.  I remember a 12 step saying of particular significance……pardon the vernacular, “Screw guilt”.  I peel the avocado and put it in a blue plastic bowl.  I slice the lime to get the maximum juice from it, like Gaby showed me in Guatemala.  I cook my chipati on the propane burner .  After arranging my avocado on the chipati, I drown them in lime juice.  Each bite is exquisitely delicious.  Breakfast is the best after such a miserable night of not sleeping! 

UPENDO ARTIST ASSOCIATION……..

I first met Sibo (pronounced See-bo) at an agency orientation at CCS in May 2011.  His broad smile, his open demeanor, his passion for the children, women and families he serves is what impressed me the most.  Sibo is Tanzanian, maybe late twenties, strong and muscular, open frame, confident, gifted and clear as a bell. Although I was already assigned to another agency, I found myself wishing that I had been assigned to UPENDO because of Sibo’s commitment to his work in the community. 

Less than a year later, I had another opportunity to volunteer.  Despite a very busy schedule, I asked my host if I might volunteer at Upendo, since I was unable to do so last year.  I was told that Luke and Sibo would come for me that morning.  There was a delay.  I was to find out later, why, but in Tanzania, delays are not uncommon.  One must accommodate by being flexible.  Mid morning, I am told that Luke and Sibo have arrived.  Luke (prononunced loo-ka in Kiswahili) meets me at the gate;  his handshake is genuine, his eye contact and graciousness authentic.  A 20s-on- the- cusp- of- 30s-looking guy from Australia, wearing a Boston Red Sox cap, a Kilimanjaro Climb t shirt and baggy, longish basketball kind of shorts, Luke has the grizzly stubble of the young on his face, along with a labret.  He begins to explain to me how Upendo began. 

I will tell the story as I understand it:

A few years back, Luke was traveling in Africa, ostensibly to visit a child in Ethiopia that he had sponsored for some time.  While in Moshi, he met Sibo, an artist, who was selling his work and sharing his income with children/youth who had no homes, no income and no families.  From this conversation, a friendship grew and a home for children was borne.  Upendo Artists Association is registered with the Tanzania Government as a Non-Governmental Organization.  Presently, they provide pre-primary school for approximately thirty, three to six year old children in the neighborhood.  About seven of these children live in the Upendo Orphanage, a short walk through the village, also funded by Upendo.  They also facilitate economic empowerment  for four local women in this village and seven women in another neighborhood as they design and create their fabric arts products to be sold in Australia.  UAA also provides training to local youth who are artistically talented so that they may also be able to sustain themselves economically.

The day that I visited Upendo was a very special one, unbeknownst to me.  Luke drove us on the dirt road, through the banana trees, dodging the deepest ruts, slowing carefully to call greetings out to the locals with whom he was acquainted.  He moved back and forth easily between English and Kiswahili, evidence of his bi-culturality.  Luke exuded a warmth, sincerity and emotional connection that I have not often seen in young men of his age.  I am affirmed, again, by the amazing generosity that I see in Sibo and Luke.  They are unpretentious, real and visionary at the same time.  We continue on a road that I actually recognize from my visit the year before until we arrived at the Upendo school.  Luke introduced me to some of the Mamas working there, the teachers, one of whom I recognized from my previous visit and another Mama who would soon be taking maternity leave, and to his own mother, Mama Luke, from Australia.  To say that I “volunteered” that day, would be a stretch of the meaning of the term.  Nevertheless, I sat in the classroom among the children while Madam Salma taught their lessons.  The children touched my face, rubbed their hands through my hair, pressed  their hands to their noses to smell my hair gel after.  My lap, my arms, my heart,  were filled with love and the essence of their curiosity.  If this is “volunteering”, PLEASE, let me sign up again.  As my friend, Daniel says, “When I hold the children in my arms, all my problems go away.”  (Is this what Jesus meant in the Scriptures when he said “Suffer the little children to come unto me?”)

When the school lessons ended around midday, I was invited to share a meal with the children at Upendo Orphanage.  The African sky was filled with turbulent cumulus clouds that occluded the view of Mt. Kilimanjaro.  The path was dry when we walked to the home of the children.  On the way, we stopped to buy fish for the meal at Sibo’s request.  I have seen these fish before.  They are shiny and thin, measuring about five inches in length.  They seem to grow in mud holes.  I have no idea how they are caught.  They are dried in the sun on racks on the shrubs.  People seem to enjoy eating them. (I am grateful at this moment, that I am vegetarian.)  From the heavens, we must have looked like a ribbon of humanity, winding along the path between the banana trees….. at the front, Luke, with several children chasing around him, soaking up all the goodness he has to offer, Mama Luke, playing with and hugging the wee ones along the way, Madam Salma, their teacher, guiding and nurturing as we walked from school to home, myself, not knowing where I fit but knowing without doubt, that I belonged, holding hands, laughing, observing. 

We arrive at their home:  a modest, one story stucco house, meticulously clean.  The floors are concrete painted red.  In the sitting room is a couch, two chairs and a low “coffee table” upon which our lunch is served.  The adjoining room has book shelves to store puzzles and numerous English language children’s books that I recognized.  We played while the Mama and Madam Salma prepared our mid-day meal.  Children in all directions;  playing tag, teasing, singing, snuggling, reading, putting puzzles together.  Luke and Sibo are taking photographs with the children on the front porch.

What makes this day special, in a bitter sweet kind of way, is that today is the day the twins will go to the English boarding school.  The twins, perhaps four years old, have lived at Upendo since it began.  I am acutely aware of what this must mean for Luke and Sibo, having cared and provided for the girls, wanting them to have every opportunity available to them as any parent would, receiving a sponsorship for the boarding school and at the same time, while this success is realized, it means a loss for Luke and Sibo.  The girls will not be living at Upendo.  I watch these young men, fathers to these “orphaned” children, as they prepare to take the girls to the boarding school.  The girls have been told that they will be moving.  Although unspoken, we are all aware of the poignancy of the day. 

The mid-day meal is served.  The children sat on the floor near the bookshelving, their little legs open like  triangles, their brightly colored plastic food bowl in front of them.  The rest of the food is served in thermal pots on the “coffee table”: shiny, silver fish, ugali, beans, fresh tomatoes served in lime juice with jalepeno like peppers and cooked greens, sort of like spinach.  We began with hand washing as the Mama came around the room carrying a large bowl, small bar of soap and a pitcher of clean water.  Naomi, the newest child to this home, said the blessing for the food.  The only word I understood was “Amen-i”  but I am confident that the Great Creator of us all understood every word that she uttered.   

The meal was delicious and eaten with our fingers.  I savored every bite appreciatively, mindfully.  Being in this home, filled with laughter, blessed with goodness in the context of such want and poverty infused me with hope, like the sunlight through the moisture in the air that creates a rainbow.  And still, there was a lump in my throat, knowing that the twins would soon be leaving this beautiful home for another.  While we were eating, the sky began to rumble, as only the sky can rumble in Africa.  The thunder collided above as the heavens opened up and the water began to pour onto the roof and the dry, red, African earth.  We had to close the windows to keep the blowing rain out.  Luke half joked that if the rain was too much, their car might not make it up the mountain to take the girls to the boarding school. 

The motto of Upendo is “ Fanya kweli“….. keep it real.  So it will come as no surprise that there is no Hollywood ending at Upendo.  Despite the mud and the rain, the girls were taken to the boarding school that afternoon.  Madam Salma walked me back through the neighborhood to my home away from home in Moshi.  We slipped on the mud, sloshed through puddles and hopped across pot holes back down the road, through the banana trees, along the edge of the drainage ditch to the gate of my house.  I have returned to my home in North America, writing to share what I saw and what I learned, preparing to return next summer.  Luke is fundraising in Australia, Sibo is negotiating, painting and advocating in Moshi, Mama Luke is selling fabric products and art work, the twins are at the boarding school, Madam Salma is teaching lessons in the school and the other children are tucked safely in their beds  at night by the Mama at the Upendo Orphanage.  Our hearts are all connected in the greater family of humanity.

I began the story by saying that the day I spent at Upendo was a very special day, unbeknownst to me.   For me, the day was special not only for the twins, who will benefit from their new opportunities, but  because I experienced hope and the hope is embodied in Luke and Sibo, two young men, doing what they are called to do, led by their hearts, fueled by their passion to serve and to give back to their community.  All of my professional career, I have worked with young men, often in crisis, sometimes in serious trouble, drifting, lost, without compass or rudder, crashing against the rocks in the tempest of the oceans fury of life.  There have been times when my hope has been nearly snuffed.  These young men, a mechanic and an artist, runners, friends and “fathers” are an inspiration and they give me hope.  I am not a religious person but I do believe that the capacity for good dwells within each of us.  Asante! Thank you, Luke and Sibo, for sharing your goodness with the children and the community.  Asante! Thank you, Luke and Sibo, for  sharing your goodness with me.

For anyone who would like to know more about the Upendo Artists Association and the work they do in Moshi, Tanzania please find them on Facebook or contact them at:     

They are in need of donations to sustain the work they do and sponsorships to support the children’s educational needs.

I awaken at 3:30 am Tanzania time.  I have a cough and a new patch of itchy rash.  Last year, I came home from Tanzania with a cough.  I named it my “African Violet”.  Having ruled out all the biggies (TB, pertussis, malaria and several others) I have diagnosed myself.  It is simply an allergic irritation from the particulate matter in the air……. there is a great deal of it here. I can feel it exactly in the same place in my chest… it is tight and heavy feeling.  I meditate with the 5 am call to prayers in the mosque. 

I tidy my room, arrange my things.  NOTE TO SELF:  socks and blankets are not needed in Moshi in February.  It is very hot here.  I go outside to watch the birds…. doves, a beautiful soft turquoise colored bird the shape of a junco, scissor tail swallows.

I eat lentils, yogurt and granola for breakfast.  Lunch is almond butter with the sweetest little bananas from the Nakumatt grocery store (cheaper than in the market). 

Alfred (my house host) is working on chores today.  I meet his brother from Arusha.  This brother is actually a cousin “from my aunt”.  Here, brothers and sisters are plentiful.  Family is everything and community is what brings it all together.  We take time in the afternoon to discuss my itinerary and goals for the time I am in Moshi.  Travelling to Dar es Salaam seems out of the question…. by air $480 USD, by private car $600 and three days.  Not sure what to do about that as my contact person, Dr. Mbilinyi, director of the Tanzania Association of Social Workers is in Dar es Salaam.

Alfred and I have dinner at the Union Cafe……. cheese quesadilla and coffee milkshake (In Tanzania?  We live in a global village, don’t we?)  .   NOTE TO SELF:  they make the milkshake with espresso…….. a lot of it.  DO NOT HAVE COFFEE MILKSHAKE FOR DINNER IF YOU HOPE TO SLEEP AT NIGHT.

We lose power at 11:30 pm.  The sky is turbulent outside, the electricity in the air is palpable.  I do not sleep.  Perhaps the espresso in the milkshake, perhaps the storm, most certainly, the oppressive heat, the buzzing, biting mosquitos, the insatiable thirst and the consequences of hydration…. this means, crawl out from under the netting, put on flip flops (I’m afraid of stepping on a bug in the dark, though I have seen none to be fearful of), find toilet paper…. power is out, negotiate the dark across the other side of the house to the toilet….. you get the idea.  Still, I am in a really nice house with floors, the toilet is inside and flushes, there is running water to wash my hands. Everything is relative.  I recall a time in graduate school in a village in Nicaragua when all of these luxuries were NOT available.  NOTE TO SELF:  stop complaining.  I was awake all night.  My alarm went off at 5:30 am.  The last time I remember looking at the clock it was 4:30 am. 

Gentle waking at 8:30 am….. sunny and hot.  No roosters.  No mosque.  The house is mostly quiet. I crawl out from under my mosquito net.  Mama Augustina is scrubbing floors in the kitchen.  I make coffee.  There are little ants moving in lines on the clean kitchen counter.  Plan for the day:  grocery shopping, develop itinerary, budget.

I take a walk midday until the paved road ends.  I have been here before and recognize the sights and sounds.  The things I saw:  orange flower, agama lizard, Rau Primary School, market.

“Say Marahaba”

The people of Tanzania are noted for their hospitality and propriety.  They generally tend to be soft spoken and their words are not forcefully expelled but rather gently dropped, just beyond their lips.  To hear what is said, one must focus attentively.  It is an act of engagement at a primary level of exchange.  During my first visit to Tanzania, May 2011, I was taken by the level of respect that people display toward one another, especially those of age or status.  Having said this, the words of “respect” that are given (shikamoo) have their origins in the slave trade are are certainly rooted unscrupulously in the exploitation of power .  Literally translated, the word ‘shikamoo’ which is the greeting of respect means “I am under your knees”.  The appropriate response to “shikamoo” is “marahaba”, meaning I accept your respect.  This is at least, a double bind and flies in the face of human rights and egalitarian status and every feminist fiber of my being.  Still, there is something poignantly beautiful about the practice of demonstrating respect.  My young friend, Daniel and I had a lengthy conversation about the meaning of the words and the current intention of such expressions.  As a child, he had this same conversation with his mother, very politely declining to use the term “shikamoo” because of its origins in the slave trade.  Daniel, being one of the gentlest souls I have ever met, is also a critical thinker.

As I was walking on the dirt road to the paved road, I encountered a little girl going in the opposite direction.  “Shikamoo” she greeted softly, respectfully.  Not expecting the greeting, I did not notice it until the girl passed.  Without missing a step, she called back, “Say Marahaba”.  I turned quickly to say to her “Marahaba”.

Later my host and I go to the grocery store.  After waiting more than a half hour for the taxi to arrive (Tanzania Flexible Time TFT), we opt for the daladala…. this is public transportation.  Cost 250 TSH.   It is a van with perhaps 12 seats, capacity double.  One man drives, another man hangs out the window or door.  This is the man who collects the fare.  We are fortunate to find seats together in the back… I think.  This also means that the windows do not open and there are at least 15 people between me and the door.  I do NOT have claustrophobia…..  I WILL NOT have claustrophobia.  A graduation celebration of some sort is occuring, therefore we are stuck on the road amidst the traffic.  No doubt, this is why our taxi did not arrive.  Graduates are dressed in their finest showing their school colors.  Proud families beam with their graduates’ successes.  Education is essential to survival and is cherished.  Finally, we arrive at the grocery store……. air conditioned, looks like Wal-Mart or Hannaford with appliances and books.  The only thing I really want is water…. I am drinking 1.5 to 3 litres daily….. and an avocado.  I purchase as much bottled water as I can carry in my bag, some yogurt, tiny bananas and some cashew nuts.  After the grocery store we go to the market to find an avocado…. this is not the best season for my favorite food in the world.  I pay 1000 TSH, “double the price” because of the season.  I also buy a mango for the same amount.  ($1.00 US is approximately 1600 Tanzania Shillings TSH).  I wanted to buy peppers and tomatoes at the market…. they are so robust and brightly colored.  I am mindful of the caveat that all vegetables must be cooked, peeled and washed in soap.  I have not seen soap in my house.  I am content with the avocado and  mango.

Dinner was served around 7 pm, prepared by Emmanuel and Alfred.  Guests included Hugh, a mechanical engineer from Ireland, Emma, a civil engineer from Australia and Caroline, a social entrepreneur from Australia.  (Please go to TEAM VISTA on Facebook to learn more about these wonderful folks). Dinner was spiced potates, green beans with carrots, julienned and herbed, green salad.  DELICIOUS!  We retired to the side yard after dinner where the young ones consumed beer and Konyagi while we shared stories and became acquainted.  Alfred found a little hedgehog in the yard (karunguyeye).  We talked about crocodiles in Australia.  Around 10 pm the young ones went to the Glacier for dancing and such.  I was delighted to stay home and go to bed. I am heartened and hopeful.  I am blessed.

Following the flights to Mogadishu, Maputu and Harare, at last we are boarded for Kilimanjaro…. Precision Airlines.. reminiscent of many flights between Presque Isle and Boston.  Interestingly, all but one passenger aboard are muzungu…. based upon my eavesdropping, they are from Denmark, Switzerland, Finland, USA, China.  The only man who appears to be from Africa is seated ahead of me.  I find through casual conversation as we observe the breathtaking sights of Mt. Kilimanjaro and Mt Meru from the air, that he is from Uganda.  The flight is a short one, less than an hour.  We land, mercifully, uneventfully in Kilimanjaro International Airport, at last.  IT IS SO INCREDIBLY HOT, it almost takes my breath away.  Documents, baggage in the airport.. details.  My host, Alfred (whom I’ve never met) is waiting for me with a sign. “Are you Shirley?  Are you Shirley?” he asks.  Handsome, late 20s-early 30s, radiant smile, shining ebony cheeks, wearing a sunshine yellow polo shirt, Alfred helps me with my baggage and we go to the car.

The drive from airport to the edge of Moshi is approximately 45 minutes.  I am transfixed with the sights and smells surrounding me.  Alfred ensures that I put on my seat belt. We arrive at what appears to be a tract home, ala Tanzania.  There are three bedrooms, an adjoining dining/sitting room, a refrigerator with back up generator.  My room is meticulously clean and simple:   a bed, a table, a mosquito net, a closet to store my belongings.  I am home, at last.

Alfred introduces me to Emmanuel who  has prepared boiled water for my coffee.  We dine together midday on purple fruit (similar to grapes but without seeds and they grow on trees, I think), and sandwiches on white bread with my almond butter and dates that I have brought in my baggage.  I am incredibly happy and content.

Given the heat and time changes, I am exhausted beyond measure.  I attempt to sleep without success.  It is oppressively hot.  I calm myself with meditation.   The sky alights with an electrical storm of enormous magnitude and I feel the energy deep inside of myself.  Losing all  orientation to global time and space, I finally slumber deeply for some time.  I awaken to hammering sounds in the extra bedroom.  A cute little boy and an adult male are taking a bed apart.  I figure out the shower….. sort of.  I sort my clothes, food, gifts and begin to orient myself to the tasks of my journey.

Gate Four….I arrive extremely early, given my apprehension about missing another flight.  For the first hour or so, I am the only muzungu in the area.  Gate # 4 has many flights pending.  First is the flight to Mogadishu.  I attempt to observe without gawking. I have spent the night with virtually all of these people, many of whom were sleeping on the floor downstairs near the mosque.  Several others waited upstairs, involving the ticket agent with documents, exchange of currency, production of tickets and such.  The women are dressed modestly in various styles of garments.  Not having a dictionary with me I am not certain what the headcoverings are called specifically….. some have only slits open for the eyes, others are coverings for the hair but the faces are showing……. Very similar to the older habits worn by nuns in the US.  Some are beautifully adorned with sequins shaping flowers and leaves.  Others are plain.   Many of the women have henna tattoos on their fingers…… the face and the hands are the only visible skin showing.  The men are dressed nicely in business attire. Some men wear the garment looking like a long pajama shirt……and a headcovering that resembles a pillbox hat.  These are patterned variously with what appears to be brocade or embroidery.  They are all meticulously dressed.   My apologies for not having the proper vocabulary…. But I really do not trust my spelling and use of the specific terms for the garments.  I will look them up  WHEN I have access to necessary resources.

 Another flight is to Maputu……… On this flight is a football team dressed in their team colors.  The picture of health and virility.

(to be continued)

post script:  Kiswahili word for;

 black cloak and veil worn by women:  bui bui

long white robe worn by men:  kanzu

embroidered cap worn by men:  kofia

a blur of sleep deprivation

Amsterdam……… another airport.  Another opportunity to wait out of my element.  Another opportunity to watch people from all over the world.  Donated my “children’s” scissors to the Schiphol security personnel.  Generally speaking, some people are gruff.  Bone grinding exhaustion.  I find my seat on the aisle.  My seat mates are cordial… on a trek for Climb for Children.  I took a little pill, pulled the blanket over my head and mercifully slept most of the way.  Interrupted only by the airline personnel for meals.

Arrival in Nairobi……. People on the airplane said that all connecting international flights must collect their bags at the baggage station and recheck for their departure.  Like a lemming, I stood in various lines… losing track of time orientation.  And of course, my bag never showed… well, at the moment, I am too tired and too hungry and too disappointed to describe all the details.  But tomorrow. When I can think again.  So, no shower, no rest, no privacy.  I will get there.

Overnight in Nairobi…. Continue reading →

Slept about 1.5 hour…. Better than none. Left all the lights on so I would not “really” sleep. Guess it worked because I woke up in 15-20 minute intervals. Awake at 3 am…… up by 3:30. It was soooooo cozy snuggling under the warm blankets. Finished packing….. not that it was organized like I wanted it to be, but, passport and immunization documents are visible, money is present but not visible. Guess that’s about all I really need.

I was out the driveway by 6:30. Andrew makes THE BEST coffee. Not Seattle’s Best, THE BEST. Had a multigrain bagle, toasted, dry at Dunkin Donuts on Main Street. THE “girls” met me there for a send off. It was supposed to be a surprise, but, I didn’t go on the bus so we had to coordinate our vectors abit. On the road by 7:30……… warmer day than it has been lately….. temp reading in the high twenties. Made it to Houlton in about an hour…… SWEET! Love that 75 mph zone between Houlton and Bangor. Driving down the interstate, it dawned on me that I really am on my way to Tanzania….. let that soak in. Started obsessing, worrying abit about getting lost in Portland or not making my 1:30 Concord Coach connection….. or a long line, or forgetting something, or whatever I could obsess about.  Continue reading →