The View From the Other Side

Sunday, June 3, 2012


Kathy here, posting for the first time since we arrived in Tanzania. Between the busy days, long walks, fatigue, frequent downtime on the internet, and power outages, there has not been much opportunity to write. So I am going to do a bit of catching up here and maybe give a slightly different perspective than the one Rebecca has presented, just to give the “view from the other side”.


Of course, Sunday we arrived late, got a tour of the compound, and went to bed. Monday we headed off to Moshi for the first time, and I have to admit I was not at all prepared for that experience. We walked the 45 minutes to town, on “roads” and “sidewalks” that were barely passable on foot. Every step I took I had to look down at where I was placing my foot, the terrain is that uneven. Many “roads” are really just dirt paths worn into the ground by passing vehicles, sometimes two lanes, and sometimes not, but still meant for two lanes of vehicles. All manner of “vehicle” has the right of way over pedestrians, including bicycles and men pushing carts laden down with supplies of all kinds. Intersections are not controlled by traffic lights (I have yet to see one) so crossing an intersection requires looking each way a dozen times and then running, hoping nothing will hit you. No one will stop, or even slow down for a pedestrian. So by the time we arrived in the center of Moshi, I was exhausted, not so much physically (although I am not used to that much walking at one clip) but mentally. All my senses had to be on high alert at one time, with new sights, sounds, smells, and an ever-present awareness of all that was happening around us. Rebecca wrote about the man who “followed” us into town, and I have to admit to being afraid he was going to try to grab my purse and run. But usually those that follow you are hoping to start a conversation and then get you to buy something, either from what they are carrying with them, or by taking you to a shop where they have arranged a commission-type arrangement with the shop owner (they are they flycatchers).


The center of Moshi (Moshi town) is lined with small shops and vendors lining the sidewalks, all of them selling all manner of products, some new, some used, some local goods, some foreign, lots of vegetables and fruit, all from baskets or carts overflowing into the “sidewalks”. The sidewalks are narrow paths of (usually) uneven concrete slabs. The flycatchers (always men) stroll the sidewalks, linger at intersections and in front of stores, calling out “mambo” or “jambo”, hoping you will stop or make eye contact, any slight indication that they might have a second or two to try to sell you something. I found it scary, and overwhelming. I am a person who likes to smile at people and make eye contact, but here that is an invitation to be stalked and hounded. Men will also just ask for money, with a story about being sick or having a sick friend. When you see the level of absolute poverty that exists here, it is not hard to believe they are indeed starving or sick, but if you give to one person, you will have others lining up.


The streets and buildings of Moshi town are old, rundown, and dirty. Nothing is new. There is no infrastructure to support growth or even to maintain what exists. Trash is burned along the roadways, in yards, wherever there is space. There are a couple of western-style establishments (mostly coffee houses) that are frequented by westerners, and they have running water and flush toilets, so there is a water and sewer system in some areas, but certainly many places have no running water or sewer, or electricity. Along the walk to Moshi town we pass by houses that are cardboard shacks or mud huts, with no electricity or running water. The depth and breadth of the poverty that exists here is something most of us foreigners cannot begin to fathom.


After lunch and taking care of some business, we headed out for the orphange in Pasua, and we had our first experience on a dala dala.  Rebecca described the way they shove 25-30 people into a minivan that might have seats for 8 people, along with their various bundles and baskets full of produce from the market. But you also have to picture an ancient (looking) minivan, rusted out, falling apart, seats torn, windshield broken and held together with tape, barely running, then shove 25 hot, sweaty bodies into it, bumping along dirt roads full of ruts and boulders, at least half of the passengers standing all hunched over, and that is a dala dala ride. And don’t forget to add the baskets of produce and the odd chicken. For my first dala dala ride, I got to be one of the standing passengers, leaning over the seat to my side, clutching an exposed rod in the roof of the van, feet firmly planted on the floor, hips and knees locked in position, holding on for dear life! I was TERRIFIED on that ride! One bump and I would be in someone’s lap or take down 6 other standing passengers. And just when you think not one more body will fit, they stop to let on 2 more people and 5 baskets of produce. Whoever has a lap or a free hand holds the baskets or bags of produce. And then it comes time to let people out, and people literally climb over each other to get to the door. Occasionally people will step out to let others get out, but often they just jostle around, rearranging body parts to let people through. Along the ride somewhere (I think after the stop right before where you are getting off) the kid who collects the fare starts signaling to pay the money.  Most of the time I keep my money in the button pocket of my cargo pants, which is down by my knees, so getting to it is nearly impossible while moving. Thankfully, they are patient. Of course they announce the stop in Swahili, so you just have to hope they will signal to you that it is your stop, or you eventually get to the point where you recognize your location, and you know to get off (that is, of course, assuming you can see out the window, which is not usually the case). There is nothing in the US with which to compare a dala dala ride.


Conditions at the orphanage are shocking, but the children and staff are welcoming and friendly. The director, Lucy, greets us with open arms, and the children all want to be hugged or hold our hands. But the place is run down, the children dirty, everything is falling apart. They have a rain cistern for collecting rain water during the rainy season, and outdoor pit toilets. They do have electricity though, which is a big deal. To save on the cost of gas, they cook over a wood fire. The faucet for hand washing, or washing dishes, is outside in the central courtyard. I am still uncertain if there is a shower area; it might be under the water cistern, but there is certainly no wash room or indoor bathroom with running water. I do not think there is a refrigerator for keeping food cold. Oftentimes the “store room” is a small, dark room with a dirt or concrete slab floor that stays cool and produce is placed on the floor or ground. My overall impression is that the children are starved for attention and interaction, adorable, lovable, and living a life we cannot imagine. There is a story to each one of them, which we do not yet know, and may never, because Lucy speaks little English, and we speak almost no Swahili.


Since Rebecca has written about our first day at the orphanage, I will not recap that. On Wednesday, we headed out for the usual trek to Pasua, and I walked about ten minutes and knew I would never make it the rest of the way. We turned around and went back to the house, where I rested for the entire day. I know now that I was dehydrated from all the sweating (it is cool here for them, but I have been hot most of the time) and while I had been drinking a lot of water, it was not enough. I was overheated, dizzy and light headed. So I stayed on the couch all day, and drank 3 liters of water!


In retrospect, I think I also needed some “down time”. We had not stopped since we arrived, and I was feeling a tad overwhelmed. The first two nights here, I went to bed seriously thinking that I would not survive the harsh reality of life here in Tanzania. While lying in bed those first two nights, I actually had to wonder what it would cost to book a return flight home, and then not get back any of the money I had invested thus far. I wondered if Rebecca would stay if I left. I wondered if Deb would let me help out around the house, so I could stay the rest of the time, not miss out on safari, and not lose all my money. Wednesday turned out to be my “assimilation” time, a time for assessing whether or not I could really handle the life style, culture shock, language barriers, all the walking and sweating, lack of a good shower, change in diet, always being dirty, dusty and sweaty, and those god-awful dala dala rides. I didn’t know this on Wednesday, but figured it out only later. By Thursday morning, I was reenergized and ready to meet the challenges ahead of me. By Thursday evening I was bemoaning the fact that we already had been here almost a week and time was flying by too quickly.


All of what Rebecca has written about is true for me also, but I also wanted to acknowledge the “other side” of my experience. The children tug at my heartstrings, the people, the culture draws me in and I want to learn more and experience life here fully, and at the same time, the enormity of the poverty and the level of need leaves me feeling overwhelmed. Life here is hard and there is no getting around that, other than to keep pushing through.


Deb and I have had many long conversations about how best to assist an entire country without creating a welfare society that depends on volunteers for their very survival. What would they do if all the NGOs and volunteers went home? What would happen if the donors and sponsors stopped giving? The educational system here is abysmal, and even the government schools cost parents money, money that many of them do not have. We are talking about $100 a year to send child to a government run primary school. For us, that is nothing, for them it could be 1/3 of their annual income! It is a conversation for another blog post. 
For now, it is time for bed. It is 10 PM and I should have been in bed an hour ago. We have an early morning call every Monday through Friday, and miles and miles of walking ahead of us. Tomorrow we are buying bananas for the orphanage, and some for the group of children we meet every day on our walk from the dala dala stop to the orphanage. We need to buy them before we get on the dala dala, as there is no place after the stop to buy them. It will be comical to be among the group of women climbing onto the dala dala with our bundles of produce  I wish we could capture a photo for you, but that is doubtful.


For now, good night…….lala salama.
Asante sana!