Part I: Karibu Maasai Boma

For eight hours I rode in a standing room only bus on a bumpy dirt road with deafening Afro-Pop music blasting in my ears. Gratefully, I exited the bus, but then I hopped into a much smaller ride. It was a beater of a minivan that had no AC and was packed with thirteen other people. For five more hours, we drove on something that only resembled a road through Serengeti National Park. The back seat of the van had been removed to allow for extra space, so I sat back-to-back with other men who were seated in the trunk of the vehicle. After we passed through the Serengeti, we embarked on a ten-mile motorcycle ride to a village not shown on the map and situated very near the Tanzania/Kenya border. It was dusk when the bikes pulled off the road and it finally went silent.

Our bodies caked with sweat and grime; I grimaced as I lifted my sore legs over the motorcycle seat. The silhouettes of Acacia trees, mud brick huts, and animal pens surrounded me. We saw the first stars beginning to twinkle and heard the laughter of children and the bleating of goats. Other than those sounds, it was blissfully quiet. No electricity. No running water. “Congratulations,” said my friend who had been my travel companion this whole time. “We are at my home. Karibu Maasai Boma.”

For two nights I stayed at my friend’s village. He had invited me so that I could celebrate the start of his business in Mwanza. It is something that we have been working on together for over a year. I will write more about this in my next blog, but needless to say it was an opportunity for his family to recognize this significant step as it will undoubtedly impact the lives of his family and the future of his entire village. The profundity of the moment was not lost on me.

A boma is a dwelling or a shelter. They are usually circular enclosures and different ones are built for people as well as for animals. My friend, Pukare (his English name is Niclous), is one of many children of an 80+ year old Maasai village chief who has four wives. Each wife has her own boma. It was with Nic’s mother and two others that I slept. The boma is made of branches and clay. There is one door and no windows. The floor is dirt and there is a small hearth for cooking and for staying warm. It is very dark and smoky inside. You either have to sit on an elevated frame of branches with goat hide that also serves as a mattress/bed, or on a carved stool. The stools are reserved for married people. I never understood why.

Sleeping was uncomfortable to say the least. Right next to me was a small pen made of branches for baby goats. Next to that one was another pen for baby cows. The animals are brought in each night so that they are protected from predators. All night my nostrils stung from the smoke, and I was frequently awakened by a goat or cow chewing or relieving itself. I felt small cockroaches crawling up my pant legs, but I was so tired that I could hardly flick them out. As I laid down next to my friend, exhausted and desperately trying to fall asleep, I told him: “Maasai beds are REALLY comfortable.” We both laughed until our stomachs hurt. And then I fell asleep.

In the morning, I helped take the animals out to pasture and said hello to the many neighbors who were interested in saying hello or “Supa.” I guess a white person hadn’t visited for about five years, so I was somewhat of a novelty. Even more interesting was that I had been gifted a Maasai blanket (shuka) and loaned a staff and knife for venturing out in the bush. I was basically a white guy dressed as a Maasai. After we took the cows out, we bathed naked in a small creek and used sand as soap. We drank water from a spring, ate fruits off the trees, and I was given a root to chew for my sore throat that had become irritated from a smoke-filled night in the boma. The root numbed my entire mouth, and the soreness disappeared. Nic showed me dozens of other plants and told me their uses. We walked around the surrounding wilderness or “the bush” as it is referred to there.

After a few hours of trekking around the bush, I asked Nic about breakfast. “We had breakfast,” he said flatly. By that he meant the hot cup of cow’s milk that we drank after we woke up and for which I knew my stomach would pay the price later. Lunch wasn’t much more sustentive, consisting of a cup of fermented milk chunks similar to Kefir. “Remember what I told you,” said Nic. “Don’t ask for snacks  and don’t ask for a pillow.”  And so, it went.

Dinner was a surprise. I was teaching duck-duck-goose to about 20 kids, which I changed to “bird-bird-lion” (ndege-ndege-simba) as given our location that made more sense, when Nic approached and motioned for me to follow him. We walked a few hundred meters towards the creek where we had washed in the morning. Around twenty Maasai men were cooking a goat over a fire in a small copse of trees. The cooked pieces of meat were placed on cut leaves and shared in a circle. No salt, no sauce, just goat. Of course, this is where my preferred vegetarian diet must be set aside. I couldn’t imagine saying no as the goat had been slaughtered to celebrate my friend’s business and the arrival of his guest (me). It was an honor, and I felt further honored by sitting next to Nic’s father as we ate together in community.

There is so much I would like to write about my experiences in Tanzania with the Maasai people. I think they are fascinating, and I feel privileged to have been welcomed into my friend’s village. For this blog, however, I would like to share just a few final observations:

1) Poverty is not just material; it is social and spiritual. I read once that the thing that people living in extreme poverty hate the most is not just having unmet needs, although daily survival is often a constant challenge here. The thing that is most painful is the invisibility. This is painful at levels which transcend material wealth and even societal exclusion. Not having one’s human dignity recognized affects you at the soul level. Extreme poverty goes beyond exclusion, it is dissolution. The Maasai people I visited live in abject poverty by almost every standard I can think of. We brought some sugar as a gift, which turned out to be a gratefully accepted luxury. However, they are not poor. Their culture, family bond, and sense of who they are as a community is stronger than almost anything I’ve ever experienced. In that way, they are among the richest people I’ve ever met.

2) Nature is something to live with, not something to own, to dominate, or to rule. The Maasai largely live in tune with their natural surroundings. I’m not saying that we should all move into bomas, but I do feel that there is value in seeking more nature in our lives and in finding more ways to live in concert with nature as opposed to how we are living now.

3) My friend Nic told me that coming home is difficult for him. He said that he used to visit for weeks at a time, but now he stays for just a few days. He says it is not the discomfort of the living situation that makes visiting hard, although this is definitely a challenge for someone accustomed to modern amenities. Rather it is the boredom that he finds difficult. Every day is almost the exact same. Wakeup, livestock out, herding, family, friends, livestock in, sleep. Eat and drink a little in between. Conversely, this is what I LOVED about visiting. The beautiful simplicity, a powerful sense of community, and closeness to nature. Our modern lives are busy. We have gained much, but we have lost much too.

The Maasai people have changed a lot over the last few years. Their population has grown significantly, and the culture is morphing rapidly. The consumption of raw meat and blood from a cow’s jugular is no longer as common a practice. Nic’s father was the last Maasai warrior in his village who killed a lion as a rite of passage. The cruel practice of female circumcision is slowly being eradicated. Bomas are getting switched out for tin roof shacks with electricity. Like other ethnic groups in Tanzania, I imagine that the Maasai people will look very different 20 years from now.

Indigenous people around the world are losing their way of life just as the environment that they have harmonized with is changing too. I hope that we find ways to help preserve natural places and to allow space for the people who wish to live in harmony within them. Indigenous people can’t do this on their own. There are too many outside factors. Poverty is the constant companion of wealth creation and cultural homogeneity its sad mistress. I pray that the world can find balance where the Maasai people can still be Maasai, even as what that means becomes something different.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering Assimwe (Albinism in Tanzania)

On the night of May 30^th, a two and a half year old little girl named Asiimwe Novati was abducted from her home in Bulamula, a small Village in the Kagera Region of Tanzania. Two men were able to gain entry into the home under the guise of needing salt to help remove venom from a snake bite.

 As the mother handed them the salt, one man grabbed her by the neck and restrained her while the other man went after her daughter Assimwe who was playing on the living room floor. The men then fled with the child leaving the mother in a horrified panic.

Why was Asiimwe taken? It is because she was born with Albinism, a set of inherited conditions that cause people to have less melanin than normal. It results in a lack of pigmentation in their skin, hair, and eyes. Their appearance is quite striking, especially to someone who has never seen someone with the condition before and especially in Africa where most people are very dark.

The only thing I knew about Albinism before coming to Tanzania was from Hollywood. People with albinism are usually portrayed as caricatures in movies. “Albinos,” which is considered by many to be a derogatory term, play the role of the strange protagonist (think the movie Powder), or a mysterious villain (think “Silas” in the Da Vinci Code). Other than what I’d seen on the big screen or the occasional headline about some animal being born with the rare condition, I was clueless.

Due to genetic factors, Tanzania has the highest rate of Albinism in the world with 1 out of 1,400 Tanzanians having the condition. Albinism is considered a disability because of the lifelong physical impairments that affect a person’s vision and skin, which in turn can impact participation in daily life. What’s more is that the condition is heavily stigmatized. People with Albinism are often referred to in prejudicial terms and ostracized, making it even more difficult for them to survive socially and economically in a country where relationships are currency and many people live hand to mouth.

Although Tanzania has made significant progress in promoting education about Albinism there are still problems. Despite some people believing that Albinism is a “curse,” there are those who believe superstitiously that body parts taken from someone from Albinism can be used in witchcraft to create potions, amulets, etc., that will provide them with vast wealth and power.

This sounds crazy and it is, but I’ve learned from personal experience since living in Africa to not underestimate the sway that witchcraft has in this culture. It permeates almost every aspect of business, relationships, and societal constructs. It usually isn’t talked about openly, but it is always there. My wife often sees keloid scars from burns that witch doctors have given to children with disabilities to “heal” their condition. Despite continuing education and a mountain of government advisories, witchcraft and superstitions surrounding people with Albinism are not easily removed.

On June 17^th, the body of Asiimwe was discovered in a bag that had been tossed into a roadside culvert. Asiimwe had been brutally murdered and was missing both hands, eyes and tongue. Most likely, the murderers wanted to sell the body parts to wealthy buyers in East Africa who have been known to pay tens of thousands of dollars (a fortune here in Tanzania), to assist them with their political or business ambitions.

Tanzania is coming up to its election year in just a few months. Several people I have spoken to are concerned that there could be more murders as politicians vie for influence. The local community of people with Albinism is terrified, and rightfully so. This is the second known murder of a child with Albinism this year. It is suspected that there are other murders that go unreported due to the fact that they often take place in rural areas where there is less government protection and people are afraid to speak up.

If you want to support efforts to help people with Albinism and to help eradicate the discrimination and violence against them, please consider checking out these two organizations:

1) www.underthesamesun.com

2) https://www.standingvoice.org

As a footnote, we will now be featuring Albinism as one of the main agenda topics at our upcoming disability advocacy and awareness conference. It has the potential to the be the largest conference of its kind in Tanzania. After what happened to Asiimwe, bringing people together with disabilities and promoting human rights seems to be even more important (and more urgent) than before we started.

 Planning the Pamoja Conference

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Mission

"I screamed at God for the starving child until I saw the starving child was God screaming at me". -Tony Agnesi.

A few years ago, during the height of Covid-19 when I was working remotely and after my wife had returned home from working as a nurse at hospitals in New York City and Phoenix, we were invited to volunteer for a few months as a family at an orphanage (Genesis Diez) in Ensenada, Mexico. We did a variety of things to include construction work, caretaking of children with severe disabilities, and more. It was a wonderful experience and we felt like we were able to make a  meaningful contribution.

A memory from that experience remains imprinted on my mind and now I know that it helped lead us to our current mission work in Tanzania. I had just walked out of a corner store in a small town South of Ensenada when I saw an indigenous woman (likely from Central America) coming into the store with her two small children. Their faces, bodies, and clothes were caked with dirt and filthy. It was apparent that the woman had been working in the nearby fields while her young children played in the mile long rows where she picked strawberries under the hot Baja sun. They were the poorest people I had seen in Mexico.

Walking back to the orphanage, I was acutely aware of the wad of Pesos in my pocket. I’ve observed extreme poverty before, but for some reason this time was different. I felt physical pain in my chest. Suddenly, I felt compelled to turn around and go back. I needed to know their story. I needed to buy them some food. I needed to do something. But it was too late. They were nowhere to be found.

I heard once that if you know, then you must do. If you don’t do, then you don’t really know. For me, this woman and her children who I walked by and then couldn’t find represented a crossroads. It’s resultant direction ended up with our family coming to Africa. In retrospect, however, I don’t think that that was a pre-requisite for a life change. It just happened to be the modus operandi at the time. So, what really changed?

I’ve seen terrible poverty in South America and Asia and I’ve seen firsthand grave injustices perpetrated in Afghanistan and Iraq. In my life, I’ve been the perpetrator of some injustices, but for some I’ve been the victim as well. Always, I have been at least an arm’s reach from my feelings about such things, especially as poverty is concerned. I know that the world is not fair. It is like the metaphor of the fat cats and starving dogs. It is pre-ordained. It is the way things have always been. We accept this reality with the uncomfortable conclusion that poverty has and always will exist. And if we have a choice, then obviously we should keep ourselves and our family as far away from it as possible.

Nelson Mandela once said in a speech:

 “As long as poverty, injustice, and gross inequality persist in our world, none of us can truly rest.”

I’m not so naïve to think that what I do in Africa or anywhere else in my life will solve poverty, violence, or injustice. That would be like trying to throw water on a raging fire. That being said, I lost something when I walked away from the indigenous woman in that little Mexican town. I lost the opportunity to be kind and to recognize the humanity of someone who matters just as much as I do under God’s great universe. We are the same and I lost the opportunity to show kindness, no matter what form that may have taken at the time.

It is easy to objectify situations and people. We do it to protect ourselves. When we let our guard down and we truly see the pain of the other, we don’t just see it, we feel it as well. And once we do, we are faced with a choice. What that choice is, I believe is different for every human being. Not all of us are destined to be saints. If you know me, then you know with certainty that I’ll be lucky to even escape some lower-level form of purgatory. I’m not sure what that even means, but I thought it sounded funny. In any case, I realize that growth for me has been and continues to be learning how to be vulnerable with others. To risk “feeling” and to avoid the self-protective nature of objectification. Africa is a good teacher that way. Every day affords one the opportunity to have an open and vulnerable heart or have one that is closed. I promise you, mine is not as open as it might appear on social media or in the pictures we post on blogs, letters, etc. Everyday is an exercise of surrender and of letting go so that my guard can come down and so that I can open myself to the feelings of others. Sometimes I can do it (and it hurts) and sometimes I come out swinging (and it causes hurt).

These 1.5 years in Africa have made a strong impression on my life, but they have flown by with uncanny speed. For our children, who have lived much less life, the time has been even more impactful. The main lesson learned so far? You don’t have to come to East Africa to find mission in life. We can show kindness and help others anywhere. That being said, I feel a certain responsibility to help others abroad. The wealth gap is just too massive. For that reason, I’m thankful we have been affored the opportunity in our life to do interntaional work and I am especially grateful for those who make an entire life of service out of it. I can definitely see why so much of our support has come from people who have lived or traveled abroad. They know and so they must do.

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.....