Ndemno with some of his more than 60 orphans.
To get to Ndemno’s house, we turn north off the single tarmac Moshi road in Arusha and 4-wheel-drive it 20 minutes out of town north towards the foothills of Mt. Meru. Shortly after entering the small village of Olakiri, we arrive at Ndemno’s place. The gates are painted with a mural of children holding hands and dancing on the Earth. The precision and beauty of this brightly colored artwork appear in stark contrast to what lays inside.
Dozens of little boys and girls come out to meet us. Two small boys, perhaps 6 or 7 years old, take my hands and guide me into their home. I bend over so as not to hit my head on the low door frame. This small cement structure with a single narrow wooden doorframe is the boys’ living quarters. The tiny entry room has a pool of dirty stagnant water under a small cut out open window. There is no screen or glass. A pile of old, ripped dirty shoes, few of which match, lays next to a floor-to-ceiling stacking of brown boxes on each of which are the printed words “Outreach International – Food Relief Program.”
Ndemno, who has followed us in, explains that the children’s daily meals of porridge and maize are supplemented once a week by this donated protein powder. Beyond this room I step down into what feels like a coffin. I am too large for this cramped, dark, damp space and feel that it is a dead end. Even though it is daylight, it is near pitch black here inside. One of the boys, barefoot and dressed in rag shorts held up by a string, takes my hand again and leads me directly to the right into another tiny room in which two full-sized bunk beds are crammed. Four slats on which 16 boys sleep. A mirror room lays to the left. There are no sheets, blankets or pillows to cover the eight thin foam mattresses, many of which have been hauled out to dry in the sun.
“Many of these boys are still very young,” says Ndemno. With no electricity, adults or toilets nearby, the mattresses are soiled nearly every night. “We need better living quarters for these children,” he continues with a sad smile.
I am relieved to get back outside and breathe the fresh clean air. I have not been in Tanzania 24 hours yet this trip and already I am hot, tired and feeling nauseated.
We continue the tour. Now, we are surrounded by dozens of children, and since the area is small we move as a swarm. We head into the girls’ house – another cement block, but this one is longer and larger. I duck my head and step into a long thin corridor. At one end is Ndemno’s room. It’s difficult to open the door fully as the room is so full of beds, boxes, and clothes. He lives here with his wife and 10 of the girl students. In another small room are three bunk beds and two small pack and plays. The oldest girls — who I am guessing to be between 11 and 14 from their obvious signs of early puberty — take care of the babies.
When we crowd at the door one of the girls hands baby Bryson to Meghann Gundermann, the American founder of The Foundation for Tomorrow — the woman who brought us here. Meghann and her organization has been supporting Matonyok for years.
“How old do you think Bryson is?” Meghann asks. His head is clearly too large for his emaciated body, his eyes are not aligned, and he walks unsteadily. “16-20 months,” I guess, thinking that I was likely wrong as Bryson is half the size that my three daughters were at that age. “He is five,” she says, and tells us the story. Bryson was brought to Matonyok the year before by a Good Samaritan. His mother is insane and carried him tied to her back from birth, rarely feeding him. No one expected him to survive. “We are so proud of him,” chimes in Ndemno with genuine joy. “He is doing so well.”
Me, Meghann and Bryson
Ndemno’s 100-year-old mother
Outside the building the children play by a long clothesline on which dozens of shirts, dresses, pants, shorts, socks and underwear that look as old as Mama sway in the breeze. The girls toss an old ball back and forth, some crowd around the single wooden swing, others relax on the ground. Laughter fills the air. Baby “Giftie” is standing next to me in only a T-shirt. I am not too surprised when urine begins to pool around her bare feet in the dirt below. Ernest calls out and one of the girls, who is not much taller than Giftie herself, comes over, picks up Giftie, places her on her hip and walks towards the house.
Ndemno is proud to show us his biofeul tanks. They have one cow and four goats, not enough livestock I think to create enough manure to fill these tanks — to create the methane gas needed to power the stoves for the 60 plus orphans and handful of adults who live here. “We use the choos as well,” he says. The children shovel out their own pit latrines to fill these tanks.
As I am trying to process all of this, a little girl falls off the swing. She hits her head hard and starts to cry. Ernest rushes over to her and picks her up. She wraps her arms around his neck and legs around his waist. She buries her head in his shoulder, and he coos to her. He stands before me holding his daughter with all the love and tenderness that I hold my three. After at least five unhurried minutes, he puts her back down, and she is better. The tears are gone. The other children run to her, hold her hands, throw their arms around her, and the playing — and laughter — continues.
“I am a different kind of creature,” Glorious said looking at me with his big brown sparkly eyes. “I died on the cross with Jesus and was born again. Now He lives in me, and I am no longer bound by my earthly desires. I am driven by different things.”
Before I can ask what kind of things, I am interrupted by the honking of a car horn behind me. I shift the gear into place and drive on. I need to concentrate or we will be late for our meeting with the school with whom we hope to partner. But all I really want to do is pepper this different kind of creature sitting in my passenger seat about faith, religion, the soul and about how I too can get closer to the divine.
Bishop Glorious Shoo has come all the way from Tanzania to see me. The last time we were together was at his New Life Foundation where, in the foothills of the great Mount Kilimanjaro, he and his beautiful wife Josephine and their growing staff of now near 60 are raising and educating nearly 500 children — most of whom have lost one of more parents to AIDS.
A few of the near 500 children who call New Life Foundation home.
“I talk to God, and God talks to me,” says Glorious, gesturing with his large black hands for emphasis. “He answers my prayers. He performs miracles.”
And it seems that indeed He does.
In 2001 while living as a young married couple with two biological children of their own, Glorious and Josephine, both pastors, felt called by God to care for children. They officially incorporated New Life Foundation and while living in a small, concrete, two-bedroom, rented house with a friend paying their own children’s school fees, they took in 14 orphans. They had $50. Soon the word spread and at the end of the 2002 there were 41 children packed in their tiny living quarters.
“The children were everywhere,” recalls Glorious throwing his clean shaven head back with a big belly laugh. “We couldn’t even sleep. Every moment at least one of the children would be tugging on me…Father I need this… Or Father so-and-so is doing this… We didn’t have food to feed them properly. Every day we would pray and every day something would happen: A neighbor would bring something over – often in wonder – saying how he or she just felt called to do so.”
But the stress of too little space, too little food and too little help was taking its toll. Glorious and Josephine and three other adults who were around, volunteering their time, called on the children to fast and pray. And they did. Before the fast was meant to be broken one young boy came to Glorious, proclaiming that God had shown him a vision. ” We dont need to keep on praying and fasting,” the boy said. “We need to start giving thanks to God.” He told them that a man from America was going to give them the $11,000 they needed to pay off their debt and purchase their home, land and an additional building.
“The other adults didn’t believe,” said Glorious. “They thought the boy was just hungry and wanting to break the fast. But Josephine and I … we believed, so we began to celebrate. The children ate, we praised the Lord, we believed that He had answered our prayers. And you know what? The next morning I received an email from a man I had met one time in the USA. He wrote that he wanted to give us $11,000.”
Whether a crazy coincidence or miracle, this story is just one of dozens that Glorious shared with me during his 4-day visit. Children laying hands on HIV patients who were then healed, testing over and over again as negative. Their being called to pray over a piece of land, and the next day that unknowing land owner coming to say he wanted to sell them that land and — at the same time — a never-before-met woman from New Zealand donated just the right amount of money. And even Glorious’ and Josephine’s own adopted daughter Charity, who came to them at 1 day old with mangled limbs and brain injuries from birth… Thought to live just a few days she is now a healthy, happy, intelligent 7 year old who shows not a single sign of any disability or impairment.
Josephine and Charity at New Life, February 2012
“Anne, God is real. His angels are everywhere.”
I found out only a few weeks ago that Glorious was coming to visit. I was concerned about what I could do for him, but decided to give it my best effort. I scrambled around to set up some relevant meetings and then created a party list and blasted out a paperless post evite to my world. As usual, the overall response was weak. But the night of the party our house was packed with vibrant, inspirational, interested and committed individuals. Everyone was moved by Glorious and their support was overwhelming.
Glorious was never concerned, as I was. “God is leading us. Praise Jesus!” he would say after every act of generosity that came our way. It is God working through these people, he explained to me.
“God gives vision and provision for the vision,” Glorious said to me and the director of one of the now two independent schools with whom we have partnered this week to establish student and teacher exchange programs and Skype collaborations. Glorious told us how he and his wife could literally see in their spiritual eyes the land, buildings, students, teachers, babies and young mothers who now make up New Life Foundation’s many arms…. Fountain of Hope (for teenage mothers), Fountain of Joy (the school for students Kindergarten through 12th grade), Fountain of Zoe (the nursery for babies), and Fountain of Love (their nationwide outreach program through which they train such organizations as World Vision International and Compassion International how to work with children throughout East Africa). Today he can see their University, teaming with students and faculty from around the world. The university does not yet exist, though I have no doubt that — like every other vision Glorious has had — one day soon it will.
As a younger man Glorious was called by God to travel to Washington State. He was able to get there through the generosity of strangers, but arrived with no money and no contacts. Soon thereafter, Glorious met the man who is now the head of New Life Foundation – America.
Yesterday morning while heading into New York City on Metro North we received word that our morning meeting was cancelled. Again, Glorious was not disappointed. I was. “It is God’s will,” he said. So we took our time in Grand Central and Glorious enjoyed riding the subway for the first time. We stopped to hear music performers. We paused in front of a few homeless people who lay covered in blankets on cold cement steps. We relaxed over coffee, talked about God and Glorious helped interpret my dreams. We were early for our next meeting at Bar 6 on 12th and 6th avenue.
I wondered what God’s plan was for us this morning. Which part of it were we meant to see, do, experience… Or was ALL of it significant in some way?
Since my time spent with Glorious and Josephine in Tanzania, I have seen and felt life differently. I have found it harder to judge and even to dislike that I once did.
Bishop Glorious Shoo is indeed a different kind of creature. He walks with the living Christ inside of him…guiding him, and the proof of that is all around him.
He has now left to continue on with his travels, and I am here …. seeking, craving and wondering. Will I be able to discover that same kind of “different creature” inside of me? I certainly hope so.
***
The New Life Foundation of Moshi, Tanzania, is a non-profit organization that helps transform the lives of poor, oppressed children and young women. It is home to nearly 500 orphans, poor children, pregnant teens, and HIV/AIDS orphans who are suffering from homelessness, hunger, poverty and disease. The Foundation includes an elementary and secondary school, a vocational training centre for unwed young mothers and at-risk teenage girls, a training and community outreach program, and an orphanage for abandoned or orphaned babies. Founders and directors Rev. Glorious and Josephine Shoo created New Life in 2001 to improve the socioeconomic status of young women and children in their communities through the provision of education and support, thus helping to create a better future for their country. In addition to their work with New Life, the Shoos also work closely with such well-known Christian relief organizations as Compassion International Tanzania and World Vision Tanzania. New Life Foundation is a partner of UNITE The World With Africa. For more information email atmwells@gmail.com.
The muscles bulge out of her sinewy arms as she works the billows, pulling the leather handles up and down to fan the fires. She has to work fast to maintain the scalding heat necessary to melt the metal locks. They have a large collection today. Tribesmen and women were sent out many miles in all directions to scour, barter, trade, and offer fresh kills of antelope, baboon, Dik Dik or whatever… Just gather the metals, Balegi ordered.
The clan is excited. As long as anyone can remember brass, iron and other soft metals were used only to make arrowheads, spears and knives or for various sized bracelets, anklets and rings whose designs told the stories of the women’s lives — age, marriage status, number of children, experience, command for respect…
Today, life is different for the Hadzabe people. Metals are being used to make jewelry that is displayed on rocks, sticks and the branches of Acacia trees for the passing tourists to peruse — and hopefully buy. The Hadzabe need money. Many neighboring tribes, including the Datoga, Maasai and Mbulu, have encroached on their traditional lands and brought with them herds of livestock and sprawling farms that have rerouted the wildlife and deforested the area. To survive, the Hadzabe are migrating closer and closer to the edge of Lake Eyasi, a soda lake located at the foothills of the great Rift Valley in Northern Tanzania. The lake is surrounded by arid lands unable to support life. With little prey left to hunt and an inadequate supply of berries and tubers (a root), the people are starving. Metal has become more than an adornment or weapon. It is an essential part of this tribe’s future.
Balegi’s slight 5’3″ frame is perched on a stump, hunched over his make-shift kiln. While he expertly pours the melted brass into the carved tree trunk molds that are lined with specially-treated animal hides, he encourages his young wife to work the billows harder. Balegi is one of the last living blacksmith serving the Hadzabe people, and he is anxious to pass along his talents. He is enthused by a large order from a woman living a world away. The funds from this order, like all others, will go into the community bank account for the Hadzabe.
The Hadzabe are one of the last hunter-gatherer tribes on Earth. The live as humans did for centuries before the advent of agriculture. Men hunt wildlife with bow and arrow, while the women collect fruits, roots and plants for food and medicine. They are nomadic, moving with the rains, and they are 100% self-sustaining. Shelters are constructed in under an hour from grasses, sticks and leaves. Moisture is sucked out of ground tubers for adequate hydration. Men and women move from group to group, from lover to lover, without issue. It is a non-hierarchical, egalitarian society.
Yet in the early 1990s, bowing to the pressure of modernization and need for money, a few Hadzabe elders invited Dorobo Safaris, a family-owned and operated safari company, to bring out a handful tourists for controlled visits. Brothers Mike and Daudi Peterson, Dorobo’s owners, recognized that, if done properly, tourism in partnership with the Hadzabe could be a win for everyone. Outsides learn about the Hadzabe’s commitment to ecological prudence and the Hadzabe gain hard currency and customers for their beautiful metal jewelry.
Thanks to the work of Dorobo and a handful of others (see below), in October of last year the Tanzanian government awarded the Hadzabe people of the Yaida Valley land rights to control more than 20,000 hectares as their own. While these new rights are encouraging, there is more to be done. The Hadzabe in the northern Mangola region are not yet protected, and they continue to be displaced at a rapid pace. In areas where the tribes people live in close proximity to “more modernized” communities, they are being exposed to alcohol, HIV/AIDS, Tuberculosis, and other challenges and illness.
Elders like Balegi understand that now it is time to either adapt and survive or perish. He calls to his wife, whose naked back is covered in sweat, to fan the fires.
Julia PIerre-Nina working with the Hadza on behalf of Dorobo to track, map and interview 17 groups in the northern Lake Eyasi Basin.
***
Last week my dear friend from Tanzania who knows the Hadzabe well traveled to the United States for business. He carried over a plastic grocery bag filled with hundreds of bracelets, rings and anklets of all shapes, sizes and designs. The jewelry was filthy, caked with red earth, rust and smoke stains — and it smelled. My friend chuckled and instructed me to put the jewelry in a bucket of Coca-Cola for a few hours. Everything should clean up just fine, he said.
It sparkles as I lay it out at the 5th Avenue hotel in New York City. All the while I am praying that the wealthy western women, the shoppers of America, will fall in love with Balegi’s jewels as I have the Hadzabe people.
***
NOTE: The Dorobo family is advocating for the Hadzabe regarding issues of land rights, immigration and sustainable use of resources. They have launched The Yaida Valley Tourism Project to grow a sustainable immersion program with the Hadzabe, helping them to earn the resources necessary to maintain their chosen way of life. The Ujamaa Community Resource Team (UCRT) is also working with Dorobo and the Hadzabe to create land management plans, manage natural resource systems and explore sustainable income-generation opportunities. And a new project is now underway, led by Tanzanian Ruth Matiyas, RN, to bring an HIV/AIDS education, care and prevention program to the Hadzabe. For more information, email atmwells@gmail.com.
With Josephine and her daughter Charity
Africa.com has featured this story of how I found the divine — or perhaps how the divine found me — last month in Tanzania.
http://www.africa.com/blog/blog,dispatch_from_tanzania_faith,610.html
Being a consumer, a white American consumer, in Tanzania can be perplexing and exhausting. You know that you pay more for absolutely everything, and you are fine with that… For a while, at least.
In the beginning, you try to outsmart the system by comparing prices. In this duka/shop the basket sells for 10,000 shillings and in that one it’s 12,000. Here the necklace is $15 and there he’ll sell it for $12. But as you work your way through the narrow, overcrowded dirt pathways that separate the long rows of vendor stalls that are packed so tightly together in this Maasai marketplace, you can’t think about comparative shopping… You cant think about anything. Sellers are in your face, calling at you, grabbing your hands and arms.
- With Brightness in her shop stall.
Here in Tanzania there is no set price for anything. What you pay is a reflection of who you are, how much you know, how much or little you are respected and — of course — what color is your skin. Every time you are asked what you paid for this or that… From a taxi ride to a loaf of break, you see heads shake… Tisk tisk tisk. You overpaid again.
As a mzungu mgeni — a white visitor — you feel like a walking ATM machine. Everyone wants to make a withdrawal, and no one seems shy about asking. The first day you arrive you go to church with a Tanzanian friend. You are given the warmest of welcomes. Everyone has come out to sing and dance for you. And when the collection basket comes around you happily give a large cash donation. You are a bit surprised the second time the basket comes around, but again you give without reservation. By the 3rd, 4th and 5th asks, you are bewildered… And broke. You are out of cash, and you are not even 24 hours into this trip. The head priest then calls you forward. As you stand in front of the congregation looking out over hundreds of people your friend tells you that the priest is saying they need $1,500 to complete the half-built church you are standing in. He wants you to give. Your heart begins to race. You panic, and then pause, and finally you say you will pledge $200 to the campaign. A few people cheer. Most, however, are clearly disappointed you haven’t given more.
- The collection baskets
Over the course of two weeks you visit nearly 20 organizations. To each you and your team give or pledge hundreds of dollars. Some thousands. Many clearly want more, and one even goes so far to ask why your donation is so small.
At the end of the trip you find an Internet cafe on the side of the single paved road. It is clean and quiet. You sit down at one of the six laptops that are lined up on a single long table. You are excited to check your email, connect with family and friends at home, and enjoy the hot coffee topped off with fresh milk and lots of sugar that was just delivered to you by the lone waitress. In less than three minutes, a group of young boys enter. They must have spotted you from the road. They come with necklaces and bracelets. They crowd around and press their wares in your face.
You are tired of the games now, and frankly you are annoyed. But they, like so many others, are relentless and won’t leave without a good fight, so you acquiesce. It’s easier.
“Why aren’t you boys in school?” you ask.
“Mama, buy my necklace. Only $10,” says the oldest boy, ignoring the question.
“$10! No way. Ghali sana! That’s too expensive.”
“Ok $9. We are hungry mama. Please mama. Help us. You must buy.”
“First, tell me your names. How old are you boys?”
“My name is Michael and I have 15 years,” says the oldest in rough English. You know he is lying. He barely looks 12.
“I am Joseph.13,” says the next boy, who is slightly smaller than Michael and dressed in rags.
The littlest of the three is the most animated. Dressed in old tan shorts that are held up by a string belt, he is full of smiles. He looks up at me with his big brown eyes and flashes a wide grin. “Cheaper price.”
“Yes,” you say. “I know, I know…. You have a better price for me than Michael.”
“No,” he smiles. “That is my name. My name is Mr. Cheaper Price.”
” Your name is Mr Cheaper Price?” you ask incredulously.
“Yes, my name is Mr. Cheaper Price.”
You smile, and proceed buy everything Mr Cheaper Price and his friends have to sell.
- Michael, Joseph and Mr. Cheaper Price
The conversation around our breakfast table has taken a marked turn for the worse this week. Yesterday it was the Kony2012 campaign.
“Who is Joseph Kony?” Katharine, our 7-year-old daughter, asks. I figured that since the filmmaker told his 4-year-old son, on camera, about the world’s most wanted war criminal, I was probably OK answering…”He is a very evil man in Africa who is abducting children and making them kill people, sometimes even their own families.”
“I would NEVER kill anyone,” says Harriett, our 9-year-old. “And no one could ever do anything to make me.” ”I would rather die first,” finishes Lila, 11.
This morning, it’s the Rwandan holocaust. I am sure that my husband David and I were simply too busy frying eggs, steaming milk, locating missing shoes, packing snacks and lunches, and checking to see whether all homework was completed to notice where the conversation was headed. “Why did they kill each other in Rwanda,” asks the very precocious Lila.
In attempts to condense, over simplify and keep the morning train moving, I say… “In Rwanda there were two groups of people. The Tutsis and the Hutus. A long time ago, the Tutsis were chosen by the formerly ruling French to be the elite — the favored people– and the Hutus, the masses, were jealous. In the early 1990s the Hutus were told a terrible lie that the Tutsis were planning on killing them, and that they must kill first. So they did. Tens of thousands of people picked up pangas, knives, spiked clubs and bats and slaughtered their neighbors.”
The girls are flabbergasted, of course, and their questions flow all the way until we pull up at school drop off. David attempts closure: “Girls, when one group of people have all the power and control all the resources, life can become very dangerous.”
Have a good day!
“Is this really the truth about human nature?” I wonder as I leave David at the train station. Could this be our truth?
***
Last month I spent time in the small rural village of Mvuleni, set at the foothills of the great Mount Kilimanjaro in Northern Tanzania. There, sitting on a wooden plank held up by two logs to make a low bench, I attended a village bank meeting. VICOBA is what they call it, “liberation for all women.” In front of me sat the 30 women who made up this VICOBA in four rows of makeshift seats. They wore matching bright green kangas, headdresses, and T-shirts that were printed VICOBA WEECE.
WEECE is the Women’s Education and Economic Centre of Moshi and the organization that organizes, often funds and makes possible the VICOBA. Mama Mrema, the director of WEECE, is sitting by my side.
The bank itself is a box; a clay-earth-colored metal box with three pad locks on each side. The fourth side is the hinge. Each night, I learn, these locks go to different villages with different women… for safety reasons.
The women stand in front of us and begin to sing. The sing a prayer that together, through VICOBA, they will conquer poverty and ignorance, they will be honest and hard working and that they will relieve themselves and their families from suffering. After the women sit down, three different women come forward to unlock the bank. The VICOBA chairwoman opens the box, takes out 30 small blue booklets, and hands them out. #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 and so on. The women each stand when their number is called. No names are spoken.
In front of the bank sits the treasurer, the accountant, the loan officer, the double-checker and the disciplinarian. Each of these women have been elected, along with the chairwoman, by the group. The disciplinarian enforces the rules, which are made up by the group. Here, if you are late, if you speak, fidget, stand or even daydream out of turn… you are fined. Because this is poor rural village where the women are mostly illiterate, the agreed upon fine is less than it is in most VICOBAs. 100 shillings, or about $.03.
The women begin to deposit their savings. Each comes forward, pulls a fistful of paper shilling notes out of their bras, and declares her investment… One goat, two cows, three chickens. Or whatever. Money is never mentioned, whispers Mama in my ear as she attempts to explain to me what is happening. The treasurer takes the money, counts it and hands it to the double-checker who does the same. Once agreed upon, the amount is written in the VICOBA ledger and the woman’s blue booklet is stamped. In this VICOBA one goat equals 1000 shillings, about $.80. One cow is 5000 shillings (about $3) and one chicken is 500 shillings, $.30.
And so it goes for the next 45 minutes or so until all 30 women have deposited their hard earned money. During this time, all you can hear is the breeze through the trees above, the bleating of distant livestock and the soft voices of the women whose turn it is to speak. Everything is orderly and the only ones fined the whole time are Mama and me — for talking. I pay my fee, times 10, happily.
Finally it is time to distribute the loans. Today 300,000 shillings have been collected (about $200). The Chairwoman removes the stack of loan applications from the bank box. The top five, #13, #7, #24, #17, and #5 are the lucky ones today. They now have the funds they need to grow their small businesses – to buy produce for their roadside market, to purchase another pig for their piggery, to buy fertilizer or seed, to transport a cow to market, etc. Interest payments of 10% are paid on the spot, and that money is then pooled and distributed as another loan. The women work to keep as few funds as possible in the bank itself. Having actual money around is simply too dangerous.
Each loan recipient has a group of 4 women who vouch for her, who will pay her loan if she defaults. No one has ever defaulted in this group, says Mama. These women are each others’ lifelines… They work to rebuild each other’s homes when they disintegrate in the rains, they care for each other’s children and aging parents, they share food when others are hungry, they help each other through illness and pregnancies…
Later, after the meeting has ended, I ask Mama… “Why don’t they call each other by their names? And why can’t they mention money?” For safety, Mama explains. Their own and others. With all those numbers and stamps, no one can keep track in their heads who is making money and who isn’t. “Why would it matter,” I ask ignorantly.
“Because,” says Mama, “they would want to steal. They would begin to fight. They would resent the ones who had the money.”
“Kweli?” I ask. “Is it true?”
“Of course,” she says matter-of-factly. “It is just human nature.”
WEECE is one of UNITE The World With Africa’s partner NGOs in Tanzania. Together they are working to advance microfinance programs for women and role out a new health training program to teach VICOBA women — including those from Mvuleni – to become lay midwives.
Tags: joseph kony, KONY2012, Tanzania, UNITE The World With Africa, WEECE
We walk quite a ways from the Chief’s boma, stepping over and around thorny acacias, to reach the women who are already gathered under the single tree that casts even a hint of shade, a bit of protection from the blazing hot sun. These are the artisans of Tanzania Maasai Women’s Art, and they light up an otherwise dusty and colorless landscape. In this group, heads are adorned with elaborately beaded headresses; necks, chests, forarms and ankles are covered with colorful cuffs and bangles; and bodies are draped and wrapped with all shades of red, purple and blue kangas, kitengas and shukas. These women sit comfortably with their legs stretched straight out at 90 degree angles. Some nurse infants at their breasts and others tend to toddlers on their laps.
They appear as a force to be reckoned with, and the person they are waiting for is me.
I have arrived with my UNITE 2012 traveling team. There are six of us American women, and we are with our friends Tati Oliver, the director of the Tanzania Maasai Women’s Art program, and her associate Margaret Gabriel. A lithe and lovely Swiss woman who has lived in Africa for more than 30 years, working first in tourism and now in women’s development — Tati has instructed me to talk to the women a bit about the importance of the quality and consistency of their work. I am their biggest client, and their only one selling consistently to an American audience.
“Asante sana kwa ajili ya kukaribisha sisi hapa leo,” I say, thanking them for their warm welcome of me and my team. And then, having used up my tiny bit of conversational Swahili, I continue on in English.
“As you may know, I run an organization called UNITE The World With Africa with my sister Kim,” I say pointing at my “dadangu” who, as the appointed photographer, is hard at work. “We are representing Tanzania Maasai Women’s Art in the United States, and we use the Internet and a site called The Ashe’ Collection to sell your jewelry.” I think they will like this since ”Ashe” means “thank you” in their Maasai language Kimaa, but no one responds or even smiles after Margaret finishes interpreting. Perhaps they don’t know what the Internet is? I continue and I – not knowing quite what else to do — assume we all are on the same page. ”In the world of e-commerce, when people purchase items, they rely on photographs only, so it is very important that the actual products they receive look exactly like those in the pictures. This is why it is SO important that you produce high-quality items that are consistent in their size, look and feel.”
I pause for Margaret to tackle that mouthful. This time, the women respond, and they are getting increasingly animated. I think I have offended them. The conversation continues for quite some time between Margaret and the lead mama. Their expressions shift from concerned, to annoyed, to relaxed, to amused. I breathe. Margaret turns to me and says very simply, “She wants more money.”
“That’s all she said?”
“Yes, the price of beads is going up and they need more money.”
I turn to Tati, the big mama boss who is the one in charge of everything. She nods. Clearly she is not surprised by this turn of conversation. Each month Tati and Margaret 4-wheel-drive it over harsh terrain more than 1 1/2 hours out here to the village of Mkuru to meet with these Maasai mamas, along with dozens of others, who make the jewelry of their Tanzania Maasai Women’s Art. Tati and Margaret teach new designs; conduct seminars on health and leadership; and they buy. The women bring everything they have, and yet only the best pieces are chosen.
“The women will often beg for me to buy necklaces that are made with wrong colors or bracelets that are too long,” explains Tati. “As much as I want to, this is a business and in order for it to work, they have to stay true to the designs.”
But, she continues, it is true. The price of the beads has tripled in the past year. No one is really sure why. The traders are making huge profits, and the women are suffering. In the Maasai society, women bear children, service their husbands, and work. They haul water, build houses, clean, cook, and farm. They command little to no respect from the men and village elders. But today, through the work of Tanzania Maasai Women’s Art, things are beginning to change. These illiterate women who have no formal skills are being educated and trained, using their ancient craftsmanship, to become artisans who are earning money. When they are able to make bracelets, earrings and necklaces that are good enough to sell to Tati and Margaret, who can then sell them others, they are able to change their lives. They have money for school fees, shoes, soap, sugar and supplies. Their husbands see value, abuse abates, and a new story is be written.
“Sawa,” I say to the lead mama, and turn to Margaret. “Please tell her that we understand, and we will see what we can do.”
As we leave, we embrace. We are two sets of women living in two vastly different worlds, and Tati, Margaret, and Tanzania Maasai Women’s Art are our bridge. Together with my commitment, I am energized and renewed.
Tati and a little friend
With Tati (left), Margaret and the mamas inside the boma
Tati, lead mama, Kim and Margaret
The mamas
Home
Beauty
Tags: Ashe' Collection, Tanzania, Tanzania Maasai Women's Art, UNITE
The boy lays on a frayed woven mat whose colors have long since faded over the years. His contorted legs are supported by an old cushion over which his two crooked, clubbed bare feet hang. His thin body curls in a half moon shape while his two stiffened arms and balled hands reach for an old soccer ball by his side.
“Oh God Bless, he does love that ball,” laughs Saskia Rechsteiner, a tall blonde 41-year old mother of two young sons herself. As we carefully step over the boy, whose name is in fact God Bless, he looks up at us. One eye focuses — or so it seems — and the other trails off 45 degrees to the left. While he doesn’t respond overtly, it seems to me that he senses the kindness of this lovely woman.
Kindness… That’s the name of the game in this magical place. So much so that it is the first thing visitors see when they arrive. Written in large, bold script on the entry wall is:
“Kindness is a language that blind people can see and deaf people can hear.”
We continue our tour around this unique compound where boundaries are marked by walls built from hundreds of glass bottles, piled high upon one another with nothing more to hold them steady than balance – like card castles. And inside “rooms” that are delineated by partitions made from lines of brightly-colored, single- and multiple-strand mobiles and wind chimes.
“She came to us a few months ago,” says Saskia, as she relates to my sister and I the story of God Bless and his mother Teresia. Teresia is in front of us, working away at her station, which is positioned carefully just feet from her son, stringing mounds of red, yellow, blue, green, black and white Maasai beads onto spools of silver wire. With her bright eyes, big white smile, flawless black skin and slight frame, she barely looks 20. “Teresia came around asking for work, and she was carrying God Bless on her back. I asked how old her boy was, thinking that perhaps he was 3 or 4 years old. 17 she told me. She had been carrying around that child on her back for 17 years.”
Teresia is one of only three of Saskia’s 42 employees who does not personally live with some kind of disability. Everyone else has one or more handicaps, ranging from deafness to physical abnormalities, and — what we think afflicts God Bless –though we cannot be sure because he has never seen a proper doctor for a diagnosis — severe Cerebral Palsy.
Shanga, which means “bead” in Swahili, is the name of this place. Located alongside of one of the largest and most successful coffee plantations in Arusha, Tanzania, this unique for-profit business pays local people who are living with disabilities honest and fair wages to design, engineer and produce lines of unique and exquisite product… all made from trash. Employees work six days a week, 11 months a year, 8:30 a.m. – 4:30 p.m. with a 1/2 hour lunch break. Lunches and uniforms are provided by Shanga. The number of job applicants is steadily growing; the current waiting list is over 200.
Shanga started in 2007 when Saskia, then home on sabbatical from her work managing safari camp sites in the National Parks, asked her housemaid’s sister, who just happened to be deaf, to help her make a few necklaces to sell at a Christmas fundraising bizarre. The response to their necklaces was overwhelming, and the seeds of Shanga were planted. Today, five years later, Shanga is a thriving and internationally-recognized African enterprise. Their 10 acres are divided into sections. By the river, there is the Riverhouse restaurant where hundreds of tourists come each week to sit at outdoor tables made from recycled Indian Dhows in brightly colored cushioned chairs and enjoy organic, locally grown lunches. Up a ways from the river is the Shanga Store, where tables and countertops overflow with the Shanga designs. Necklaces, bracelets, sandals, wraps, scarfs, handbags, wallets, wall art, glassware, clothing, baskets and more… 100% of profits go in to the running of Shanga and hiring more people in need. Saskia herself does not take a salary.
Closer to the entryway and roadside are the workshops.
There, tires that once carried human, livestock and material loads across East Africa are made to adorn children’s clothes as buttons and bling. Glass from discarded water, soda and liquor bottles — and even eye glasses — is melted and transformed into beads of all shapes, colors and sizes, all kinds of glassware, bottle rings for jewelry and mobiles, and mosaics. Aluminum taken from the parts of old airplanes, cars, trucks and machinery is transformed into bracelets and necklaces. Used paper collected from schools and offices is gathered to make recycled products such as boxes and cards, which are then decorated with thinly-cut tin African animals of varying sizes. And cow bones and horns are boiled down and sliced into jewelry components.
“Even our machinery is made from rubbish,” says Saskia showing us their generator, which was created from an old engine and alternator. An old washing machine engine, bicycle tire and sewage pipe were used to construct the machine that now smoothes Shanga’s glass beads. Their smelting machine, used to transform the aluminum, is made from two truck wheels and an air pump.
Here, truly, nothing goes to waste. In this poor East African country where there is no organized waste removal of any kind… where garbage litters streets and streams, rivers and roadsides, Saskia and her team have pioneered a recycling center that is not only giving new life to material waste, it is giving new hope, opportunity, and respect to a community of human castaways. Ignorance, poverty and a widespread belief in witchcraft and sorcery condemns most all Tanzanians who have disabilities – both children and adults alike — to lives of isolation, pain and suffering. Not so for those who have made it to Shanga.
“Our mantra? We are able!‘” says Saskia, flashing a big beautiful smile.
Shanga is UNITE The World With Africa’s latest partner in our building and development of
The Ashe Collection, our online collection of unique African artistry at www.ashecollection.com.
Tags: african artistry, Ashe' Collection, shanga, Tanzania, UNITE
My faith has always been unconventional. I have never been able to fit myself into the box of any church or organized religion. Messages that ring true to me come from all over — Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, New Age Spirituality, Indigenous beliefs, lakes, mountains, the sea, dreams and beyond. But just recently, in Tanzania, for me.. the Divine became real.
Last month my UNITE traveling team arrived at the Kilimanjaro airport at 2:00 am on a Sunday morning. We were met by a darkened building under construction, a strong warm breeze, and our three Tanzanian UNITE teammates, Fred Mollel, Elias Shayo and Geoffrey Manangwe who had driven hours through the night just to welcome us with bouquets of flowers and open arms. Instead of waiting until our pre-arranged meeting time later that morning, they went far out of their way to give us a “proper” welcome to their country.
After a brief sleep, we went together to Fred’s Lutheran church in Arusha central. The large concrete cathedral dwarfs the next-door “old” church, made of wooden planks and tin ceiling boards that connect with gaps and holes at every corner. The new building is rising up from the labor, love, and devotion of the Church’s many thousands of parishioners. Everyone contributes what they can. Inside the newly tiled floors gleam and the colorful alter glistens.
Western visitors are rare in this place. We receive a royal welcome. After some prodding, a few Tanzanian men moved their plastic chairs by ours so us wageni (guests) wouldn’t be sitting alone. The choirs, old and young, sang for hours. The parents and grands group, who had been singing and worshipping together for more than 20 years, took our breath away with their angelic and operatic voices. The younger choir, at least 60 strong, put on quite a different show. In their matching white shirts and black pants, or skirts, they danced and boogied. Their funky choreography would get J-Lo moving and their solos rivaled Celine Dion and even dear Whitney Houston. Unable to sit still, we all cheered, hooped and hollered after every performance…
Hours into the service, the tone changed. One of the gentlemen sitting next to me’s wife had recently survived a car crash. He wanted to pay his glory to God. Dozens of people streamed to the front of the church, faced the alter, and the silence was soon replaced by chanting. Then, a man standing in front of us fell over straight backwards on to the tile floors. Stiff as a board, he began to convulse and make horrible loud guttural noises. His eyes rolled back in his head. No one seemed to notice. The service went on and the man convulsed. Noticing the discomfort and worry of us “wageni” a few young men finally walked over, picked up the man, turned him on his side, removed his shoes, and carried him out the back of the church. That was it. No one else skipped a beat.
Again, hours later, after prolonged goodbyes and photos with the congregation, choirs and clergy, I asked Freddie, “What happened?”
“God was driving the devil out of that man.”
“You mean he was possessed by the devil?” I ask incredulously.
“Yes.”
“Are you worried? Is that a problem.”
“No,”said Freddie without much interest. “It’s not a problem. They took him out and prayed over him. He will be OK.”
Hmmmmm.
A week or so later my team was visiting the New Life Foundation, an orphanage, school and vocational center for more than 400 children. Based in Moshi, along the foothills of Kilimanjaro, who the locals refer to as Old Man Mzee, New Life cares for those that are abandoned, abused, neglected, and without hope. Jesus is at the forefront of their lives. Upon our arrival to the primary school, again we were met by song. Joyful and upbeat, soulful and serene. Hundreds of voices packed tightly together. Wearing matching school uniforms, the children sang loudly and proudly with their hands clasped together in front of their hearts, faces and even placed over their eyes. I admired their faith. I envied their faith. My heart swelled in my chest, my breathing quickened and I thought that perhaps I too could feel their faith.
-
- Josephine comforting Neema’s grandmother who was overcome by emotion.
***
Before every meal, I would pray with my Tanzanian friends. To them, I am Dada Annie (sister Annie) and we are one family under God. Our love and devotion to one another is honest and true.
***
The day before we left the country, we visited the family of Neema, a sponsored student of New Life. About a half hour off the main road, over a nearly impassable rocky ditch-filled path, is a tiny shamba, one of countless others, where Neema’s family lives in a dilapidated and disintegrating home made of mud and dung and survives off the food they can grow on a small patch of land, that at the moment was starving for the soon-to-arrive rains. In one dark, windowless room, eight children sleep on wooden boards on the dirt floor, including Neema — when she is home on school holidays. There is nothing there…
When we arrived back to our modest hotel in time for me to prepare for more meetings and a UNITE-partner celebration for 20+ people, one woman commented about how she really didn’t want to share a room or a shower that night. A heavy weight came over me. I hastily made my way to sit under a tree in the hotel garden. I longed for a moment alone… a moment I had not yet had the entire time I had been in Africa. I began writing and venting in my feelings in my notebook when Josephine approached. The head of New Life Foundation (with her husband Glorious), Josephine’s blue and white fitted kitanga dress was somehow barely hardly ruffled after our long day in the dusty bush and her skin looked flawless. All it took was one glance into her kind and compassionate eyes to release the floodgates. My tears began to flow. “What does it take,” I asked, “to reach the human heart?”
She sat down by my side, took my hands in hers and said quietly, “Anne, the human heart is made of stone. Only God can break it.”
I told her that what upset me the most was not so much the behaviors or actions — or lack thereof – of others, but my judgment of them. She asked to say a prayer over me. I sniffled and agreed.
Josephine prayed that God would free me of my judgment and pain and that He would give us all the strength and courage necessary to do His Will here on Earth. It was a simple and only took a moment.
***
That was weeks ago. I have since been overcome by a sense of calm and peace that I can attribute only to Grace. Now, the words and behaviors of others that command my atttention are only those that inspire me. I feel free. I am free. And I know, without doubt, that the Divine is real.
Josephine comforting Neema's grandmother who was overcome by emotion.
The bicycle passes, old and rusted, pieced together from dozens of others, tires patched time and time again. The back is loaded with six large jerrycans filled with water. The rider’s sinewy leg muscles buldge under the strain. On the handlebars, perched with legs splayed out side to side is a young passenger enjoying a cheap ride toward home.
At the watering hole, the girls and women — all dressed in their colorful kangas and rubber shoes — wait and chatter patiently in long lines. Jerry cans litter the ground, and a few donkeys stand by to help carry loads. Most, however, will transport on clean shaven heads or tied to thin bent-over backs.
In the next village over, run off waters from a sugar plantation catch in large 4-feet-deep gutters that extend alongside the main road. Too wide to jump, perilously placed wooden boards serve as the only crossing points, every kilometer or so. Those plantations are green. The sugar is thriving. Dozens of tall sprinklers stream a steady flow of water on the huge crop fields that stretch into the horizon.
In those gutters, local village women and children bathe, play and scrub their clothes. The water is filled with pesticides. It is not fit to drink. The people are forbidden to use the water to care for their shambas. When we arrive, the gatherers scatter. Back to their homes they go, where only lifeless shades of brown cover their gardens, shambas and fields that are thirsting for water.
On this day. it is snowing white butterflies. As we bounce along in our 4-wheel-drive over boulders and through ditches on paths that hardly pass as roads, we marvel at the sea of white ahead. It is so beautiful, we says. And it is. Thousands of fluttering wings bring color and life to a place where just yesterday there was none. “There are too many,” says Mama Valeria Mrema, UNITE’s partner and trusted friend. “These people are in trouble.” Mama sees reality; we see only wonder.
What we learned is that the white butterflies come before the rains. They are the final chapter in a dry season so long and so brutal that it devastates all life. The butterflies bring beauty and destruction. When they land on the soil, they lay eggs that — without the use of proper, and expensive, pesticides — will kill anything that might try to grow there.
A dust funnel cloud approaches. These brown tornadoes sprinkle the landscape, traveling quickly over acacia, candelabra-trees and termite mounds below and engulfing everything in site. Mama points with her pinky finger and commands it to leave. “It is Satan,” she tell us. We turn our backs and cover our faces. That cloud did seem to pass more quickly than the others.
On the way home, our land rover rocks side to side and thick brown dirt engulfs the air. It is the worst we’ve seen so far. We cannot breathe. We cough and guzzle water in attempts to clear our throats and lungs. The dust is in our eyes, in our ears, in our noses and it even blankets our teeth. Next to our vehicle, women are walking. They’ve come from the watering hole miles away. Their jerry cans filled with precious water balance on their heads and their babies lay tied tightly to their backs. Their eyes are closed as they walk through the dust storm.
That was weeks ago. Today, the rains have come. Now most all of the village roads are impassable. Homes that are made of mud and dung are rapidly disintegrating. Rock hard earth that had been prepared as carefully as possible by countless female hands, struggles to absorb the onslaught. In standing pools of water, schistosomiasis profligates and in the air, mosquitoes breed. Human and livestock manure piles liquefy in biofeul tanks.
And the people rejoice. The crops will grow. The wildlife and livestock will drink. The river beds will fill. The harvest WILL come.
