I knelt down in the red earth and tried to steady the lens on one knee. The snake moved faster than I anticipated. One moment it lay in a seemingly restful sleep-state and next it was lunging straight at my face, full attack position, head raised, hood flared. Spit to blind, then kill.
I closed my eyes and pressed… click click click click. “Got it,” I said to the guys who then quickly moved their expert hands to bag that deadly animal before sliding to the side the 3″by 5″ piece of glass that protected me. “These photos will look amazing on the walls when we finish building.”
I stood, brushed off my jeans and wiped the sweat off my face with the sleeve of my now not-so-white T-shirt. Black spitting cobra, check. Now, just a few dozen more to go.
Gazing out at the vast expanse of deserted bush lands 360 degrees around, it was amazing to me that this nice couple from South Africa would come with their two sons here to build a park. There was nothing, as far as the eye could see, but the now emerging structures of their reserve and the two wooden tee-pee style vaulted structures they called home. A third structure housed a pit latrine and a semi-private area in which to bathe with bucket water. Meals were eaten under a canopy of dried palm leaves held up by four tall tree limbs. Just passing through, I was, on my travels to nowhere, when they kindly invited me to stay a while. So I pitched my bright blue LL Bean tent like a jelly bean on that vast dusty, lifeless landscape and got to work photographing their snakes while they constructed their education conservation center. Three large deep pits surrounded by waist high cement walls were filled with deadly Adders, Black and Red Mambas, Gaboon Vipers and Boomslangs. Adjacent long, thin structures held cages soon-to-house all the venomous and non-venomous snakes of Tanzania and East Africa beyond.
The boys, just a few years older than me in their mid to late 20s, were expert snake handlers. They whipped those venomous snakes around like I would a yoyo. A few times a month they would leave for faraway lands, following reports of mamas being killed by the stealth and camflauge Puff Adder while working their shambas; or of boys in the bush dying from lethal bites of the Black Mamba; or of toddlers being swallowed alive by African Pythons. These guys ran TO the snakes. Local heros they were.
“Anne, do you want to feed the python,” one of them asked me as he went to fetch a young white goat from behind the eating area. “No thank you,” I said. But curiosity got me and I hung around to watch that bleating little goat disappeared into the ever expanding jaws of that massive snake. A few days later, after that goat was digested, that very snake was draped over my shoulders as a joke. Humor in snake land.
14 years later I returned. It was nearly unrecognizable to me. Urban sprawl from nearby borgeoning Arusha town had transformed this once barren landscape into dense, crowded, hustle and bustle of cars, businesses, homes, herds of passing cattle, and more. Once inside the compound, I met their South African mama at the front desk. The wrinkles on her tanned face were so deep I thought I could put a pencil in them and it would stay. I marveled to her about all the changes and complimented her on all that they had achieved. While paying my entrance fee I scanned the foyer, noticing the many Maasai trinkets available for purchase in the glass counter beneath the register and the walls covered with framed images of visiting dignitaries and the country’s first post-independence president Mwalimu Julius Nyerere along. Shelves filled with every type of snake skeleton imaginable stood to one side, and the exit was marked by a photo of a python slit in half with a dead man laying inside, intact. My thoughts drifted back to that goat.
I asked about her boys. One, she said, had long since moved away. He’s living in Europe now with his wife and kids. “The other?” He is here. “Can I say hi?” I asked. “He’s back in the house.” I made my way through neatly manicured pathways edged with flower beds passing rows of snake cages and many large pits. In one, a demonstration was going on for a tour group whose leader was translating the snake handler’s Swahili into German. I passed through a bar built in the center of the compound whose walls were covered with photographs of endless visiting tourists and backpackers from around the world along with hanging t-shirts and bank notes. Back shelves were filled with every kind of booze and Coca Cola refrigerators stood filled with soda, bottled water and Fanta. Behind the compound were the washrooms buildings for the camp site. Now a destination for budget travelers, the park is equipped with seat toilets and hot showers. Then, the garage. Lines of land rovers being repaired and lorries being unloaded for a maintenance stop during their long overland African journeys. Next door, the house. A modest cement structure with a tin roof, front gate and small garden. I knocked. “Hodi?” No answer. “Hodi,” I called again, using the traditional Tanzanian request to enter.
The man who came to the door stood stooped over a bit, dressed in raggedy khaki safari gear and heavy worn boots. His face was covered in a scraggly beard and his hair longish and in disarray. His teeth, dark and crooked clearly hadn’t seen proper dentistry in years. He looked far older than his 45ish years. “What do you want?” he snarled. “Do you remember me? It’s Anne, from years ago.” He stared for a while, and I sunk back wishing I had never come. Slowly the haze began to clear. He remembered, and he hugged me. I nearly fell over from the stench of alcohol.
I told him about my life as a wife and mother in America and about my work with UNITE. He told me about the park, about their new health clinic that is the only one around equipped with anti-venom. He showed me their cultural museum that teaches tourists about the life of the local Maasai and he introduced me to the orphans his family is raising as their own. When we ran out of things to say, he offered me a drink. No thank you, I replied, it was still morning and I hadn’t yet had my coffee. As I left we exchanged promises to email and stay in touch. Despite many subsequent visits, I have never seen him since.
My heart began to race… just a little more than it should. I took a deep slow breath and tried to will it back to its comfortable rhythm. I looked around me. People were still streaming into the cathedral. They came in their Sunday best. The women in multicolored hand-sewn dresses with matching scarves piled high on their heads. The children in their white and blue school uniforms, and the men clean shaven wearing their finest trousers. Am I nervous? I wondered. I didn’t think so, but something was wrong. My skin started to flush and my breathing quickened. I leaned over and tapped the arm of the nurse who was traveling on my team. “Something is happening,” I whispered. She nodded and together we made our way out the side door of the building. The congregation paused to watch the white mzungu dressed in the gift of an intricately embroidered flowing blue tie-dyed African gown make her way hurriedly through the crowd.
“Do you have Benedryl? I think it may just be an allergic reaction,” I said, thinking of the lunch we just ate at a local restaurant. A fish still intact with its eyes and scales combined with lard-laden greens and a pile of ugali, which closely resembles modeling clay in texture and color. Perhaps something disagreed with me? She took me into the nearby Bishop’s office, a small room in the back of a cement block building… bare besides a desk, three wooden chairs, a bench along one wall covered with a thin light purple cushion and a few framed images of previous bishops and Lord Christ. I lay down on the bench and bent my knees so I could fit. My eyes closed, and I concentrated on the tsumani that was rising up inside me, my heart racing more than 180 beats a minute, my blood boiling with flames that seemed to fill every inch of my being, and shakes that were moving in rapid waves from my feet to my chest. I waited for the Benedryl to kick in… As the guest of honor, I was the next speaker on the agenda. I needed to introduce my team of 18 Americans to the Bishop’s congregation. Hundreds of villagers had come from many miles to meet and welcome us.
But it wasn’t working. The Bishop’s secretary, a lovely young Warusha woman named Margaret, called the head doctor from the nearest government hospital. He arrived with a warm smile and empty hands. No medicine, no supplies, no equipment. He pressed his two very black fingers on the inside of my now colorless wrist, and I noticed how dirty his fingernails were. Perhaps he helped his wife in their fields, I thought. That would be nice. There was nothing he could do, he said, but that we should call him if things got worse. With my fever rising and heart accelerating we were not ready to wait for worse. With no way to contact Flying Doctors, it was decided that I would be moved hundreds of miles to a clinic in the capital city of Dar Es Salaam that was run by a German friend of an American friend of ours. But first, I needed an IV. Since my teams always travel with IV needles and bags, that small miracle was possible. However, it took my young EMT friends more than 20 excruciating minutes of poking and prodding inside my arms before they successfully accessed a vein. A brief moment of relief.
Inside the vehicle, I lay across the back seats with my IV hanging on the seat in front of me and watched the landscape fly by. Bushlands as far as the eye could see were sprinkled with thorny acacias and red clay termite mounds that could reach 6 feet in height. And then there were the great Uluguru Mountains stretching high in the distance.
My sister Kim, our nurse and one EMT rode with me. Little was said as our driver sped down the Morogoro road. One of the few tarmac roads in Tanzania, the Morogoro road is also one of the most dangerous. It is overrun with too many overloaded lorries, flatbeds, local bus matatus — often so crammed that people hang off doors and out windows just to catch a ride, and other trucks and vehicles that speed narrowly close to a steady stream of bicyclists, motorcyclists and pedestrians who are also carrying their large loads on backs and heads… firewood, charcoal, water, food stuff, and even family members and friends. Amputees in Tanzania are called “pikipikis” (the Swahili word for motorcycles)… because without the medical care necessary to fix broken limbs, they are most often simply removed.
The equatorial sun set and fear crept in. It is widely known not to travel this road after dark. Abductions and robberies at gun and knife-point are common. And we now had yet another problem. I needed to go to the bathroom. After taking in two full IV bags and bottles of water to try and relax my system there was little choice but to stop. “Haraka haraka” (quickly) our driver as he pulled off the road by a large termite mound that could shield me. My friends supported me while Kim held my IV bag high. I squatted and shined my flashlight all around looking out for any lurking snakes.
An hour later we entered Dar. A star-filled southern hemisphere sky enveloped this impoverished city of millions where more than 50% of people are jobless…. Coming in streams from villages across the country in search of a better life, people are too often met with scarce resources and even less opportunity. Streets are filled with homeless, Lepers and drunks. And the air, once fresh and clean in the villages, was now filled with the stench of diesel tinged with human excrement.
The clinic was protected by two heavy iron gates. Tall walls covered with flowering vines stretched in either direction. It looked more like a home to me than a medical facility. We honked the horn and waited until the askari (watchman) let us in. A small Tanzanian woman emerged wearing a crisp white nurses uniform. “Pole mama,” she said to me sympathetically as she took my IV bag and held it high. “Kuja ndani,” (come inside) she smiled.
Inside I lay on one of the two patient beds that were separated by a simple white curtain. Mama Violet began undressing me and placed electrodes all over my chest and legs, which she then connected to what looked like car battery. My team then separated. Our driver, EMT and nurse left to take the long journey back to Morogoro to rejoin the others before morning. Kim stayed with me, sleeping in the patient bed next to mine. Mama Violet told us the doctor would see me in the morning, before leaving us alone for the night. Sleep came, and nothing else mattered.
I wish she could have knocked Kim out too 
Dear friends of Ashe and UNITE,
Happy holidays and best wishes for a very joyful 2012. This is a time for connecting, giving and receiving, and reflecting…. on our lives, our selves, our futures, our dreams. I continue to invite all of you who have a heart for service in East Africa to JOIN US. You are most welcome!
Our next UNITE traveling team leaves for Tanzania in less than 5 short weeks. We will meet more than a dozen organizations in the Northern district with the goals of nurturing and growing our current partnerships; establishing new partnerships; identifying new ways for Americans to “plug in” and be of impactful service — whether for a few hours, days, weeks or months; sourcing new product for our Ashe Collection; finding new partner schools to grow our cross-cultural Global Girls UNITE youth group; reporting for Africa.com; and much much more! We have a very busy two-week schedule and are ever grateful for the opportunity to return to the land and people we so adore.
This year we are raising funds to roll out a new midwifery training program in partnership with The Women’s Education & Economic Centre of Moshi (weece.org) and to purchase a tractor for the Anglican diocese of Morogoro, where more than 90% of people live as subsistence farmers, harvesting and working their land completely by hand. If you are interested in supporting our work, please email me at atmwells@gmail.com. Every bit helps.
As we approach this new year, I am asserting my resolutions. I love goal setting, so this is fun and motivating for me. My biggest resolution this year, and for every year moving forward, is to LOVE boldy and courageously… come what may… moment by moment! I am working to stand strong in my truth… to not shy away from my responsibilities to myself or to others… Living an authentic life is the greatest gift and the greatest challenge. So mine is a grand dream this year, but a worthy one I think. I pray for guidance each and every day, and I pray for your continued partnership, friendship and support. For anyone taking the time to read this, thank you…. Thank you for walking this path with me … even if only in the tiniest of ways. Together, indeed, our Lights will cast out the darkness.
To you, my love and blessings.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Oh my…. I just enjoyed the most lovely coffee with the inspirational Kendall Webb, founder of JustGive.org. My head and heart are spinning! For anyone looking for the perfect Christmas gifts, cash gift cards from Justgive that kick back to your charity of choice is the PERFECT solution! At least for me for my neices and nephews. (If you do choose this road, please pick Friends of WEECE as your charity of choice. We are raising funds for our midwifery training program in rural Moshi. Thank you )
Back to my coffee with Kendall… We talked about travel, about Africa, about need, about giving –about not giving, and about how very difficult and frustruations fundraising and mobilizing people can be.
In my travels, I’ve learned more human nature than about human need. I wonder why some people so compelled to get involved, to get their hands dirty, to help and others are not? It’s the ying and yang of everything… even the dichotomy that exists within me — the part which desperately wants to care for others and the part that only wants to look out for myself and my own. Kendall said is beautifully… She said we travel to learn — about ourselves. When we meet those who are able to endure unfathomable hardship and strife and still be joyful, generous, and kind, we have hope that such strength and courage resides within us as well. It’s true — the capability of the human spirit to survive and even flourish, against all odds, is captivating, exciting and energizing. Here in the U.S. — at least in my comfortable world — few are ever tested to the degree of our friends in East Africa. Our paradigm is that life should be easy and comfortable, relatively pain and struggle free. In the communities in which we work in Tanzania, the paradigm is quite the opposite… There, pain and struggle, heartache and strife are all natural and unavoidable. They expect struggle. We expect comfort. We are disappointed. They are hopeful.
While chatting with one of my best girlfriends yesterday, I was saying how disappointed I was that I’m not seeing a bigger response to UNITE’s holiday campaign. Disappointed… my creation. There I go again… How silly of me to assume that this should be easy.
This Africa journey has taught me about human nature and even more about myself. My strengths and weaknesses are splayed out for all to see. My pride, my fears… all right there… There’s no place to hide. The raw truths of what we humans are capable of — for better and for worse — are plain as day in Africa.
And this, I suppose, is really what keeps me coming back… It’s soul food, and — like chocolate — I can’t seem to get enough of it.
With Kim, our sponsored Orkeeswa student Suzanne and her mama.
Manhattan Modern Luxury Magazine covered the recent Indagare Souk event at the Pierre Hotel in Manhattan. Ashe’s LOVE bag was a huge hit. We sold out! No worries though… more are on their way!
Our youth group Global Girls UNITE is proud to welcome Reverend Frederick Chingwaba to Darien, Connecticut, this Thankgiving holiday weekend. A leader of the Anglican diocese of Morogoro, Tanzania, Rev. Chingwaba is in the United States getting his Masters at Eden Seminary in St. Louis.
All friends in the NYC/Fairfield County area are invited to hear Rev. Chingwaba speak about life in East Africa on Sunday, November 27th at 4:00 pm at the Darien Nature Center.
Please email atmwells@gmail.com with any questions.
Calling all NYC-area friends… DONT MISS THE UPCOMING INDAGARE SOUK at the Pierre Hotel Nov. 14-16th
featuring the greatest finds from around the world…. including our Ashe Collection!
