What a breath of fresh air. And I mean that only figuratively. Actually I am still trying to wash out the pervasive stench of smoke, dung and goat blood from my hair. We spent all weekend at a Massai Village on the Tanzanian/Kenyan boarder. The Massai are a pastoral warrior tribe, nomadic in nature. They subside on less than little, and follow the rains. Visually they are easily distinguishable by their tradition dress, exaggerated facial piercings and distinct Ma language. The village employes traditional hot and cold remedies from the surrounding foliage that treats both human and animal ailments. To this day, a boy becomes a warrior only if he can withstand, without flinching, his group circumcision during adolescence. Female circumcision is still practiced, along with polygamy. Each wife does get her own home for her and her children. Of course, it is the women of the village who are responsible for building the houses, called bomas, made of cow dug, ash, dirt and water.
Circular and with poor ventilation, inside the boma is very dark, and when I tentatively stepped inside, I bumped into something soft, which in the light of my camera flash, I found to be a calf!
The children of the village are absolutely adorable, although sadly only about 20% of them get to go to school. The closest school to this particular village is a Christian Missionary school on the Kenyan border. The children who attend there, free of charge, have a two hour walk in each direction, every day!
The rest of the village is rarely exposed to outside culture, including medicine, electronics and western influence as a whole. When night fell, we found that we were in absolutely complete darkness and we didn't hesitate to switch on our flashlights. You could imagine our surprise when the children started chasing the spots of light in fear and intrigue. When we switched them off, they would be searching all over for the beam. On--Off--On--Off the magic never ceased!
Earlier that day a crowd formed around me when the children noticed that my finger nails were not the same color as theirs. The girls would at first, shyly, and the more aggressively so, rub my nails to see if the color would come off, and then check their own finger for color transfer. And then they would look amazed when their fingers didn't show any evidence of my color. Nail polish! I am not sure if I am more shocked at their surprise, or at the fact that we fail to notice the magic of our every day that gets masked in with the quotidian.
One of the most memorable and startling parts of the weekend was the ritual goat slaughter that was presented in our honor. It took 4 men to hold down this tiny goat, while they suffocated him to death in order to preserve any loss of blood. Once the goat stopped squirming they slid their machete down his stomach in effort to begin the skinning process. Unfortunately for the goat, he was not exactly dead, and awoke in a screech and the suffocation process had to begin anew. In the Massai culture, no part of the animal goes to waste, and sfter the skinning, the organs were carefully removed and all of the blood preserved. And although I lost my appetite over the smell of roasting hooves, the locals enjoyed their feast, washing down the tasty intestines with scoopfuls of fresh, although slightly congealed blood.
Not for the faint of heart, but I have AMAZING photos to post, once I figure out how to do that...
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
POEM
We live in a world of dichotomies
the rich and the poor
the hungry and the satiated
the blossoming and the trampled
U and Me. Right now. Let's discuss the tragedy of devastatingly widespread poverty, over brunch.
You try the omelet. I'll have the crepes.
And after, U and Me, let's discuss the rampant spread of disease and the unaffordable medications, on the way to the pool.
If we hurry, we can catch the midday sun and even out these embarrassing tan lines.
A brother and a sister.
One with eyes so deep and pure I am quite sure I could describe the colours of her soul.
The other, with eyes of blank steel, deflecting light, as if to say please, don't waste your energy on me.
Both orphaned years ago, but not before their parents bestowed upon them the legacy of their bloodline.
Please believe me when I tell you that they can not yet feel this supposed virus multiplying and mutilating their blood cells.
I am told they have no friends.
This isolation is thick and palpable.
And this pain overflows in a way they could only imagine a banquet would.
But never have I witnessed such devout faith as I see here
amongst the flies and the dust and the garbage and the rumbling stomachs.
While he finishes the mortar to a hotel he will never afford to enter
and she scrubs the toilet of another when she herself has none
they praise their Lord for the strength to work
and kindly step aside as I hurry past to the sound of the dinner bell.
the rich and the poor
the hungry and the satiated
the blossoming and the trampled
U and Me. Right now. Let's discuss the tragedy of devastatingly widespread poverty, over brunch.
You try the omelet. I'll have the crepes.
And after, U and Me, let's discuss the rampant spread of disease and the unaffordable medications, on the way to the pool.
If we hurry, we can catch the midday sun and even out these embarrassing tan lines.
A brother and a sister.
One with eyes so deep and pure I am quite sure I could describe the colours of her soul.
The other, with eyes of blank steel, deflecting light, as if to say please, don't waste your energy on me.
Both orphaned years ago, but not before their parents bestowed upon them the legacy of their bloodline.
Please believe me when I tell you that they can not yet feel this supposed virus multiplying and mutilating their blood cells.
I am told they have no friends.
This isolation is thick and palpable.
And this pain overflows in a way they could only imagine a banquet would.
But never have I witnessed such devout faith as I see here
amongst the flies and the dust and the garbage and the rumbling stomachs.
While he finishes the mortar to a hotel he will never afford to enter
and she scrubs the toilet of another when she herself has none
they praise their Lord for the strength to work
and kindly step aside as I hurry past to the sound of the dinner bell.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
My Work at St. Lucia
St. Lucia, my placement, presents me with challenges that are only surpassed by those that I am confronted with the following day. Calling life here, a daily struggle, is an understatement. But ironically, those who live here know no alternative. In fact, while there are about a dozen different greetings, the only acceptable responses are those of the positive nature.
St. Lucia is a orphanage/nursing home for children and invalid adults living with HIV or AIDS. There are 6 full time nurses and the number of patients fluctuate between around 15-20. As volunteers we do a combination of in patient and out patient care every day as well as the education of health workers who are then integrated into the community.
My Week!
Monday, after greeting the children and participating in daily prayer, I began my morning by sweeping a dirt floor for just over an hour. Let me reiterate that I dont mean a "dirty" floor, but in fact a floor literally made of dirt. The irony of this task, however, is lost on the nurses who routinely assign me this futile but apparently crucial morning job. I like to think that perhaps I am superb with a broom, and the underlying layer of dirt is much less dirty than the level I swept aside.
Following, like most days, we were asked to do the laundry. I have never been thrilled with domestic chores at home, but washing machines are now no longer a pleasantry I will take for granted. Laundry is done here completely by hand in outside tubs of diluted and increasingly filthy water that only gets changes when dropping the soap into the bottom instills the same type of sheer panic one might experience in a prison shower. And, it is not just the clothes that we launder my hand, but also the dirty nappies of both adult and baby patients alike! I usually let those marinate and cross my fingers that time will run out before I have a chance to finish...
As a break, I aided one of the nurses in the kitchen snap off the heads of some 600 dried up sardine-like fish. The stench was overwhelming and sadly fish has joined chicken in my list of African avoidances.
Afterwards I got to bathe the children, which was surprisingly a blast! We have a little plastic tub outside that they take turns jumping in and out of while I chase them down with soap (incidentally the same above referenced bar). While I am not sure how effectively I cleaned them, considering it was my first time washing any child, much less 7, I myself quite enjoyed the thorough yet unintended shower they provided me!
Tuesday we planted maize and I will no longer take popcorn for granted. They handed us not hand shovels, but pieced-together hoes and after the 6th hole I was exhausted! It blows my mind every time I consider how labor intensive the everyday work is here! The two local men we were working with would finish 4 rows for every 1 we completed. Ironically I had my hair braided this weekend and I couldnt help but think-- here I am digging rows of corn with corn rows in my hair (said with a southern accent it is a palindrome!).
We had about an hour walk back just when school was letting out. There children here are beyond adorable. They stand so proudly in their uniforms, oblivious to the tears, rips and patches that mar the fronts and backs. All the girls wear long blue or green skirts, blouses, and black and white striped knee socks. The boys match in socks with trousers, ties and wool sweaters. Sadly, some children are prevented from attending school simply because they cant afford the mandatory school uniform--a price of three American dollars. So, with their huge eyes, torn seems and broken book sacks they quietly trail behind us. Fascinated and excited, until, like always, we spin around and yell AHHHHH which sends them squealing and scattering in every direction. But then the brave one of the group reveals himself as leader when he emerges daringly to tap one of us on the back. And then it is game on, until the ill-dressed, underfed Tanzanian children break us with exhaustion!
Wednesday I was asked to accompany one the nurses to the clinic with three children and one of the adult patients. We were there for 6 hours. Half of that time the nurse left me alone with the three children, running, like a chicken without a head, between waiting areas, doctor offices, x-ray, lab and pharmacy. All the while, counting of 9-yr-old David to act as my competent interpreter.
And I introduce the above image with purpose. Last week we were told that one of the volunteers would have to slaughter a chicken for the children's dinner. My partner Shahin boasted he could complete the task, but when push came to shove, he squealed louder than me, freaked out on the first slice and accidentally released the startled chicken, nicked at the neck, draining blood, squawking and flapping for his life. The job was finally finished, but not by poor Shahin, who remained light-headed, quivering and repeating "Oh dear Lord," over and over. Incidentally, I am ten dollars wealthier for predicting the unfavorable outcome...
Thursday morning one of our patients died. Her name is Bernadetta and she was 24 years old. We visited her mother's house several hours later to pay respects, and the following day attended her funeral. It was a colorful, loud, vibrant and startling event- the ceremony and open casket reflecting the spirit of Africa in life and in death.
********
Some side notes!!
--> When I say "nurses," I mean women who wear uniform and call themselves "nursi"
--> When I say "broom," I mean dried plant leaves bundled together sans handle
--> David was diagnosed with full blown AIDS and recurrent pneumonia
--> The chicken mishap was captured on video and we are considering if it is UTube worthy!
St. Lucia is a orphanage/nursing home for children and invalid adults living with HIV or AIDS. There are 6 full time nurses and the number of patients fluctuate between around 15-20. As volunteers we do a combination of in patient and out patient care every day as well as the education of health workers who are then integrated into the community.
My Week!
Monday, after greeting the children and participating in daily prayer, I began my morning by sweeping a dirt floor for just over an hour. Let me reiterate that I dont mean a "dirty" floor, but in fact a floor literally made of dirt. The irony of this task, however, is lost on the nurses who routinely assign me this futile but apparently crucial morning job. I like to think that perhaps I am superb with a broom, and the underlying layer of dirt is much less dirty than the level I swept aside.
Following, like most days, we were asked to do the laundry. I have never been thrilled with domestic chores at home, but washing machines are now no longer a pleasantry I will take for granted. Laundry is done here completely by hand in outside tubs of diluted and increasingly filthy water that only gets changes when dropping the soap into the bottom instills the same type of sheer panic one might experience in a prison shower. And, it is not just the clothes that we launder my hand, but also the dirty nappies of both adult and baby patients alike! I usually let those marinate and cross my fingers that time will run out before I have a chance to finish...
As a break, I aided one of the nurses in the kitchen snap off the heads of some 600 dried up sardine-like fish. The stench was overwhelming and sadly fish has joined chicken in my list of African avoidances.
Afterwards I got to bathe the children, which was surprisingly a blast! We have a little plastic tub outside that they take turns jumping in and out of while I chase them down with soap (incidentally the same above referenced bar). While I am not sure how effectively I cleaned them, considering it was my first time washing any child, much less 7, I myself quite enjoyed the thorough yet unintended shower they provided me!
Tuesday we planted maize and I will no longer take popcorn for granted. They handed us not hand shovels, but pieced-together hoes and after the 6th hole I was exhausted! It blows my mind every time I consider how labor intensive the everyday work is here! The two local men we were working with would finish 4 rows for every 1 we completed. Ironically I had my hair braided this weekend and I couldnt help but think-- here I am digging rows of corn with corn rows in my hair (said with a southern accent it is a palindrome!).
We had about an hour walk back just when school was letting out. There children here are beyond adorable. They stand so proudly in their uniforms, oblivious to the tears, rips and patches that mar the fronts and backs. All the girls wear long blue or green skirts, blouses, and black and white striped knee socks. The boys match in socks with trousers, ties and wool sweaters. Sadly, some children are prevented from attending school simply because they cant afford the mandatory school uniform--a price of three American dollars. So, with their huge eyes, torn seems and broken book sacks they quietly trail behind us. Fascinated and excited, until, like always, we spin around and yell AHHHHH which sends them squealing and scattering in every direction. But then the brave one of the group reveals himself as leader when he emerges daringly to tap one of us on the back. And then it is game on, until the ill-dressed, underfed Tanzanian children break us with exhaustion!
Wednesday I was asked to accompany one the nurses to the clinic with three children and one of the adult patients. We were there for 6 hours. Half of that time the nurse left me alone with the three children, running, like a chicken without a head, between waiting areas, doctor offices, x-ray, lab and pharmacy. All the while, counting of 9-yr-old David to act as my competent interpreter.
And I introduce the above image with purpose. Last week we were told that one of the volunteers would have to slaughter a chicken for the children's dinner. My partner Shahin boasted he could complete the task, but when push came to shove, he squealed louder than me, freaked out on the first slice and accidentally released the startled chicken, nicked at the neck, draining blood, squawking and flapping for his life. The job was finally finished, but not by poor Shahin, who remained light-headed, quivering and repeating "Oh dear Lord," over and over. Incidentally, I am ten dollars wealthier for predicting the unfavorable outcome...
Thursday morning one of our patients died. Her name is Bernadetta and she was 24 years old. We visited her mother's house several hours later to pay respects, and the following day attended her funeral. It was a colorful, loud, vibrant and startling event- the ceremony and open casket reflecting the spirit of Africa in life and in death.
********
Some side notes!!
--> When I say "nurses," I mean women who wear uniform and call themselves "nursi"
--> When I say "broom," I mean dried plant leaves bundled together sans handle
--> David was diagnosed with full blown AIDS and recurrent pneumonia
--> The chicken mishap was captured on video and we are considering if it is UTube worthy!
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