"Welcome to our journey through photos. We met because of common focus, art and education. This theme stays with us. Come back often to see how it progresses."
Monday, May 4, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Bird Bath_5th Dec, 2007
bird bath
"if you could be a bird what kind would you be?"
"peacock," i answered.
he seemed surprised. "really? strange bird. that is funny. i would be a dove. you know why? because they are pure and white. and they also symbolize love. you know, a woman once told me that angels are white. i think i believe her."
i had met this man one other time. he was forward with what he felt to be true. he still is. i spoke with him two days ago. he sounded awful. raspy and weak, but still about to begin his work day. they needed him, as they have been short staffed and the children do not teach themselves. he never complains. he tried to reassure me that he would be okay. he has had malaria for a week and was trying to make me feel better!
"promise me that you will take their medicine if you cannot get yours. i think you are too weak to travel 10 hours to find your tree."
"okay, if i must. i will promise you, but i do not trust their medicine in my body. it is a balance with malaria and my medicine."
he has had malaria more times than i want to think about. he recently moved away from home for work. his traditional medicine is made of the wormwood tree but it does not grow in this new home.
my medicine man is fading and i fear he is not using good judgement. this dove is dying, i fear. somewhere in me i found the ability to blame myself...a skill i acquired when i was very young. if i had never met him he would not be away from his medicine. i look further and i find the ability to recognize that he made me better. i remember before i traveled to africa. i recall how sad i was all of the time. i remember looking for something positive in myself. i found a fragment, but even that felt selfish.
i thought, "am i really doing this for the people of africa or am i doing this for myself? myself. fuck i am selfish. i hate my life and i am looking for an escape." standing next to him the fragment felt swelled. my escape had turned into my life. he forced me to recognize that i am good. i admitted to him how scared i am of myself. he told me that i am the bravest woman he had ever met. he told me that women are already stronger than men by nature.
memories like this flood in. but this is worse than a flood. it is a hurricane in my brain as i feel i am reliving my short-lived attempt at pure love. my eyes are puffy from three days of tears. i take my warm shower in my american bathtub which is bigger than his whole bathroom. the water helps but it can't wash this away. i notice i have gotten thin and a memory comes to me. before i really knew him he walked me home one day. i was having a bad day and told him i may not be able to eat my dinner. "if you were my woman you would never miss a meal." before i really knew him, he knew. he knew that i would be his woman. his dreams flooded his brain like hurricanes. i also had had a dream about him after we first met. we were running together away from people who were trying to keep us apart. we had matching bags. i woke exhausted and confused and with a crush. i barely knew who i was dreaming about. i went about my day spent from my restless dream-running. later that same day he told me that he had heard i was extending my stay in tanzania.
"no. who told you that?" i responded.
i could see him trying to remember and then a look of embarrassment came over him.
"oh my god. my dream told me. i am sorry."
he then asked me to look at his sketchbook. there were pages and pages of contour perspective drawings. i looked and told him,
"this is what i taught in my class this morning. how did you do all of this already?"
" also my dream. i woke very early this morning thinking about these images, so i just drew them," he replied. i was floored and my face was hot. two months later, i extended my stay in tanzania.
i return. the water becomes scalding hot. i assess the scars on my body. i think about how he may not see my new scar from hot coffee. it makes me sad. i wonder if he already knows about it. my powerful vision man. i wonder if he already knows what will happen to him. a month after we parted, i quit smoking for a short time. i spoke to him on the phone and he said to me "tell me something, have you quit smoking? i have had this dream..."
crying in the shower is good for you. you are stripped-down-basic and taking full advantage of what life is all about. water. it streams on me and out of my sad face. he has not answered his phone in nearly two days. the afternoon after we last spoke, i tried calling. another man answered his phone and said "i am sorry sista, kawaka is sleeping now. maybe try tomorrow?" immediately after hanging up i broke down. i am still down here. my feathers have fallen and my illuminant blues and greens are turning opaque. his feathers are dull and sad.
...my sick bird, i am feeling your pain. i got a cold the day you got malaria. when that was gone my cramps came. they surpassed their usual, single-agonizing day and lasted for three. if i could fly to you, i would. if i could take it away, i would.
where is my malaria? i stopped taking the preventative malaria medication when i was with you. i found out that it can make you ill if you take it for longer than three months. at four i was feeling awful. when i stopped taking the pills and never experienced one symptom of malaria you reminded me how strong i am. you told me that if i have not gotten it, i may be one of the lucky ones. "some people don't ever get malaria. the others get it many times over. that is me. you can take care of me when i am sick."
i hate this fucking bathroom. i am not supposed to be here. i am supposed to be taking care of him! i think to him from this fucking bathroom..."if you fly away, you better send me another messenger when the time is right. i will need someone to carry me because i will be a limp bird!" i think about my return trip in three months. it is coming so soon. if you have flown when i get there, it would be sad there. i would still go, but this time it would be all for you. i can smell tanzania now. the memories have been so intense over the last week, that i am no longer in this bathroom. i hardly remember landing in tanzania. i was so tired. i do remember waking the next day and thinking that it felt like home. i knew then that i would make it my home. when i later met you, i felt it was all to good to be true. i tried to keep my plans to return, a secret from you. i remember your excitement when someone slipped and told you. i was almost relieved that you knew. you now knew my intentions were good. you now knew that i was not there to lift you and then break your wings. if my return was not already planned, i would have left you alone from the beginning. but, birds are not meant to be alone. i am happy to have met you.
"if you could be a bird what kind would you be?"
"peacock," i answered.
he seemed surprised. "really? strange bird. that is funny. i would be a dove. you know why? because they are pure and white. and they also symbolize love. you know, a woman once told me that angels are white. i think i believe her."
i had met this man one other time. he was forward with what he felt to be true. he still is. i spoke with him two days ago. he sounded awful. raspy and weak, but still about to begin his work day. they needed him, as they have been short staffed and the children do not teach themselves. he never complains. he tried to reassure me that he would be okay. he has had malaria for a week and was trying to make me feel better!
"promise me that you will take their medicine if you cannot get yours. i think you are too weak to travel 10 hours to find your tree."
"okay, if i must. i will promise you, but i do not trust their medicine in my body. it is a balance with malaria and my medicine."
he has had malaria more times than i want to think about. he recently moved away from home for work. his traditional medicine is made of the wormwood tree but it does not grow in this new home.
my medicine man is fading and i fear he is not using good judgement. this dove is dying, i fear. somewhere in me i found the ability to blame myself...a skill i acquired when i was very young. if i had never met him he would not be away from his medicine. i look further and i find the ability to recognize that he made me better. i remember before i traveled to africa. i recall how sad i was all of the time. i remember looking for something positive in myself. i found a fragment, but even that felt selfish.
i thought, "am i really doing this for the people of africa or am i doing this for myself? myself. fuck i am selfish. i hate my life and i am looking for an escape." standing next to him the fragment felt swelled. my escape had turned into my life. he forced me to recognize that i am good. i admitted to him how scared i am of myself. he told me that i am the bravest woman he had ever met. he told me that women are already stronger than men by nature.
memories like this flood in. but this is worse than a flood. it is a hurricane in my brain as i feel i am reliving my short-lived attempt at pure love. my eyes are puffy from three days of tears. i take my warm shower in my american bathtub which is bigger than his whole bathroom. the water helps but it can't wash this away. i notice i have gotten thin and a memory comes to me. before i really knew him he walked me home one day. i was having a bad day and told him i may not be able to eat my dinner. "if you were my woman you would never miss a meal." before i really knew him, he knew. he knew that i would be his woman. his dreams flooded his brain like hurricanes. i also had had a dream about him after we first met. we were running together away from people who were trying to keep us apart. we had matching bags. i woke exhausted and confused and with a crush. i barely knew who i was dreaming about. i went about my day spent from my restless dream-running. later that same day he told me that he had heard i was extending my stay in tanzania.
"no. who told you that?" i responded.
i could see him trying to remember and then a look of embarrassment came over him.
"oh my god. my dream told me. i am sorry."
he then asked me to look at his sketchbook. there were pages and pages of contour perspective drawings. i looked and told him,
"this is what i taught in my class this morning. how did you do all of this already?"
" also my dream. i woke very early this morning thinking about these images, so i just drew them," he replied. i was floored and my face was hot. two months later, i extended my stay in tanzania.
i return. the water becomes scalding hot. i assess the scars on my body. i think about how he may not see my new scar from hot coffee. it makes me sad. i wonder if he already knows about it. my powerful vision man. i wonder if he already knows what will happen to him. a month after we parted, i quit smoking for a short time. i spoke to him on the phone and he said to me "tell me something, have you quit smoking? i have had this dream..."
crying in the shower is good for you. you are stripped-down-basic and taking full advantage of what life is all about. water. it streams on me and out of my sad face. he has not answered his phone in nearly two days. the afternoon after we last spoke, i tried calling. another man answered his phone and said "i am sorry sista, kawaka is sleeping now. maybe try tomorrow?" immediately after hanging up i broke down. i am still down here. my feathers have fallen and my illuminant blues and greens are turning opaque. his feathers are dull and sad.
...my sick bird, i am feeling your pain. i got a cold the day you got malaria. when that was gone my cramps came. they surpassed their usual, single-agonizing day and lasted for three. if i could fly to you, i would. if i could take it away, i would.
where is my malaria? i stopped taking the preventative malaria medication when i was with you. i found out that it can make you ill if you take it for longer than three months. at four i was feeling awful. when i stopped taking the pills and never experienced one symptom of malaria you reminded me how strong i am. you told me that if i have not gotten it, i may be one of the lucky ones. "some people don't ever get malaria. the others get it many times over. that is me. you can take care of me when i am sick."
i hate this fucking bathroom. i am not supposed to be here. i am supposed to be taking care of him! i think to him from this fucking bathroom..."if you fly away, you better send me another messenger when the time is right. i will need someone to carry me because i will be a limp bird!" i think about my return trip in three months. it is coming so soon. if you have flown when i get there, it would be sad there. i would still go, but this time it would be all for you. i can smell tanzania now. the memories have been so intense over the last week, that i am no longer in this bathroom. i hardly remember landing in tanzania. i was so tired. i do remember waking the next day and thinking that it felt like home. i knew then that i would make it my home. when i later met you, i felt it was all to good to be true. i tried to keep my plans to return, a secret from you. i remember your excitement when someone slipped and told you. i was almost relieved that you knew. you now knew my intentions were good. you now knew that i was not there to lift you and then break your wings. if my return was not already planned, i would have left you alone from the beginning. but, birds are not meant to be alone. i am happy to have met you.
Tourist_28th June, 2007
tourist
there is the cliche of the tourist who goes to a foreign land only to sit in their hotel and not experience the REAL culture. they order room service, mingle at the hotel bar, experience the gift shops and only leave their westernized comforts with the safety of a tour bus. i have always prided myself on being the opposite, yet now, i sit in my hotel room in cairo, egypt immobilized.
i arrived yesterday at 2 pm and after countless, painful hours at the airport upon arrival, i got to the hotel room and did nothing. i needed sleep, recouperation and reflection. i ordereed room service. i woke this morning for my complimentary breakfast, worked out, showered and now, here i sit. here, is my dream, outside these walls, under my feet and almost in the palm of my hands and i sit. my arabic is less than poor...and it seems so crucial that these people dont dislike me.
pyramids of worry stack in my head and come to this point...flashback... stories of hospitals in florence, italy. they are specifically for tourists who temporarily lose their mind when they come face to face with the source of their passion. whether it be venus in her shell or touching the hand of god. these people sometimes imagine that the works of art have come alive to attack them or save them. from there, they are taken to the hospital where they wait out their days or weeks of temporary amnesia. this is all because of the power and richness of the history and talent crunched into one location. i wonder if they have those facilities here. i cross my fingers as i prepare for the american cliche adventure...shopping.
alas, the last leg and my luggage was lost. somewhere between south africa, ethiopia and egypt and on the map, that is from the bottom of the continent to the top. it is now again 2 in the afternoon and i must make my way back down to the bank teller who scoffed me earlier for not having a photocopy of my passport in hand. kristin arrives tonight. tomorrow, i will begin my guided tours.
there is the cliche of the tourist who goes to a foreign land only to sit in their hotel and not experience the REAL culture. they order room service, mingle at the hotel bar, experience the gift shops and only leave their westernized comforts with the safety of a tour bus. i have always prided myself on being the opposite, yet now, i sit in my hotel room in cairo, egypt immobilized.
i arrived yesterday at 2 pm and after countless, painful hours at the airport upon arrival, i got to the hotel room and did nothing. i needed sleep, recouperation and reflection. i ordereed room service. i woke this morning for my complimentary breakfast, worked out, showered and now, here i sit. here, is my dream, outside these walls, under my feet and almost in the palm of my hands and i sit. my arabic is less than poor...and it seems so crucial that these people dont dislike me.
pyramids of worry stack in my head and come to this point...flashback... stories of hospitals in florence, italy. they are specifically for tourists who temporarily lose their mind when they come face to face with the source of their passion. whether it be venus in her shell or touching the hand of god. these people sometimes imagine that the works of art have come alive to attack them or save them. from there, they are taken to the hospital where they wait out their days or weeks of temporary amnesia. this is all because of the power and richness of the history and talent crunched into one location. i wonder if they have those facilities here. i cross my fingers as i prepare for the american cliche adventure...shopping.
alas, the last leg and my luggage was lost. somewhere between south africa, ethiopia and egypt and on the map, that is from the bottom of the continent to the top. it is now again 2 in the afternoon and i must make my way back down to the bank teller who scoffed me earlier for not having a photocopy of my passport in hand. kristin arrives tonight. tomorrow, i will begin my guided tours.
Snowblinded_8th June, 2007
snowblinded
i have arrived safely in south africa and i have too much to say. culture shock is going from one extreme to the next. this is extreme. there are slums here worse than anything i saw in ghana or tanzania and they rest on the outskirts of a national park the size of israel or an estate full of white mansions. 99 out of 100 cars that you pass on the road have white passengers. 99 out of 100 pedestrians are not white. it is a place where it is socially acceptable to say "i am from london. 2 reasons i will never go back there are 1. the weather in africa and 2. i could never afford a house maid there." this seems like a harmless statement about $, but we all know what it means.
i have only been here 3 days and have also heard the following statement toward our black volunteer guide, "you are from bostwana, huh? lucky, that is one of the better black nations on our continent." on the contrary, i have also heard that, "people from bostwana are some of the laziest black africans there are." it is my belief that none of these statements hold any truth. they are said to be said...to keep the whites clean. they are said out of shame and guilt. they are spoken from the mouths of people who know they do not rightfully own this land. they are spoken from the conscience of the rich getting richer while they watch to poor, indigenous get hungry and angry.
we know from the history of the aboriginees in australia and the the indians in north america that this pattern can be patched but never fixed. on the contrary, i have captured wild animals to move them to a better home, seen my first slumbering lions basking in the african sun, begun to eat cheese again, and begun to mingle with my "kind" again. if you add all of these together, the reverse-culture-shock should be minimal when i get home. i have never been so sad.
i have arrived safely in south africa and i have too much to say. culture shock is going from one extreme to the next. this is extreme. there are slums here worse than anything i saw in ghana or tanzania and they rest on the outskirts of a national park the size of israel or an estate full of white mansions. 99 out of 100 cars that you pass on the road have white passengers. 99 out of 100 pedestrians are not white. it is a place where it is socially acceptable to say "i am from london. 2 reasons i will never go back there are 1. the weather in africa and 2. i could never afford a house maid there." this seems like a harmless statement about $, but we all know what it means.
i have only been here 3 days and have also heard the following statement toward our black volunteer guide, "you are from bostwana, huh? lucky, that is one of the better black nations on our continent." on the contrary, i have also heard that, "people from bostwana are some of the laziest black africans there are." it is my belief that none of these statements hold any truth. they are said to be said...to keep the whites clean. they are said out of shame and guilt. they are spoken from the mouths of people who know they do not rightfully own this land. they are spoken from the conscience of the rich getting richer while they watch to poor, indigenous get hungry and angry.
we know from the history of the aboriginees in australia and the the indians in north america that this pattern can be patched but never fixed. on the contrary, i have captured wild animals to move them to a better home, seen my first slumbering lions basking in the african sun, begun to eat cheese again, and begun to mingle with my "kind" again. if you add all of these together, the reverse-culture-shock should be minimal when i get home. i have never been so sad.
Senses_7th May, 2007
Senses
I have never written a song, but I feel that one is being composed everyday here. It goes a little something like this: the tone is true and intense, the lyrics are powerful and the lows are deep. I sit back to take it all in. It is the kind of tune that somehow comes with reminiscent aromas. With every listen a smell follows. With every smell, a memory, or the sense of a new one being created. Nothing is ordinary about it. If anything goes unnoticed, it is only because the complexity is a bit overwhelming. If it weren't for the wicked dreams that this lullaby brings, I wouldn't want to sleep let alone, blink. The palette is bright and vibrant. The shapes before me are untouchable so I try to feel everything I can get my senses on...
Oh what a sight. Riding up the side of a mountain to find a waterfall. It seems the further I go the more lush the people become. The deeper I dig, the more precious the gems. Their colors are radiant. Brightly patterned conga cloth draped among clusters of coconut hips. They dance as they walk. I can almost hear hallow knocking among them. I see their fellowship. They are so closely knit that the lines between blood and neighbor are nearly invisible. The weave between them feels like a soft sheet of the finest, tightest interlace. The dirt under their nails turns to baby powder when they touch the sheet. The sweat that collects between breasts becomes cool water to take when they wake form feverish humid sleep. The mosquitoes turn to butterflies between the sheets. Malaria sap turns to nurturing milk when she wraps her sick baby. These heart-woven bonds are as abundant and important to survival as the bundle of plantain on their heads. It balances atop a worn cloth that hugs the head in a twisted bun shape. The stack often stretches the length of double-hips-width. They move in unison this way, never interrupting each other's dance. They sway like music as they carry dinner home. They prepare it on their front stoops. Each stoop serves about five families. Each home is one bedroom. One outhouse serves two of these buildings. The outhouses also serve as showers. Fetch water from well. Fill five-gallon bucket. Dump over body by the cupful while standing over hole in the ground. This is bucket wash. It is far more common than running water. When there is rain, all of the buckets in the house are placed outside to collect water. When there is no rain, the ground between the buildings and the outhouse serves as a sleeping area on coconut leaf rugs. Friends and strangers step between slumberers for a shortcut in their walk. The words between them are fast, firm, low and quiet. I wish I understood them better.
Sometimes the sound of their tongues reminds me of baseball on AM radio. I hear the buzzing, but can't make out most of what is said. I usually feel like this when I am sunburned, tired or sick. This is often. Yet, when I my mind is sharp, I can almost understand them through body language, expression and the limited vocabulary I have picked up. Sometimes I will chime in with a comment on the current topic and they always commend me for "really beginning to understand Swahili now." I think, I just enjoy reading people. The language itself sounds monotone and when the locals speak English it is colorful. They add an "ee" sound to the end of most words that don't need it when speaking. For example, "I am going to schoolie to learnie because artie is goodie." On the contrary, words that usually have the "ee" sound at the end they often drop. For example again, "your bod is sex." Their view on mzungu (white people) speaking is also quite interesting. Adding any expression, or highs and lows to your voice, indicates a mzungu accent. The locals mimic foreigners by making them all sound like valley girls. I have also learned that some of my students ask me "why" all of the time just to hear me screech "what do you mean why?!" I too am guilty of listening to them speak for my entertainment. Often the rhythmic bass of my students' banter puts me in a zone. I stare over my class, past the palm trees to the sea and daydream about returning to Tanzania. This will all soon be a memory.
Love comes with annoyances. Despite frustration, feelings grow stronger. The lump in your throat becomes bigger. You learn that you can tolerate extreme conditions and sometimes make excuses for your patience. I love eastern Africa. I have found true patience here. There is no ATM in Bagamoyo so I have been trying to exchange American Dollars at the local bank. There is one bank and every time I go, about twenty people waiting. I have yet to find the patience for that. Plan B: travel to Dar Es Salaam, the capital city. This involves a stuffy ride on the dala dala, a bus smaller than a full-sized van. On average, twenty-seven people ride in the humid box under the hot sun for about one dollar each way. I have put off this trip to get money for so long that I may have to borrow the fare. I am currently down to my last 2,000 Shillings which is around two dollars. The trip takes between two to three hours, depending on traffic. When I get to Dar, I hope to buy deoderant, jam, Johnson's baby powder and new underwear. At the moment I am feeling a bit trapped. I was broke and thirsty, so I drank local water. Now I am hoping I can stomach the whole ride to the city. I spoke to my mother Easter Sunday and my last sentence before I ran out of minutes was, "it is so wonderful here that it is worth every mosquito bite, every rat spotting, every sun-rash and every bout of diarrhea." Beep. Beep. Conversation ends. I have been emailing with the volunteer organization in order to extend my stay in Tanzania and cut back my trip to South Africa by one month. Everyone raves about how modern and westernized it is there. They assume I will love it. I disagree. I did not come here to experience western society. I am from western society, where life is mild.
Medium, middle and mediocre are not allowed here. Motion is slow through the weight of the hot sun or fast-forward when invited into someone's life. They feed me from their full plate of life and we share it all like a heap of ugali. Nothing is left unconsumed. I am learning that this eagerness to share is also an eagerness to get. They open fully to me because they think I can help. They assume my mzungu skin means money and knowledge to assist them in rising above. In my first week a student approached me for 200 shillings. This is less than twenty cents U.S. However, here, it can buy five cups of coffee from a street vendor or four cigarettes or a small joint or ten limes or two bananas or a wonderful breakfast of chai, beans, and chipate. The chai smells strongly of cardamom and is on every ones' lips every morning. With milk, is rare yet delicious, and tastes like a goat smells. It is thick and forms a film on the top before you drink it. With enough sugar in your tea, the film serves as a nice treat at the end of your cup. I prefer to drink it slow--to smell it longer. I taste all of the smells and smell all of the tastes.
Chipate is the local pancake/naan. It is flour and oil, kneaded, rolled out, rolled up, rolled out again, oiled, fried, flipped, oiled again, folded, oiled, flipped again, folded again and oiled one last time. Then it is thrown into a warmer, designed just for this flat bread, and can be found in almost every home. It is wonderfully bad for you and is standard breakfast for most people. Recently, I burned my fingers making chipatae, as all of the flipping and folding is done barehanded. Pili and I made about fifty of them along with enough rice pillau to fill a five-gallon bucket. We began the rice with ten onions, three heads of garlic one kilo of potato, cinnamon bark, cardamom seeds, chili powder, fennel and spicy curry sautéed in more oil. The uncooked rice soaked in water throughout the day while we chopped salad and fruit. By the time we put it over the fire, it only took thirty minutes to cook. The result was an aromatic mound, fit for a queen or a royal family with extended relatives. In addition, we introduced a western avocado dip, guacamole. What a pleasure to slice and smash such large, perfectly colored and ripened avocado. The softest of the bunch have rarely gone bad here.
Night fell and the tasting began. Fifteen students, three teachers, three toddlers and ten guests feasted on pineapple, banana watermelon, freshly sliced ginger, and cabbage salad to accompany the rice and bread. All of this cost the equivalent of eight dollars U.S. at the market. The plates sagged with weight and when our bellies bulged with weight the festivities began. The day after Easter is still considered holiday and we were enjoying it the right way. The neighbors stood on the second floor balcony to observe. The drummers set up on one side of the outdoor school and the fire dancers moved along the other. Within a half an hour each of them was glowing with moonshine over sweaty skin. They were glowing with energy and pride. My pride for them becomes more powerful everyday. I watch their talent and determination and try to image the life they once knew.
"Have you ever lived on the street?" one of them once asked me. It felt as though he was expecting me to say yes. I felt a bit ashamed of my fortune to answer with a "no." Street life is a way of life here. So common, it seems to be a passing into manhood. This doesn't make it any easier though. Boys leave home often because there is no room or money left to take care of them. The youngest come first, and so, the oldest (usually still just children) are left to fend for themselves. This is especially true if they have found their way into any trouble. So, they leave to find more trouble. Most cope with hunger through substance abuse. It is cheaper than food. Most feed their habits and sometimes their bellies through selling on the streets. In Bagamoyo, art is a way of life and so, many of them can survive making and selling crafts such as hats, jewelry or woodcarvings. If they are any good at it, they hopefully find their way to one of the art schools or artists' groups and away from the streets.
The students range from ages eighteen to twenty-eight. The oldest student speaks fluent English and has thus helped translate most of my lessons. He has also shared pieces of his transitional story with me. When he decided to cleanse himself from street life, he took on a job in construction and building conservation. This involved working with ruins and led to his interest and eventual volunteer work in archeology. Through this work he found passion and peace. He also found a place to live and the ability to quit all substance abuse. He will, very rarely now, have a drink or a smoke, but avoids them mostly so that he can set a good example for other street boys. As he sees it, if the boys see him living comfortably, but still doing these things, they will think it is okay and thus they may never find a way out. His talent in the arts is just as inspiring as his story and although still a student, he serves as a teacher and a role model for the younger students everyday.
At African Modern Arts Park and Training Center for Street Children (AMAP) I have been teaching drawing, painting and English. Saidi's runs the school out of the back of the building where his partner Pili houses her seamstress/clothing shop. The place triples as a home for them and their daughter as well as four other families. The goal of AMAP is to turn the current students into teachers for the younger generation. Eventually, they intend to take in street boys as young as seven-years-old and train them to become art teachers so that the center will be a self-sufficient cycle. Currently, Saidi and Pili have free access to a nearby house where five of the students are staying. These students would otherwise be homeless. In addition, AMAP supplies breakfast and lunch for most of the full-time students. Students often come on the weekends to work and get a meal. Their artwork is what keeps the center alive. It is sold to people passing by and thus the school makes enough money to feed the students and survive. The environment is an inspiring outdoor setting with a large sculpting area at ground level, next to three small display rooms for finished artwork, an upper level open classroom, a banda room, and a covered area for rainy days and cooking. All of this overlooks my favorite view of the Indian Ocean.
I watch my students as they sit on the floor of their outdoor classroom. They draw for hours on end everyday. Of course they get cranky. Of course this irritates me. But they still come in everyday for more. They still say to me everyday, when I am able to explain something coherently, "Ah! Thank you teacha!" They still sculpt everyday when I leave for lunch and every evening when class is over. They spend all of their freetime creating. They are talented and intense. By day, they study fine art and by night, most of them are polishing their dancing, drumming, and singing skills. My admiration for them is nearly unexplainable. They force me to understand the life I have had. While I drag them out to the hot sunny streets to render perspective on their paper, they are forcing my whole existence into perspective in my head. So, I am sitting dreaming about dark chocolate. What I wouldn't give, right? One of them asks me, "remember the air thingy you brought to the beachie fire? If you have more can you bring?" I finally figure out he is talking about a balloon. I promise to do my best. One of the volunteers gave me three, in rasta colors. The gift was taken with such grace and appreciation that I have forgotten about chocolate for a while. Instead, I recall one of my first days of class: A student was wearing a comfy-looking worn cotton shirt with a chicken on it, which read, "chicken shirt." I laughed and complimented him on it. He didn't seem to understand what was so funny. I soon realized that this was one of his two shirts. It has nothing to do with liking it or not. In their lack of choice and limited knowledge of the English language, some of them wear the funniest clothing. Another guy wears a shirt that reads "worlds best grandmother" and printed on the front is a photo of two mzungu children. On your typical westerner, this would be a sign of a good sense of humor. Here, I am not so sure.
Here, I am taking in a lot of rain, smoke, beans, bananas, body odor, wet laundry, and urine. Like I said, the tones are true. The toilets are squats. Wash where you wee but watch where you pee. My sandals scrape the sandy, wet concrete as I position perfectly over the hole. No matter how experienced you are in squatting, nothing prevents the marrying and splashing of piss. The door leans on just the lower hinge and the angle lets in some light. Only in the last few days did I become brave enough to follow with a bucket water wash. The bucket is usually blue or pink and a cup floats atop the water. Before I was worried about other peoples' grimey hands on the cup and in the water. Then, I got tired of drip-drying in this humidity every time I forgot my toilet paper. I have braved the bucket at school, only. I feel close enough with my students now, that I don't fear their germs like a strangers' germs. Many of my students shower next to the well at school. We are fortunate enough to have the local well in the middle of our courtyard. Neighbors are in and out constantly to get water. It is the source for most people on the block. We are also fortunate to have a toilet, squat or not. Other volunteers have been placed in schools with no toilet, yet are advised to drink 3-5 liters of water per day. I somehow feel lucky as I peer through the crack in the door, holding my breath, watching feet run past, down the hall and out to the street. I splash and follow.
Bikes pass with baskets full of produce on the back, leaving a trail of ripe pineapple aroma. Just below our street is the fishmarket at the beach. You can try to dream of the array of smells here, but its better if I tell you…salty fishermen with half-broken bodies fight each other everyday to win the bread but usually just end up eating fish. They smell like fish. Hardworking women with heavy, yet hardened bodies lean into the water to fetch the minnows that they make into a salty, fishy red sauce for ugali. Their fingers are just as hard as their hips. They have been cut and burned over and over. They too, smell like fish. Warm chipate steams from the stoves hidden in the corners of the market. The backs that curve over these pans are not slouching, but working. These women are also hard. Imagine how their fingers can compete. I imagine they smell of charcoal. I know they must taste like sugar. Just behind them, is a path where the fishmarket traffic jams. Extra-large catches, strung on rope, are carried to the large shelter where the deals are made. Stinky bodies shove and compete all day long. Their shouting wafts to our outdoor classroom along with all of these smells. It is a rich atmosphere to teach in.
Perhaps the most powerful smell in the world is that of fire. I would bet that there is not a single person who doesn't have a memory connected to its' aroma. My memories of camping in northern Illinois connect with this fire. "Beachie fire" accompanied by fire dancing, drumming, singing, chanting, chatting, swimming, stargazing and many other -ings. This is my memory of one of my first nights here. I was amazed by the authenticity of the performances. I could feel the foundation in tradition. I could imagine these men as children, with their grandfathers. I could feel the tribal marks on their faces. Some are burned with cashew nut shells on their cheek. Some are slashed under the eye. The scars are as thick as the blood that gave them their heritage. They are all of many different villages and various tribes. Yet, they have come together here, to create and live off of their artistic talent. For the first time, I now truly understand the meaning of Rastafarian. The smell of salt water and kerosene fire will always bring me back to this realization and the way that life here creeps slowly along "African time."
A good song awakens you regardless of the timing and to awaken is to open your senses. If there were an order to the senses perhaps they could be categorized clearly, but I prefer the messy goodness of combining. I prime my burnt skin with essential oils, add a layer of deet, a layer of sunscreen and then a layer of powder to fend of the humidity. I dip my bread in my coffee, peanut butter, honey, cinnamon, and all. I shower my students with hard-nosed lessons full of open venues, honest sadness at their laziness, and loud pride at their accomplishments. I have become an elaborate mess and I prefer it this way.
I have never written a song, but I feel that one is being composed everyday here. It goes a little something like this: the tone is true and intense, the lyrics are powerful and the lows are deep. I sit back to take it all in. It is the kind of tune that somehow comes with reminiscent aromas. With every listen a smell follows. With every smell, a memory, or the sense of a new one being created. Nothing is ordinary about it. If anything goes unnoticed, it is only because the complexity is a bit overwhelming. If it weren't for the wicked dreams that this lullaby brings, I wouldn't want to sleep let alone, blink. The palette is bright and vibrant. The shapes before me are untouchable so I try to feel everything I can get my senses on...
Oh what a sight. Riding up the side of a mountain to find a waterfall. It seems the further I go the more lush the people become. The deeper I dig, the more precious the gems. Their colors are radiant. Brightly patterned conga cloth draped among clusters of coconut hips. They dance as they walk. I can almost hear hallow knocking among them. I see their fellowship. They are so closely knit that the lines between blood and neighbor are nearly invisible. The weave between them feels like a soft sheet of the finest, tightest interlace. The dirt under their nails turns to baby powder when they touch the sheet. The sweat that collects between breasts becomes cool water to take when they wake form feverish humid sleep. The mosquitoes turn to butterflies between the sheets. Malaria sap turns to nurturing milk when she wraps her sick baby. These heart-woven bonds are as abundant and important to survival as the bundle of plantain on their heads. It balances atop a worn cloth that hugs the head in a twisted bun shape. The stack often stretches the length of double-hips-width. They move in unison this way, never interrupting each other's dance. They sway like music as they carry dinner home. They prepare it on their front stoops. Each stoop serves about five families. Each home is one bedroom. One outhouse serves two of these buildings. The outhouses also serve as showers. Fetch water from well. Fill five-gallon bucket. Dump over body by the cupful while standing over hole in the ground. This is bucket wash. It is far more common than running water. When there is rain, all of the buckets in the house are placed outside to collect water. When there is no rain, the ground between the buildings and the outhouse serves as a sleeping area on coconut leaf rugs. Friends and strangers step between slumberers for a shortcut in their walk. The words between them are fast, firm, low and quiet. I wish I understood them better.
Sometimes the sound of their tongues reminds me of baseball on AM radio. I hear the buzzing, but can't make out most of what is said. I usually feel like this when I am sunburned, tired or sick. This is often. Yet, when I my mind is sharp, I can almost understand them through body language, expression and the limited vocabulary I have picked up. Sometimes I will chime in with a comment on the current topic and they always commend me for "really beginning to understand Swahili now." I think, I just enjoy reading people. The language itself sounds monotone and when the locals speak English it is colorful. They add an "ee" sound to the end of most words that don't need it when speaking. For example, "I am going to schoolie to learnie because artie is goodie." On the contrary, words that usually have the "ee" sound at the end they often drop. For example again, "your bod is sex." Their view on mzungu (white people) speaking is also quite interesting. Adding any expression, or highs and lows to your voice, indicates a mzungu accent. The locals mimic foreigners by making them all sound like valley girls. I have also learned that some of my students ask me "why" all of the time just to hear me screech "what do you mean why?!" I too am guilty of listening to them speak for my entertainment. Often the rhythmic bass of my students' banter puts me in a zone. I stare over my class, past the palm trees to the sea and daydream about returning to Tanzania. This will all soon be a memory.
Love comes with annoyances. Despite frustration, feelings grow stronger. The lump in your throat becomes bigger. You learn that you can tolerate extreme conditions and sometimes make excuses for your patience. I love eastern Africa. I have found true patience here. There is no ATM in Bagamoyo so I have been trying to exchange American Dollars at the local bank. There is one bank and every time I go, about twenty people waiting. I have yet to find the patience for that. Plan B: travel to Dar Es Salaam, the capital city. This involves a stuffy ride on the dala dala, a bus smaller than a full-sized van. On average, twenty-seven people ride in the humid box under the hot sun for about one dollar each way. I have put off this trip to get money for so long that I may have to borrow the fare. I am currently down to my last 2,000 Shillings which is around two dollars. The trip takes between two to three hours, depending on traffic. When I get to Dar, I hope to buy deoderant, jam, Johnson's baby powder and new underwear. At the moment I am feeling a bit trapped. I was broke and thirsty, so I drank local water. Now I am hoping I can stomach the whole ride to the city. I spoke to my mother Easter Sunday and my last sentence before I ran out of minutes was, "it is so wonderful here that it is worth every mosquito bite, every rat spotting, every sun-rash and every bout of diarrhea." Beep. Beep. Conversation ends. I have been emailing with the volunteer organization in order to extend my stay in Tanzania and cut back my trip to South Africa by one month. Everyone raves about how modern and westernized it is there. They assume I will love it. I disagree. I did not come here to experience western society. I am from western society, where life is mild.
Medium, middle and mediocre are not allowed here. Motion is slow through the weight of the hot sun or fast-forward when invited into someone's life. They feed me from their full plate of life and we share it all like a heap of ugali. Nothing is left unconsumed. I am learning that this eagerness to share is also an eagerness to get. They open fully to me because they think I can help. They assume my mzungu skin means money and knowledge to assist them in rising above. In my first week a student approached me for 200 shillings. This is less than twenty cents U.S. However, here, it can buy five cups of coffee from a street vendor or four cigarettes or a small joint or ten limes or two bananas or a wonderful breakfast of chai, beans, and chipate. The chai smells strongly of cardamom and is on every ones' lips every morning. With milk, is rare yet delicious, and tastes like a goat smells. It is thick and forms a film on the top before you drink it. With enough sugar in your tea, the film serves as a nice treat at the end of your cup. I prefer to drink it slow--to smell it longer. I taste all of the smells and smell all of the tastes.
Chipate is the local pancake/naan. It is flour and oil, kneaded, rolled out, rolled up, rolled out again, oiled, fried, flipped, oiled again, folded, oiled, flipped again, folded again and oiled one last time. Then it is thrown into a warmer, designed just for this flat bread, and can be found in almost every home. It is wonderfully bad for you and is standard breakfast for most people. Recently, I burned my fingers making chipatae, as all of the flipping and folding is done barehanded. Pili and I made about fifty of them along with enough rice pillau to fill a five-gallon bucket. We began the rice with ten onions, three heads of garlic one kilo of potato, cinnamon bark, cardamom seeds, chili powder, fennel and spicy curry sautéed in more oil. The uncooked rice soaked in water throughout the day while we chopped salad and fruit. By the time we put it over the fire, it only took thirty minutes to cook. The result was an aromatic mound, fit for a queen or a royal family with extended relatives. In addition, we introduced a western avocado dip, guacamole. What a pleasure to slice and smash such large, perfectly colored and ripened avocado. The softest of the bunch have rarely gone bad here.
Night fell and the tasting began. Fifteen students, three teachers, three toddlers and ten guests feasted on pineapple, banana watermelon, freshly sliced ginger, and cabbage salad to accompany the rice and bread. All of this cost the equivalent of eight dollars U.S. at the market. The plates sagged with weight and when our bellies bulged with weight the festivities began. The day after Easter is still considered holiday and we were enjoying it the right way. The neighbors stood on the second floor balcony to observe. The drummers set up on one side of the outdoor school and the fire dancers moved along the other. Within a half an hour each of them was glowing with moonshine over sweaty skin. They were glowing with energy and pride. My pride for them becomes more powerful everyday. I watch their talent and determination and try to image the life they once knew.
"Have you ever lived on the street?" one of them once asked me. It felt as though he was expecting me to say yes. I felt a bit ashamed of my fortune to answer with a "no." Street life is a way of life here. So common, it seems to be a passing into manhood. This doesn't make it any easier though. Boys leave home often because there is no room or money left to take care of them. The youngest come first, and so, the oldest (usually still just children) are left to fend for themselves. This is especially true if they have found their way into any trouble. So, they leave to find more trouble. Most cope with hunger through substance abuse. It is cheaper than food. Most feed their habits and sometimes their bellies through selling on the streets. In Bagamoyo, art is a way of life and so, many of them can survive making and selling crafts such as hats, jewelry or woodcarvings. If they are any good at it, they hopefully find their way to one of the art schools or artists' groups and away from the streets.
The students range from ages eighteen to twenty-eight. The oldest student speaks fluent English and has thus helped translate most of my lessons. He has also shared pieces of his transitional story with me. When he decided to cleanse himself from street life, he took on a job in construction and building conservation. This involved working with ruins and led to his interest and eventual volunteer work in archeology. Through this work he found passion and peace. He also found a place to live and the ability to quit all substance abuse. He will, very rarely now, have a drink or a smoke, but avoids them mostly so that he can set a good example for other street boys. As he sees it, if the boys see him living comfortably, but still doing these things, they will think it is okay and thus they may never find a way out. His talent in the arts is just as inspiring as his story and although still a student, he serves as a teacher and a role model for the younger students everyday.
At African Modern Arts Park and Training Center for Street Children (AMAP) I have been teaching drawing, painting and English. Saidi's runs the school out of the back of the building where his partner Pili houses her seamstress/clothing shop. The place triples as a home for them and their daughter as well as four other families. The goal of AMAP is to turn the current students into teachers for the younger generation. Eventually, they intend to take in street boys as young as seven-years-old and train them to become art teachers so that the center will be a self-sufficient cycle. Currently, Saidi and Pili have free access to a nearby house where five of the students are staying. These students would otherwise be homeless. In addition, AMAP supplies breakfast and lunch for most of the full-time students. Students often come on the weekends to work and get a meal. Their artwork is what keeps the center alive. It is sold to people passing by and thus the school makes enough money to feed the students and survive. The environment is an inspiring outdoor setting with a large sculpting area at ground level, next to three small display rooms for finished artwork, an upper level open classroom, a banda room, and a covered area for rainy days and cooking. All of this overlooks my favorite view of the Indian Ocean.
I watch my students as they sit on the floor of their outdoor classroom. They draw for hours on end everyday. Of course they get cranky. Of course this irritates me. But they still come in everyday for more. They still say to me everyday, when I am able to explain something coherently, "Ah! Thank you teacha!" They still sculpt everyday when I leave for lunch and every evening when class is over. They spend all of their freetime creating. They are talented and intense. By day, they study fine art and by night, most of them are polishing their dancing, drumming, and singing skills. My admiration for them is nearly unexplainable. They force me to understand the life I have had. While I drag them out to the hot sunny streets to render perspective on their paper, they are forcing my whole existence into perspective in my head. So, I am sitting dreaming about dark chocolate. What I wouldn't give, right? One of them asks me, "remember the air thingy you brought to the beachie fire? If you have more can you bring?" I finally figure out he is talking about a balloon. I promise to do my best. One of the volunteers gave me three, in rasta colors. The gift was taken with such grace and appreciation that I have forgotten about chocolate for a while. Instead, I recall one of my first days of class: A student was wearing a comfy-looking worn cotton shirt with a chicken on it, which read, "chicken shirt." I laughed and complimented him on it. He didn't seem to understand what was so funny. I soon realized that this was one of his two shirts. It has nothing to do with liking it or not. In their lack of choice and limited knowledge of the English language, some of them wear the funniest clothing. Another guy wears a shirt that reads "worlds best grandmother" and printed on the front is a photo of two mzungu children. On your typical westerner, this would be a sign of a good sense of humor. Here, I am not so sure.
Here, I am taking in a lot of rain, smoke, beans, bananas, body odor, wet laundry, and urine. Like I said, the tones are true. The toilets are squats. Wash where you wee but watch where you pee. My sandals scrape the sandy, wet concrete as I position perfectly over the hole. No matter how experienced you are in squatting, nothing prevents the marrying and splashing of piss. The door leans on just the lower hinge and the angle lets in some light. Only in the last few days did I become brave enough to follow with a bucket water wash. The bucket is usually blue or pink and a cup floats atop the water. Before I was worried about other peoples' grimey hands on the cup and in the water. Then, I got tired of drip-drying in this humidity every time I forgot my toilet paper. I have braved the bucket at school, only. I feel close enough with my students now, that I don't fear their germs like a strangers' germs. Many of my students shower next to the well at school. We are fortunate enough to have the local well in the middle of our courtyard. Neighbors are in and out constantly to get water. It is the source for most people on the block. We are also fortunate to have a toilet, squat or not. Other volunteers have been placed in schools with no toilet, yet are advised to drink 3-5 liters of water per day. I somehow feel lucky as I peer through the crack in the door, holding my breath, watching feet run past, down the hall and out to the street. I splash and follow.
Bikes pass with baskets full of produce on the back, leaving a trail of ripe pineapple aroma. Just below our street is the fishmarket at the beach. You can try to dream of the array of smells here, but its better if I tell you…salty fishermen with half-broken bodies fight each other everyday to win the bread but usually just end up eating fish. They smell like fish. Hardworking women with heavy, yet hardened bodies lean into the water to fetch the minnows that they make into a salty, fishy red sauce for ugali. Their fingers are just as hard as their hips. They have been cut and burned over and over. They too, smell like fish. Warm chipate steams from the stoves hidden in the corners of the market. The backs that curve over these pans are not slouching, but working. These women are also hard. Imagine how their fingers can compete. I imagine they smell of charcoal. I know they must taste like sugar. Just behind them, is a path where the fishmarket traffic jams. Extra-large catches, strung on rope, are carried to the large shelter where the deals are made. Stinky bodies shove and compete all day long. Their shouting wafts to our outdoor classroom along with all of these smells. It is a rich atmosphere to teach in.
Perhaps the most powerful smell in the world is that of fire. I would bet that there is not a single person who doesn't have a memory connected to its' aroma. My memories of camping in northern Illinois connect with this fire. "Beachie fire" accompanied by fire dancing, drumming, singing, chanting, chatting, swimming, stargazing and many other -ings. This is my memory of one of my first nights here. I was amazed by the authenticity of the performances. I could feel the foundation in tradition. I could imagine these men as children, with their grandfathers. I could feel the tribal marks on their faces. Some are burned with cashew nut shells on their cheek. Some are slashed under the eye. The scars are as thick as the blood that gave them their heritage. They are all of many different villages and various tribes. Yet, they have come together here, to create and live off of their artistic talent. For the first time, I now truly understand the meaning of Rastafarian. The smell of salt water and kerosene fire will always bring me back to this realization and the way that life here creeps slowly along "African time."
A good song awakens you regardless of the timing and to awaken is to open your senses. If there were an order to the senses perhaps they could be categorized clearly, but I prefer the messy goodness of combining. I prime my burnt skin with essential oils, add a layer of deet, a layer of sunscreen and then a layer of powder to fend of the humidity. I dip my bread in my coffee, peanut butter, honey, cinnamon, and all. I shower my students with hard-nosed lessons full of open venues, honest sadness at their laziness, and loud pride at their accomplishments. I have become an elaborate mess and I prefer it this way.
One strong cup_31st March, 2007
one strong cup
the internet here is almost non-existant, but i will give this train-of-thought a whirl and hope i can finish it. life is slow and heavy, but i feel light. my students are all brilliant street boys (and one amazingly talented girl, with her 2 year-old son) aged 18-27. they send me into awe and frustration every single day.
such a wonderful group, full of generousity, and they have nothing. yesterday we drew perspective in the streets and a vendor came by to sell some strong coffee and peanut sweets. "teacher come join" i told them i had no money on me. "do you trust your students?" one asked me."yes, of course," i replied. "then let us buy you a coffee today." this is coming from these men who rarely eat dinner. they only have breakfast and lunch because their head teacher feeds them tea and lunch everyday.
for the first time yesterday, i also shared lunch with them. i usually go back to the volunteer house, but they asked me so nicely if i would just stay to eat ugali with them. how could i say no? ugali is the official food of eastern africa. it is a tasteless lump of cornflour mixed with water. it is cooked into a dumpling-form heap and thrown on a plate for all to take from. we sat in a circle and picked at the pile with our right hands and dipped into cooked beans. it was the most lovely flavorless meal of my life.
i have begun my first sculpture and i am on my way to work on it today (saturday) because they all go in on the weekends to work and have offered to help me. if they do not work on the weekends they sell nothing and do not eat. still they offer their time to me. i should go now to give my time to them.
the internet here is almost non-existant, but i will give this train-of-thought a whirl and hope i can finish it. life is slow and heavy, but i feel light. my students are all brilliant street boys (and one amazingly talented girl, with her 2 year-old son) aged 18-27. they send me into awe and frustration every single day.
such a wonderful group, full of generousity, and they have nothing. yesterday we drew perspective in the streets and a vendor came by to sell some strong coffee and peanut sweets. "teacher come join" i told them i had no money on me. "do you trust your students?" one asked me."yes, of course," i replied. "then let us buy you a coffee today." this is coming from these men who rarely eat dinner. they only have breakfast and lunch because their head teacher feeds them tea and lunch everyday.
for the first time yesterday, i also shared lunch with them. i usually go back to the volunteer house, but they asked me so nicely if i would just stay to eat ugali with them. how could i say no? ugali is the official food of eastern africa. it is a tasteless lump of cornflour mixed with water. it is cooked into a dumpling-form heap and thrown on a plate for all to take from. we sat in a circle and picked at the pile with our right hands and dipped into cooked beans. it was the most lovely flavorless meal of my life.
i have begun my first sculpture and i am on my way to work on it today (saturday) because they all go in on the weekends to work and have offered to help me. if they do not work on the weekends they sell nothing and do not eat. still they offer their time to me. i should go now to give my time to them.
Safely in Tanzania_28th Feb, 2007
safely in tanzania
i cant keep long, but soon i will be posting a massive message that is currently in progress. so much to close with about ghana. and so much to rave about in tanzania. i have only been here for a day, but it is so far amazing. i am surrounded by art, artists, coconut trees, beaches, and sweet, sweet people. all so yum.
i cant keep long, but soon i will be posting a massive message that is currently in progress. so much to close with about ghana. and so much to rave about in tanzania. i have only been here for a day, but it is so far amazing. i am surrounded by art, artists, coconut trees, beaches, and sweet, sweet people. all so yum.
At Last_26th Jan, 2007
at last
this is overdue, but for good reason. the power outages often interrupt a perfectly good, long email. frustrating, but i cannot be upset. it comes with the territory.
there is a rainy season, come may. it will last for three months. from what the old-timers have told me, it used to pour straight-through the whole season. when it came time for harvest, fruits and vegetables were abundant. in the fall, fish was plentiful and you could dip a bucket in the stream to catch dinner for the week. in the last fifteen years, the rain has not been coming like it used to. this problem gets progressively worse every year.
there is a very large dam that supplies the energy and electricity for all of ghana. this dam is now below the dangerous level. a few months ago they began "lights out" to preserve the energy. it is supposed to occur every five days...and it did when i first arrived. it is now, nearly every single day that we go without power for at least an hour. and the scheduled lights out now generally last for more than the intended 12 hours. in addition, they will shut off the water just as frequently and sometimes at the same time as the elec. at this rate, i doubt there will be any power come may.
2 nights ago we were sitting at the kitchen table by candlelight. the two young girls had gone to bed and we heard a loug clapping noise from the other room. we went into the bedroom where they were fast asleep to find the dresser on fire from the candle. we got the girls out and extinguised the fire. LUCKILY the water was running at that moment. luckily everything was okay. this is an example of how families and lives are destroyed here.
the last two days have been somewhat pivotal for me. i am really starting to feel comfortable and appreciative of everything around me. i also feel as though my time here is running out. i have begun a few murals for the walls outside of the school among many other projects they want me to finish. i may have to take time off from teaching to finish all that thay are asking me to do.
my hostess has also introduced me to her friend that also owns a preschool called madonna and child. this place is drastically different than the school i work at. it is orderly and calm. i now travel there once a week to give them a "creative day." it is a relief from our overcrowded chaotic classes. here, i met alfred, an advisor for the school. he is one of the only ghanians who is not scared for my soul because it lacks jesus christ. he is openminded and even practices yoga, he confided in me. our conversations are helping me to feel normal among a community where i sometimes feel like an outcast. he has become an outlet for my thoughts that i choose not to share with the rest of the country and i am so grateful to have met him.
religion is everywhere. i went to chuch with the family and it was quite an experience. loud, soulful and quite moving. their passion is admirable. every shop and stop is named to show their religious pride. such as "my guide and my light barber shop" or "jesus is truth fruit stand." some of the names are quite humerous. while my religious opinions differ, people are not overly pushy. i have expressed that i am very spiritual, but also too small to decide who is god or which one is the right one. while this does not offend anyone, they often wish for me to find jesus. they do not yet know just how stubborn i am.
in my classroom i work with a lovely girl named judith. within days she became my closest friend here. she has decided to make me a traditional ghanian dress for my trip to tanzania because it is very hot there, she claims. (mind you i am constantly sweating here and apparently this is winter.) she has expressed that she is worried for me. i will try my best to quote her correctly: "here in ghana good people surround you, but you do not know what you will find there. did you know that god protects those of good moral? he will watch over you even if you do not have jesus christ because you are a good person, jen. you will also be protected because i will pray for you everyday." i thought my heart was going to explode. one of the truest forms of goodness i have ever whitnessed. i will miss her so much.
angelina will also be sorely missed. in my last entry i talked a bit about her. my admiration only continues to grow. she told me the story of her family and how she came to live with letitia and sam (her adopted parents and my hosts). she told me that although her parents are dead, her sister is alive and has a family of her own. they are about 4 hours drive from here, but she has not seen them in five years. she has gone to visit them, but they have not come to see her. in addition, she is only partly included with her adopted family. they laugh together and obviously care for each other, but she never goes on family holidays with them or anywhere with them for that matter...except to church, of course. my first week here, the family took a trip to angelina's home town where her sister lives and did not invite her to come along. i see it as cruel. they see it as fair. they took her in, and now pay for her schooling and give her a roof and food. that is the deal. bottom line. when the family is not around i pick her brain and she is so relieved to talk, i can tell. last week, the family was out, so i forced her to sit at the table and have dinner with me rather than standing in the kitchen and hiding the deed, like she usually does. "you are too nice to me auntie jen. i will be spoiled when you leave. do you know this?" over the meal she told me alot about herself. she said she wants to be a singer. it was nice to see her dream a little. that was the one moment that i saw her for her age...16. you'd never guess it otherwise. she is more mature than most adults. i stopped asking as she kept talking, anxious to hurry up and get everything out before they got home. she started talking about how she is all alone. i tried to disagree to make her feel better, but i knew she was right. no one has ever made her feel that she is important. needed for duties, yes, but important to their heart, no. that is true lonliness. they pulled into the drive and she jumped up and ran to the kitchen.
i have told you about the most important people so far with the exception of one, benedicta. one of my last days in chicago, my friend shannon read my tarrot. she told me about a little girl who will be very important to me. she said that she will be wearing lavender or violet colored clothing and she has some sort of speech problem-not just an accent but something that makes her distinct. on my first day teaching at shapes and colors i noticed that the uniforms are gray, almost purple and i had my eyes peeled for someone to strike me. nothing. on my third day, i was assigned to my class that i will be with until i leave. with all of the excitement, i was no longer looking for her, but she was staring at me. eyes locked on me. they still are, everyday, from the time she arrives until she leaves. her school uniform was obviously made from a different fabric than everyone elses because it is more purple than gray. she does not speak. when i first called on her to answer a question, judith told me, "bene doesnt talk." turns out she can, and has, but it is rare and it is booming when she does. although she speaks very soft and quiet, her voice is extremely low. one day, judith asked me to take a walk with her before school. i heard her speaking in twi to letitia as we were leaving and i gathered that we were going to benedicta's house. we arrived and she was running around shouting with her siblings. she saw us, froze and did not say another word. we went in to meet her mother. i found out later that the purpose of the journey was to thank her for some gifts she had brought to the school. although, i am sure, the other purpose was to show me benedicta's home life. judith is obviously, very thoughtful, and had taken notice of my concern for bene. her mother was feeding her infant and when she was done, handed him to me. she called on benedicta and we heard her billow "yes" from the other room. she ran in, forgetting that we were there and then locked her jaw and her eyes. "i want you to speak in class today. your teachers want you to participate. you will walk with them to school and you will speak to them, oaky?" her mother demaned. "yes" she whispered. she did not say a word until halfway through the day. with much coaxing i got her to whisper the answer to a question to me. "two" is the only thing she has ever said to me. she is like a puzzle to me. she is not from an abusive family. she is not a mute. she plays and talks in the comfort of her home. yet, she is terrified at school. i cannot figure out if she stares at me because she is terrified of me too or because she knows that i feel for her. it is my goal to help her out of her shell.
a few months ago i was emailing a friend about carina, a friends 4 year old daughter who had died of cancer that day. i was expressing how ugly and beautiful things can be at the same time. i dont remember much else of the email, but i described the feeling with this expression: glitter is just shiney dust. i really liked the way that it expressed my thoughts and wanted to used it in writing.
at last....glitter is just shiney dust ..>..>..>..>..>..> ..> ..> ..>..>
the dust clouds are clouding my head with a pinch of sickness..."you are adjusting the the climate." little ones tug on me and dance around me as i sit in the sun. they love that i am at their level. katie leans in and like glitter falling out of her mouth, into my head, exhales, "rigobet says you are an angel." the particles are so fine that i almost miss them through the foggy dust. but it makes a little noise while fluttering around in there. it registers and i look at him. "your back. these things sticking out. they look like wings" rigobet explains. i feel my back and notice the sweat has drawn a picture with my shoulder blades. rigobet is not a nice boy. he is "troublesome" and so, his expression makes me want to cry. katie is pure sweetness and so together they are quite a treat. when she smiles her eyes say more than her mouth. she smiles. he looks through me. i remember that glitter is just shiney dust.
this is overdue, but for good reason. the power outages often interrupt a perfectly good, long email. frustrating, but i cannot be upset. it comes with the territory.
there is a rainy season, come may. it will last for three months. from what the old-timers have told me, it used to pour straight-through the whole season. when it came time for harvest, fruits and vegetables were abundant. in the fall, fish was plentiful and you could dip a bucket in the stream to catch dinner for the week. in the last fifteen years, the rain has not been coming like it used to. this problem gets progressively worse every year.
there is a very large dam that supplies the energy and electricity for all of ghana. this dam is now below the dangerous level. a few months ago they began "lights out" to preserve the energy. it is supposed to occur every five days...and it did when i first arrived. it is now, nearly every single day that we go without power for at least an hour. and the scheduled lights out now generally last for more than the intended 12 hours. in addition, they will shut off the water just as frequently and sometimes at the same time as the elec. at this rate, i doubt there will be any power come may.
2 nights ago we were sitting at the kitchen table by candlelight. the two young girls had gone to bed and we heard a loug clapping noise from the other room. we went into the bedroom where they were fast asleep to find the dresser on fire from the candle. we got the girls out and extinguised the fire. LUCKILY the water was running at that moment. luckily everything was okay. this is an example of how families and lives are destroyed here.
the last two days have been somewhat pivotal for me. i am really starting to feel comfortable and appreciative of everything around me. i also feel as though my time here is running out. i have begun a few murals for the walls outside of the school among many other projects they want me to finish. i may have to take time off from teaching to finish all that thay are asking me to do.
my hostess has also introduced me to her friend that also owns a preschool called madonna and child. this place is drastically different than the school i work at. it is orderly and calm. i now travel there once a week to give them a "creative day." it is a relief from our overcrowded chaotic classes. here, i met alfred, an advisor for the school. he is one of the only ghanians who is not scared for my soul because it lacks jesus christ. he is openminded and even practices yoga, he confided in me. our conversations are helping me to feel normal among a community where i sometimes feel like an outcast. he has become an outlet for my thoughts that i choose not to share with the rest of the country and i am so grateful to have met him.
religion is everywhere. i went to chuch with the family and it was quite an experience. loud, soulful and quite moving. their passion is admirable. every shop and stop is named to show their religious pride. such as "my guide and my light barber shop" or "jesus is truth fruit stand." some of the names are quite humerous. while my religious opinions differ, people are not overly pushy. i have expressed that i am very spiritual, but also too small to decide who is god or which one is the right one. while this does not offend anyone, they often wish for me to find jesus. they do not yet know just how stubborn i am.
in my classroom i work with a lovely girl named judith. within days she became my closest friend here. she has decided to make me a traditional ghanian dress for my trip to tanzania because it is very hot there, she claims. (mind you i am constantly sweating here and apparently this is winter.) she has expressed that she is worried for me. i will try my best to quote her correctly: "here in ghana good people surround you, but you do not know what you will find there. did you know that god protects those of good moral? he will watch over you even if you do not have jesus christ because you are a good person, jen. you will also be protected because i will pray for you everyday." i thought my heart was going to explode. one of the truest forms of goodness i have ever whitnessed. i will miss her so much.
angelina will also be sorely missed. in my last entry i talked a bit about her. my admiration only continues to grow. she told me the story of her family and how she came to live with letitia and sam (her adopted parents and my hosts). she told me that although her parents are dead, her sister is alive and has a family of her own. they are about 4 hours drive from here, but she has not seen them in five years. she has gone to visit them, but they have not come to see her. in addition, she is only partly included with her adopted family. they laugh together and obviously care for each other, but she never goes on family holidays with them or anywhere with them for that matter...except to church, of course. my first week here, the family took a trip to angelina's home town where her sister lives and did not invite her to come along. i see it as cruel. they see it as fair. they took her in, and now pay for her schooling and give her a roof and food. that is the deal. bottom line. when the family is not around i pick her brain and she is so relieved to talk, i can tell. last week, the family was out, so i forced her to sit at the table and have dinner with me rather than standing in the kitchen and hiding the deed, like she usually does. "you are too nice to me auntie jen. i will be spoiled when you leave. do you know this?" over the meal she told me alot about herself. she said she wants to be a singer. it was nice to see her dream a little. that was the one moment that i saw her for her age...16. you'd never guess it otherwise. she is more mature than most adults. i stopped asking as she kept talking, anxious to hurry up and get everything out before they got home. she started talking about how she is all alone. i tried to disagree to make her feel better, but i knew she was right. no one has ever made her feel that she is important. needed for duties, yes, but important to their heart, no. that is true lonliness. they pulled into the drive and she jumped up and ran to the kitchen.
i have told you about the most important people so far with the exception of one, benedicta. one of my last days in chicago, my friend shannon read my tarrot. she told me about a little girl who will be very important to me. she said that she will be wearing lavender or violet colored clothing and she has some sort of speech problem-not just an accent but something that makes her distinct. on my first day teaching at shapes and colors i noticed that the uniforms are gray, almost purple and i had my eyes peeled for someone to strike me. nothing. on my third day, i was assigned to my class that i will be with until i leave. with all of the excitement, i was no longer looking for her, but she was staring at me. eyes locked on me. they still are, everyday, from the time she arrives until she leaves. her school uniform was obviously made from a different fabric than everyone elses because it is more purple than gray. she does not speak. when i first called on her to answer a question, judith told me, "bene doesnt talk." turns out she can, and has, but it is rare and it is booming when she does. although she speaks very soft and quiet, her voice is extremely low. one day, judith asked me to take a walk with her before school. i heard her speaking in twi to letitia as we were leaving and i gathered that we were going to benedicta's house. we arrived and she was running around shouting with her siblings. she saw us, froze and did not say another word. we went in to meet her mother. i found out later that the purpose of the journey was to thank her for some gifts she had brought to the school. although, i am sure, the other purpose was to show me benedicta's home life. judith is obviously, very thoughtful, and had taken notice of my concern for bene. her mother was feeding her infant and when she was done, handed him to me. she called on benedicta and we heard her billow "yes" from the other room. she ran in, forgetting that we were there and then locked her jaw and her eyes. "i want you to speak in class today. your teachers want you to participate. you will walk with them to school and you will speak to them, oaky?" her mother demaned. "yes" she whispered. she did not say a word until halfway through the day. with much coaxing i got her to whisper the answer to a question to me. "two" is the only thing she has ever said to me. she is like a puzzle to me. she is not from an abusive family. she is not a mute. she plays and talks in the comfort of her home. yet, she is terrified at school. i cannot figure out if she stares at me because she is terrified of me too or because she knows that i feel for her. it is my goal to help her out of her shell.
a few months ago i was emailing a friend about carina, a friends 4 year old daughter who had died of cancer that day. i was expressing how ugly and beautiful things can be at the same time. i dont remember much else of the email, but i described the feeling with this expression: glitter is just shiney dust. i really liked the way that it expressed my thoughts and wanted to used it in writing.
at last....glitter is just shiney dust ..>..>..>..>..>..> ..> ..> ..>..>
the dust clouds are clouding my head with a pinch of sickness..."you are adjusting the the climate." little ones tug on me and dance around me as i sit in the sun. they love that i am at their level. katie leans in and like glitter falling out of her mouth, into my head, exhales, "rigobet says you are an angel." the particles are so fine that i almost miss them through the foggy dust. but it makes a little noise while fluttering around in there. it registers and i look at him. "your back. these things sticking out. they look like wings" rigobet explains. i feel my back and notice the sweat has drawn a picture with my shoulder blades. rigobet is not a nice boy. he is "troublesome" and so, his expression makes me want to cry. katie is pure sweetness and so together they are quite a treat. when she smiles her eyes say more than her mouth. she smiles. he looks through me. i remember that glitter is just shiney dust.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
ghana week one-january 20, 2007
ghana week one
ahhh...one week, many travel hours, many emotional and physical uproars, meeting 45 zero-five year olds, settling down with one beautiful family and one generous country later...
at last i can relay some of my experience.
GHANA
is dusty all of the time. the sun beats down very hard but is also very deceiving. the constant dust cloud leads you to think the day is overcast, but it is not.
when i first exited the airport at 10 pm ghana time, there was a mob of people waiting for the arrivals. there were loved ones, many street people, taxi drivers, and people holding signs with names. i found my name and felt better and then immediately worse. even though i was escorted by ghanians, many were grabbing at my bags hoping to carry them for me. we told them no
and they did it anyhow and then expected and fought over tip money.
the first thing i noticed during the car ride was, it seemed there were no buildings. just little shacks, most of them, an eigth the size of a typical garage. they had little structure and seemed temporary. the second thing i noticed was, no sidewalks, yet swarms of people walking on the road at all times. it was as if everyone in accra was outdoors on a monday night.
the following day i arrived at the preschool i am now teaching at. first thing, i was approached with a cold bag of water on a plate. "water for you?" the bags are cheaper than bottles and contain clean water. all of the teachers came out to greet me and introduce themselves. Comfort, Judith, Comfort,Truth, Comfort, Evelyn...i was overwhelmed. comfort? it is a popular name and i work with three of them. the children woke from their naps to "the white lady." they were all pretty terrified at first, then intrigued. they have since grown to like me, alot. they call me auntie jen and are alway playing with my watch. so far, i am more of a toy than an advisor. at the end of my second day, one began petting my hair. this opened the gates for the rest of them and soon i had 15 kids surrounding me petting my hair and yelling "auntie jen!" i laugh because it is such a typical experience that they warn you about before arriving.
the school is owned by a family and is connected to their home. this is where i and one other volunteer stay. i could not have asked for a more generous and hospitable stay. there are two young girls aged 8 and 10 and a 16 year old adopted girl, Angelina. these people have turned their home upsidedown for us. the children's bedroom has become ours. the young girls
now sleep with their parents and Angelina sleeps in one of the classrooms on the floor. they have said nothing about the arrangements and i only know because i asked Angelina...she was hesitant to tell me. this girl is amazing. she does all of the cooking, cleaning, laundry, mothering and so on. she is yelled for constantly. often by two people at once. she also
goes to school and never eats with us because she is too busy cleaning after preparing the meal.
i was worried that i may not get enough to eat while here and that is not the case. they eat and enjoy quite a bit. more than even i am used to. it makes sense though. with so many hungry and struggling people around them everyday, they consider it quite a blessing that they are among the few successful people. my second night, the mother and father left to go down the road to "pick something up." when they came back they had cake and icecream for us as our welcoming party. unexpected and very appreciated.
despite the indulgences, it is still very much a developing country. although their home has running water and electricity, it often goes out for days at a time. this is city-wide to conserve energy. we went the last 2 days without water and i finally had a shower this morning. as soon as the water came on, the electricity went out for a day. they make the best of it and light candles and talk. it is actually kind of comforting.
i wish i could say more, but i am running out of time. thanks again everyone who helped in the last few months. i love and miss you all.
jennifer lynn
is dusty all of the time. the sun beats down very hard but is also very deceiving. the constant dust cloud leads you to think the day is overcast, but it is not.
when i first exited the airport at 10 pm ghana time, there was a mob of people waiting for the arrivals. there were loved ones, many street people, taxi drivers, and people holding signs with names. i found my name and felt better and then immediately worse. even though i was escorted by ghanians, many were grabbing at my bags hoping to carry them for me. we told them no
and they did it anyhow and then expected and fought over tip money.
the first thing i noticed during the car ride was, it seemed there were no buildings. just little shacks, most of them, an eigth the size of a typical garage. they had little structure and seemed temporary. the second thing i noticed was, no sidewalks, yet swarms of people walking on the road at all times. it was as if everyone in accra was outdoors on a monday night.
the following day i arrived at the preschool i am now teaching at. first thing, i was approached with a cold bag of water on a plate. "water for you?" the bags are cheaper than bottles and contain clean water. all of the teachers came out to greet me and introduce themselves. Comfort, Judith, Comfort,Truth, Comfort, Evelyn...i was overwhelmed. comfort? it is a popular name and i work with three of them. the children woke from their naps to "the white lady." they were all pretty terrified at first, then intrigued. they have since grown to like me, alot. they call me auntie jen and are alway playing with my watch. so far, i am more of a toy than an advisor. at the end of my second day, one began petting my hair. this opened the gates for the rest of them and soon i had 15 kids surrounding me petting my hair and yelling "auntie jen!" i laugh because it is such a typical experience that they warn you about before arriving.
the school is owned by a family and is connected to their home. this is where i and one other volunteer stay. i could not have asked for a more generous and hospitable stay. there are two young girls aged 8 and 10 and a 16 year old adopted girl, Angelina. these people have turned their home upsidedown for us. the children's bedroom has become ours. the young girls
now sleep with their parents and Angelina sleeps in one of the classrooms on the floor. they have said nothing about the arrangements and i only know because i asked Angelina...she was hesitant to tell me. this girl is amazing. she does all of the cooking, cleaning, laundry, mothering and so on. she is yelled for constantly. often by two people at once. she also
goes to school and never eats with us because she is too busy cleaning after preparing the meal.
i was worried that i may not get enough to eat while here and that is not the case. they eat and enjoy quite a bit. more than even i am used to. it makes sense though. with so many hungry and struggling people around them everyday, they consider it quite a blessing that they are among the few successful people. my second night, the mother and father left to go down the road to "pick something up." when they came back they had cake and icecream for us as our welcoming party. unexpected and very appreciated.
despite the indulgences, it is still very much a developing country. although their home has running water and electricity, it often goes out for days at a time. this is city-wide to conserve energy. we went the last 2 days without water and i finally had a shower this morning. as soon as the water came on, the electricity went out for a day. they make the best of it and light candles and talk. it is actually kind of comforting.
i wish i could say more, but i am running out of time. thanks again everyone who helped in the last few months. i love and miss you all.
jennifer lynn
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