Big Rock ... "Jiwe Kuu"

Yesterday we took the morning off and did something we haven't done for a while: took a hike! Being from the Northwest, we love hiking. It's something both Kyle and I did individually before dating and getting married - and something we now enjoy doing with our 3 children. Whether it's just a 4-mile hike on a Saturday morning or a longer backpacking trip into the Olympic National Park, we love setting out on a good hike. It doesn't always go smoothly (the kids can regale you with tales of multiple "death marches" Dad took us through in Mexico, as well as southern Utah) - and we often start the day off with some sort of drama ("My shoes are too small!" ... "It's too hot!" ... "I'm hungry"). But once the hike is underway, we always end up having a great time. And by the end of it, everyone is tired, ready for a cold drink, and proud of their accomplishments. 

There isn't a lot of accessible hiking in Mwanza. It's a large, sprawling city. There is a definite downtown - but then the neighborhoods stretch out mile after mile in each direction. There aren't hiking trails, either. There are foot paths that lead to people's homes and little village-like areas with fruit/veggie stands, farming, etc. But there aren't really hiking trails. And that makes a lot of sense. People here are just trying to get enough food each day and conserve calories from a lot of manual labor jobs - so going on a hike for exercise literally makes no sense. Most people walk to and from work, as well as to and from the market for food, as well as to and from anywhere else they need to go. So even if there was accessible hiking, it just isn't a thing here.

And we've missed it. A lot. Back in the NW we lived 1-mile away from a trailhead that took us deep into BLM land - and eventually into Olympic National Park itself. But that sort of hiking isn't going to happen here in Mwanza - and I'm learning to accept that (like many/most things here) it's going to look different. And so, this weekend, we tightened our tennis shoes (except for Collin, who apparently outgrew his tennis shoes without telling anyone and had to wear flipflops the entire way), grabbed a backpack with water bottles, and headed out to find the "Jiwe Kuu" - or "Big Rock" in Swahili. Kyle had been here before and knew the way. It was hotter than I liked - but since it's always hot in Tanzania compared to the NW - it was as good a day as any to make the journey. 

We set off through our neighborhood - the one I walk the dogs in every morning. Here in Tanzania, we stick out as white people. So, we get chatted at quite a bit as we walk. The word people use here for white people is "mzungu". It technically means "traveler" - and I guess since the early travelers were likely European and mostly white - it stuck. We must've said hello to no less than 50 people in our first 45-minutes of walking. People are curious and friendly - and sometimes ask for things like money or juice. And everyone definitely enjoys showing off their English by greeting us with "good morning" and "hello, how are you?" In 12-months if there is any Swahili we've learned - it's how to greet people. Greetings are very important in Tanzania, and both Kyle and I know how to greet people and respond to most of the greetings at this point:

    "Mambo - Poa"

    "Kwema - Kwema"

    "Habari - Nzuri/Salama/Safi"

    "Hujambo - Sijambo"

We climbed a steep-(ish) hill, passed more houses, kids, women balancing buckets of fish on their heads, men on motorcycles. Eventually we arrived at what is known as "Jiwe Kuu". And I was shocked. It was massive. Like - massive! And covering almost every square inch of this massive rock were tiny, little fish called "dagaa". Women stood in bunches of 4 or 5 with their young children running around their feet or tied to their backs sweeping the

small fish out to dry on the hot surface of Jiwe Kuu. Buckets of fresh fish sat waiting to be scattered across the rock to dry - only to be gathered back up hours later, returned to the buckets, and taken to market to sell. Realizing that these women had carried these heavy loads all the way up from the lake shores made our "hike" - once again - seem silly in the eyes of a Tanzanian. These women hiked every morning, loaded down with an incredible amount of weight, up and down these steep hills - just to sell enough dagaa to feed their families each day. 

Our family sat amidst the business of the women and children - enjoying the views of Lake Victoria. Local birds of prey - the Black Kite - flew beneath and at eye level to us, waiting for a moment to snatch unguarded dagaa drying in the sun. Out on the lake we saw what looked like plumes of smoke rising from multiple locations. We learned that these were actually swarms of lake flies hatching - so thick that they have been known to kill fishermen that get stuck in their paths. While it's hard for me to ever really forget on any given day that I'm living in East Africa, there are some moments that definitely define the experience more than others. Sitting atop Jiwe Kuu was one of those moments. Wow. I'm 100% in Africa.

Our hike down was easy and nice. The kids talked with Dad about AI and if it should run the government or our current leadership - and some other conversations that only happen after spending several hours

of uninterrupted time together. We splurged with a cold drink at a little corner store before heading back to the house. 

I'm not sure it counts as a "hike." We never got away from Mwanza or people. But we did get to see some really amazing nature with the Black Kites and views of the lake. I'm always in awe of how nature is still very much intertwined into the day-to-day life in Tanzania - even in a city of 2 million. I still miss our hikes in the NW. I miss the stillness. The silence. The being alone. But I'm forever grateful for the experiences we've had and continue to have in Tanzania. When we are back in the US there are things I will look forward to doing again. But I will miss days like our Jiwe Kuu day. The days I'll be able to look back on and know: we lived in Africa.

                                   House with laundry drying along the hike

     Woman carrying dagaa.                                                 White Heron of Tanzania

NOT! Funny in any language

For those of you that know me, you know that I love to laugh. I love jokes. I love telling them, I love hearing them, and most of the time, I don't even mind being the butt of them. A certain practical joke involving a lawyer at my last job comes to mind.... Thank you, Nick and Lonn!

Understanding humor in another language is always a challenge. I remember learning Spanish. I would think of something funny to say mid-conversation, but I couldn't get it out on-time or I completely mangled what it was that I was trying to say. It was very frustrating. As I got better, I was quicker on my feet, and I could get a joke out or two. Like many people, I use humor to connect with others and to cope with difficult situations. Humor has often helped me diffuse hardship in my life. 

Thankfully, the cultures of Spanish speakers and of English speakers are not so different. For the most part, we get each other's humor, even if we don't always share the same comedic sensibility.

Tanzania is not that way. The humor is highly contextual and tribally nuanced in a way that I can barely grasp it even when someone explains things like I am a child. There are double, triple, and triple-double entendres, that one would only get from having lived here a very long time. In my case, that would be at least 1,000 years. At the same time, the people are quite literal in their communication at least compared to how Westerners often communicate with our daily use of metaphors.

For example, I saw a young father pushing his children on a cart out of a store. It was cute and everyone was smiling at them. As they were exiting the store, I gestured to his kids and asked if he had paid for them, as they were quietly sitting amongst his groceries. He looked at me like I was crazy and asked, “why would I have to pay? These are my children." I smiled sheepishly and then left before somebody thought I was involved in human trafficking. Joke FAIL.

Another time, while visiting the beaches in Zanzibar, a Maasai warrior offered me 70 cows for my thirteen-year-old daughter's hand in marriage. The Tanzanians around me thought that this was quite funny, but I was so caught off guard by my protective dad instincts, that I could hardly laugh at first…. or even consider a good counteroffer.

More often than not, Tanzanians think I am funny when I'm trying not to be. It seems that everything I do or fail to do is a source of amusement. My language skills in particular seem to provide comic relief. 

Consider the following conversation:

Kyle: Hello sir, how are you?

Constantine: I'm fine, how are you?

Kyle: I'm doing well. How is my wife?

Constantine: You mean "my" wife?

Kyle: Yes. That's what I said. How is my wife?

Constantine: (Looking very confused). You want to know about “your” wife or “my” wife?

Kyle: (Completely oblivious to “my” error). “My wife.” I want to know how she is doing...And of course, how your children are doing as well.

Constantine: (With tears of laughter in his eyes) As far as I know, I think she is doing just fine! And so are “my” children. Thank you for asking!

And so goes my daily slaughter of the Kiswahili language. Sometimes it causes laughter and sometimes chagrin. One thing it never seems to do is to work correctly. On a weekly basis, I seem to embarrass myself with a previously undiscovered way to punish the lexicon. It keeps me humble.

Consider a recent event where I was humbled even more than usual. The culture in Tanzania is much more modest compared to that of the United States. It’s rare that you see a man with his shirt off and people tend to dress more conservatively in general. So, you can imagine the surprise of our neighbor when he was working on his roof next door. Our bathroom shower curtain was being laundered, so I engaged in my daily hygiene without one. We had never seen him up on the roof before. In fact, we had never seen anyone up on the roof before (it is perfectly eye-level with our bathroom). And we definitely haven’t seen anyone up there since. I had no idea what to do when we made eye contact while I was soaping up in the shower, so I just waved a perfunctory hello. I didn’t laugh and neither did he, but my wife thought that it was tremendously funny when she heard what had happened.

So that is how it works over here. I am funny when I don’t want to be, and I bomb when I try. It’s okay though. Tanzanians smile easily and are happy when you just stop and say hello. I’ve definitely learned how to do that. Who knows? Maybe someday, I’ll even learn to tell a joke or two.

The Author. Smiling. But, not funny.....

The Gift of the Magi

Sometimes you read a story that touches your heart and simply compels you to act. That is what happened when I read about Pablo Acuña who was born with a limb deformity that left him with no arms and no legs. Despite being abandoned by his wife, he (along with his mother - who is now 94 years old) raised two little girls from babies to adulthood. What’s more is that he is a deeply loving human being who approaches each day with gratitude and optimism, this despite having a challenging condition and being very poor, in a very poor country. You can read more about Pablo here: Wheelbarrow Dad Story.

I contacted the reporter who wrote the story on Pablo and his family. She put me in touch with his daughter Elida via WhatsApp. I learned how much Pablo yearned to have his own home. In a country like Paraguay, homes can stay in the same family for many years. Like in the US, home ownership represents security and stability, but since multiple generations often live together, it offers an opportunity for future generations to rise up to the middle-class. At 63 years old, Pablo wished that he could own his own home where he lives in San Pedro del Parana, Paraguay with his mother, his daughter (Elida), and Elida’s two young sons.

When I told Pablo that we wanted to raise approximately $12,000 USD to purchase a home for him and his family, he could scarcely believe it. I offered no guarantee, other than I would try to share his story and see what we could do. He hadn’t asked for charity or for a house, but he was certainly worthy of it.

Living in Africa, I am acutely aware of the many people in need around the world. Perhaps a house seems extravagant with so many people who have such acute needs. Why Pablo, why a house, why now? I don’t know. What I do know is that every now and again the universe reaches out and says "this one, now." That is what happened with us. An American family doing mission work in East Africa starting a fundraiser for a family in Paraguay. I doesn’t make much sense, except that it did.

It took several months and some very generous donors in Paraguay as well as California, USA to help raise the total amount needed for the purchase. GoFundMe doesn’t work in Paraguay so funds were sent to me directly. Some donors don’t like GoFundMe, so they wired funds directly to our bank account. Some people we knew, most we did not. Needless to say, there was a lot of trust involved to make this happen.

Speaking of trust, the bank in Paraguay didn’t want to release the transferred funds to Pablo. There was no policy we were violating. It was simple discrimination. Pablo is poor and disabled. Why would someone send “him” money to buy a home? This type of prejudice is something I see in Tanzania and I’ve seen many times in the US as well. It is the perception that people are somehow “less than.” Fortunately, after some considerable documentation and correspondence, they finally gave Pablo his money.

I think what inspires me most about Pablo is that he doesn’t let his physical disability or his economic class define him. He didn’t let the tragedy of his wife leaving him define him either. He sees his life as a gift from God and he lives everyday like that. He can’t really travel, he can’t walk, but he does get to choose how he wants to “be” in the world. And he has chosen to be kind, optimistic, grateful, and faithful. I am grateful to know Pablo and his family and I’m grateful they now have a home. As we approach Christmas, I don’t think I could’ve imagined a better gift for everyone involved. Thank you all and may God bless Pablo Acuña.

11-months into Mission ...

I think it's been 6-months since I last updated our blog. While I've written a few newsletters for Maryknoll - things picked up after language school and I found myself neck-deep in mission. Which is why we're here, so no complaining. But I definitely had to continue to work through culture shock and adjusting to East Africa, while at the same time trying to find my place in a new ministry. Energy for writing a new blog just wasn't there. And in fact, I can still say that if there is one thing I notice more than anything about the difference between "before mission" and now is that I'm tired a lot. A LOT. I sleep 9-hours a night but still feel tired much of the time. I'm guessing a good part of it is me still adjusting to a new culture - as well as learning to take in a myriad of experiences and situations on a daily basis that are not a part of "normal" back in the US. Something as simple as taking our dogs on a walk in the morning can lead to a stranger showing me his severely infected leg and asking for money to go to the hospital. A simple meeting at Huruma School with a teacher might end in me finding out there is student having uncontrolled seizures at home and I find myself scheduling a home visit and spending the day at the doctor's office. Even a simple trip to the market requires me to use Swahili - a language I am slowly learning but have to really concentrate on when listening and speaking it. Very little here feels routine or "normal" when compared to what I would experience back home on a regular basis. Maybe after more time it would become my new "normal" and I wouldn't feel as tired at the end of each day. But for now, I am still learning to live in a very different reality than the one I came from 11-months ago. 

Time here at times has stood still and there were days that were simply long and hot and I just wanted to pack my suitcases and go home. Other days have been filled with beauty and awe and I feel like the luckiest person in the world to be doing what we are. Many days are somewhere in between. I miss home and I miss family - but I'm also finding a routine and rhythm in Tanzania that works for our family. We've adopted a few animals: one very sweet kitten (she waltzed onto our property one day and was scooped up by Josephine and Charlotte) and 2 dogs (Binti - whom I wrote about earlier in the year, and Soldier - a street dog we rescued a few months ago). Animals always give a strong sense of "family" for us and having them become a part of our life has helped all of us feel a little bit more "home". We enjoy their playfulness and unconditional loyalty/love.

Everywhere you look in Tanzania there are basic needs not being met - so it's easy to feel overwhelmed and hard to say no. One takeaway from that is that I'm having to recognize I can't (and shouldn't) say yes to everything - and I'm having to really think about what gift and talents God has given me, as well what it is that really brings me joy when I'm doing it. It seems like an easy question to ask oneself, but I find that the answers often get clouded with "shoulds" and "shouldn'ts" - as well as expectations of co-workers, employers, family, and friends. Pulling back and really trying to figure how I can best contribute to the needs of the world and what it is I love to do is a gift that Africa is giving me. I think it is one of those things that will stay with me for life and follow me where I go. 

Currently, I'm finding myself over and over in a position to give a voice to those whose voices are not being heard. Whether it is the children at Huruma School, impoverished parents of those students who are ignored and "invisible" in the eyes of the healthcare system, or a starving street dog in the middle of the road - I am finding telling their stories and giving them a voice is profoundly rewarding. Helping them to be seen by the world, allowing them a chance to tell their story (even if only through photographs or a blogpost) - it is powerful. With many of our children at Huruma School, you can see the pride these parents have when told that their child matters and that they deserve a chance to see the doctors and receive medication. They are used to being invisible. Kyle teases me that our rescue dog Soldier has an unhealthy attachment to me. I remind him that I was probably the first person Soldier ever knew that reached out to pet him and touch him with love. It's about being seen. And being heard. And I happen to be in a position where I can help facilitate that.  

And so here we are, 11-months in and counting. In just another month, we will have called East Africa our home for 1-year. The cliche is probably true that Tanzania has given me more than I've given to Tanzania. I didn't expect anything different. As we kept being told back in New York at the Maryknoll campus: mission changes you. It does. I like to think for the better. But I also hope that we've giving a little bit back - and that we will continue to. Not just while in Africa - but for a lifetime. Even if it's something as simple as giving a platform for voices that are not heard - to be heard. 

The Gift of Perspective

Relationships are hard. Marriage is harder. When frustrated, I naturally tend to want to blame the "other" first, or at least I desire not to be blamed myself. Hard lessons have taught me that I can't rightly point fingers in any relationship without examining myself first. Almost always I find myself pulling the log out of my own eye when I point at the sliver present in someone else's. 

Mission work in Africa takes whatever cracks that exist in a marriage and turns them into gaping canyons. Little things we tend to overlook in the other person, turn into gigantic faults that can scarcely be ignored. Our faults and our feelings are the same as they were back home, but now deeply amplified. The new environment and the nature of mission work seem to turn up the temperature of emotion and to expose our most hidden weaknesses. The demons of our lesser nature are revealed and must be dealt with by both parties. It can be exhausting.

Our life back home was not so stressful. Our needs were met and our primary concerns (thankfully) largely revolved around self-fulfillment. What makes us happy? How can we make sure our kids realize their full potential? What can we do to improve our finances, our health, our spiritual practices, etc.? This is definitely top level real-estate on Maslow's pyramid. Mission jumbles the pyramid. It challenges our security, our health, and our notions about what is important in life. And while this type of work and this place have given us a new perspective, sometimes we need to step out even farther for a wider field of view.

Recently, one of my best friends from college invited me on the trip of a lifetime. Fly to Katmandu, Nepal and then go by helicopter to the famous village of Lukla to trek to the basecamp of Mt. Everest. Knowing that our family is doing mission work and living on a tight budget, two friends paid for me to go. I was then able to use the adventure as a fundraising platform for making improvements to Huruma School, one of the VERY few education options for children with disabilities in Mwanza. Realistically, this was me trying to turn a selfish thing (leaving the mission field and my family for 22 days) into a good cause. I was also trying to make the trip sound more appealing to my wife who works at Huruma School. It didn't work.

Leaving my wife and kids for almost three weeks in Mwanza while I went off on a grand adventure was no small thing. It was made even harder by the stress of mission which had been taking a toll on us as a couple. Now, I was announcing that I wanted to leave. Anna could've said no and maybe she should have. But she didn't and soon I was on my way. She was resentful at my decision to leave and I think I was more happy to leave than I should've been. By the time I came back, however, she had worked through most of those difficult feelings. I was very thankful.

Marriage can be hard and life in mission can make it harder. The trek to Everest helped me remember how fiercely grateful I am for my wife and for our family. Of course, I feel gratitude on a daily basis, but being away I was viscerally reminded at the soul level. I also remembered that nature is where I most connect with God in my life. It can be very difficult to find solitude where we live. The path to Everest was quiet and transcendent. Frequented by Buddhist monasteries, shrines, prayer wheels and flags, the pathway winded through nature of an almost unimaginable scale. I think I needed to return to nature more than I knew.

For Anna, she learned that she is stronger than she sometimes thinks. She can manage the house and do her mission work without me. At the end of it all, we were each reminded of how much we both love and appreciate each other. I'm sure I didn't need to leave for three weeks to figure all that out, but that is what happened.

Following the Everest trek, I’ve been looking forward to sharing photos. It was an amazing experience, but I couldn’t just share the pictures as memories from a fun vacation. That is done too often online and in social media. The truth is that while it was an amazing trip, it was also a sacrifice for Anna that occurred during a difficult time for both of us. That happens in marriage sometimes. One person sacrifices for the other. We have both done it over the years, although the balance definitely weighs heavier on her side. And while relationships are hard, and marriage is harder, and marriage in mission is even harder yet, I’ve never been more grateful for my wonderful wife and for our family. That is the gift of perspective.