My cash won’t solve your problems – But it’ll buy your dinner

We just finished a week long education camp in a small town about 40 minutes outside of Arusha called Kikatiti. The needs in Kikatiti are many – and the group that did a community profile in the area decided that running a week long camp by partnering with a vocational school and working with Tanzanian volunteers would be the best way to address a lot of them. Kikatiti is small, rural and dusty. It was very different than here near Arusha. Located just a hundred feet from the vocational school where we spent most of the week was a well that fed a constant stream of women (and some men and children) collecting water in large plastic containers that they would then use for the rest of the day (or longer). The line was never shorter than 15 and the road was constantly full of yellow barrels carried by handcarts, donkeys, or on heads. There are tons of orphans (a child in TZ even if they have only lost one parent – there were 40 registered orphans at the primary school of about 300) and many of them end up as “street kids” not necessarily living on the street, but spending a lot of their time outside with not much to do – although many of them find work pushing carts. There is also a large market held every Tuesday and Friday that people come from all over to attend. And remember that huge trash pile? Yeah – that’s smack dab in the middle of Kikatiti.

The coolest part of the project was that we recruited a bunch of Arusha college students to help us plan and carry out the week and working with them was awesome. It was so much fun developing friendships and communicating about issues with kids our age and working together to solve problems (look for a future blog post on how education inequality in the US seems to mirror some of the problems here – aka – getting to go to college has a lot to do with the type of background you come from) Together with these students we planned classes and projects to help change attitudes and behaviors and address issues in K’titi (that’s how it’s abbreviated on the Dala Dala’s.

Well best laid plans of mice and men….but I’d say we adapted and the week went really well. We (that’s presumptuous. The only class WE as in HELP taught was English. The university students taught the rest and were awesome! Way to kick butt Gerald, Godlisten, Joseph, Abdallah, and Irene!) a bunch of classes and seeing a room full of people seeing and using computers for the first time, or helping a motivated farmer understand how he could diversify his investments and support himself in case of a poor harvest by selling bricks, was AWESOME. Not to mention that every day in the afternoon we got a group of kids who we taught English games and just got to have fun with.

Then, today (Friday) for the closing ceremony we had a DJ come from Arusha and set up a stand to promote a handwashing station that we built. We did training and had a bunch of activities to help the villagers and market-goers participate in cleanliness. The handwashing station was awesome. The rest of the day was less so. It seemed that whatever we did – people were asking for a handout. People I worked with all week asked for 500 TSH for food. People who we invited to come and use the new handwashing station asked if they’d get paid. People gave up on our activities when they learned the rewards were sweets, not shillings. We couldn’t play the second game of soccer because one of the kids from the first game stole the ball. Maybe it was all the muzungu in one place. Or the dj set up with his music, computer and soundmixer in an obvious show of wealth. And just to rub it in, in the short walk from the bus stop to our house, I was asked for money three times: once by some kids that I stopped to talk to while Matt bought food. The first thing out of his mouth was English “Can I have money?” The next was an old lady who wanted 200 shillings to buy tea because it was cold. And finally just as we turned onto our road, a lady yelled “muzungu!” and held out her hand. None of these people were beggars.

I feel sorry for mom’s and dad’s everywhere – is this what the “Hey – can I have some cash?” feels like? But it was also discouraging (not to mention demoralizing) to be seen as a source of free money and not as a person. It makes you wonder what actions/programs/prior interaction has caused this attitude and whether we’re helping or just making it worse.

But there is another side to this too. In the market I was asked for the US equivalent of 33 cents. The old lady only wanted about 13. The people asking for the money are spot on in their assumption that I have that money and enough to spare what they want (I can’t spare it to everyone – but I can spare it to them) And all of this is not to mention what I feel my responsibility is as a Christian is concerning money and beggars (Hmmm interesting conclusion that writing this down helped me to reach: They aren’t technically beggars – we’re theologically required to give only to those who have no other options than to beg….interesting)

I guess this is the constant struggle of this kind of work – today alone we spent a lot of money that probably didn’t change much. We might have had a just as much (if not more) of an affect giving that money away. It might have made a bunch of people satisfied (happy, even?) today. It might have prevented someone from getting sick because of malnutrition. We tell ourselves that giving away money doesn’t have a long term affect, but it totally could. It just isn’t sustainable. It means twenty years from now the same well dressed granny will ask a muzungu for twenty cents and kids who don’t know any English other than hello, gooodbye, and give me money will stick their hand out before they get to know you. The trick is finding something that can change this. Because up to this point – apparently begging money from a muzungu is still a good way to eat – whether your 12, 22, or 66.

How does superman sleep at night? (By Dreaming Big)

Today’s blog post is a little more sober of a post than the last few. I hope that I can articulate some of the things that I’m feeling.

As a team we are involved in some pretty cool projects that are addressing needs and solving problems in innovative and exciting ways. Just a few of the projects that I’ve been involved in up to this point include: working to set up computer literacy courses sponsored by local businesses that benefit both the business and the students; working along with local university volunteers to plan and carry out an education week in one of the more rural communities; working with local and regional government to clean up and move a trash pile and create a better and more consistent pick up system; evaluating HIV education techniques among the Maasai and creating materials that are culturally sensitive and tailored to audiences who may not speak Swahili (let alone English). I have had a lot of fun with all of these, and working with our partners has both encouraged and educated me. Problem solving for each of these groups has come spontaneously (While I’m showering, or traveling) and often.

There’s one project though that has given me a lot of trouble. Utukufu is a group of ladies (about 50) and at least 2 men, who are HIV positive. 15 of them meet three times a week in an unfinished house (house is a generous word) in the only room with a cement floor where they receive education, share questions, stories and answers, and help each other feel that they’re not alone. Utukufu is the Swahili word for glory The group is lead by Goodluck a man in his 30’s who used to guide safari tours but quit, received training as an HIV counselor and started this group because it was something he wanted to do. He wants to start an orphanage too – and in addition to making house visits to all the Utukufu members whenever they are sick and bringing them food or taking them to the doctor, he also visits neighborhood orphans living with relatives to check up on them as well.

Up to this point in time, he has been doing all this with his dwindling savings. (Not the smartest plan financially) I think he hoped to find a rich sponsor to help keep it going. Obviously sponsoring isn’t the line of business that we’re in, but trying to figure out some way to help a group that doesn’t own a collective piece of land (they rent the meeting house for 10 bucks/month, and Goodluck lives in a single room in a nearby housing block) or any assets really has been difficult. The first time we met with the group they suggested things like helping them get a goat, or chickens, or a corn grinder, and I just couldn’t see how (or where, or who) any of these activities would be carried out and how they would be a sustainable source of income in a saturated market. I encouraged them to be creative.

As a team we struggled with this idea for a couple weeks before proposing in a group meeting that we have them create some sort of craft and market it as souvenirs to tourists with specific advertising that the proceeds will go to an HIV support group. It was an idea that I had brought up before but was not very confident in (I’m approached by at least four people a day selling souvenirs – it’s an already saturated market, and there is a low barrier to entry – what’s to prevent another similar organization to start marketing their charity bracelets?) but the team felt it was a good idea and we shared with the members of Utukufu. The ladies (and men – there is always at least one man and the team always reminds me it’s not just the ladies, but they are mostly ladies) discussed the idea back and forth bringing up problems and offering solutions. Should they hire an outsider to teach them craft making skills? No – some ladies in the group had prior experience and they had friends and relatives that they could go to for free. Who would pay for the transportation to go and learn the skills? “We pay on our own!” one lady said, “this is an investment in our education!” The lady with the craft making skills spoke up – would she be compensated for her time? Again the group responded – this was for the benefit of the Utukufu family – there would be no compensation as they worked together to help support themselves – and the lady agreed to teach for free.

It was a powerful thing to watch. Each of these ladies (and men!) had at some point in the past walked into a clinic and been told that they had tested positive for a disease that was incurable and would, at some point, cause their bodies to weaken to the point of death. Each of these ladies (and men) returned to the same government clinic every month to receive ARVs that sometimes made them sick but kept them alive. Yet when they sat talking about this idea in that small room, you could see them taking control of something again. I don’t want to make what we were doing with Utukufu sound overly dramatic – the group was established long before we showed up and the members helped and took strength from each other just by interacting – but watching them discuss the way in which they would take charge of the group financially was powerful.

…and intimidating. To me, this was just an idea. I still have no idea if it would work. It’s one thing for me to invest my time and money in an idea – I’ve got enough to spare. For these ladies discussing how they’d pay travel fees of twenty cents – the investments could cost them a days worth of food. And the investment in hope, the belief that this idea was so great and grand that it only could have been inspired of God (something one of the ladies said) was daunting. I did not sleep well that night.

But then, we got to work. Goodluck contacted vendors that he knew who added their opinion that the idea would work and agreed to market our product. We met with hotels who were open to selling the bracelets at their giftshops if they could see a sample of our work. Goodluck begin contacting more members of the group about their talents. And when we met again, instead of being unnerving, the faith these women had in the idea was inspiring. We started the meeting singing gospel songs – a call a repeat that lasted more than 20 minutes. The voices of each of the women suited the situation and the environment so perfectly that I would fail in any attempt to describe it. And they helped me to believe that this will work. With a little faith and a lot of work – you can beat HIV. You don’t need to be superman to do the superhuman.

Lending Hands

There are a couple paved roads in Tanzania. Literally, just a couple. We don’t live on one. We live off of it. You take a dirt road (of which there are a WHOLE lot) down to a field, then take a left and go up a bit of a hill to get to our house. The hill is pretty steep and being at nearly 4000 ft elevation, it’s a hike to get to the top. And that’s when all that you’re doing is walking up it. There’s a whole lot of mom’s carrying kids, bikes with stuff, buckets, bags, and handcarts being carried, lugged, and pulled up that hill.

When I was coming down the hill the other day, three young men were struggling to pull a handcart up the hill. Handcarts here are either metal contraptions with old bicycle wheels or heavy wooden things with old flat car tires. They’re normally packed full of produce, carrying furniture, or piles of wood. This one was piled high with wood. I gave my backpack to one of the other volunteers and “put my shoulder to the wheel.” It was hard sweaty work, but well worth the shocked faces and laughs of our Tanzanian neighbors as they saw a Muzungu (Swahili for “gringo”) helping push a handcart up a hill.

When I arrived at the top I shook hands with the cartman, and feeling a little “job well done” pride wiped my hands and headed back down the hill. To my surprise both of the other youths joined me on my way down. I thought that I had been doing such a favor, lending a hand to help these three when in fact, I had actually joined a service project already in action. Just like me, they had seen a man in need and had taken time out of their day (and the effort to hike back up the hill) to help him out.

Since then I’ve seen Tanzanians who have never met help a handcart in need more than a couple times, and have taken the chance to join in again. It seems that there is a culture of shared labor which you don’t often see in the states. But even more important, that experience was a lesson to me about the service that I render here as well as elsewhere during my life. We tend to think that when we do something, it is our hand that is making the difference, getting a stalling cart moving up the hill. But in reality, it is the many hands involved that get the cart moving and keep it going. There are so many hands at work all over the world, it is about finding the right place to join them and help move that cart along. I didn’t get that cart to the top, we did.

Trashed

One of the biggest surprises so far is the amount of garbage that is everywhere. Traditionally, I’m sure that the good jungle giveth and the good jungle taketh away – people would pick a banana and throw the useless skin back into the bush where it would disappear and never be seen again. But now when you throw out a bottle or a wrapper, it sticks around. The ditches next to the road and even the road itself is often littered with non-biodegradable waste. I’ve watched as people drop candy wrappers out of bus windows and others just fling stuff to the side of the road.

When someone has a pile of trash they’ll normally burn it – plastics, and whatever else is in there. Sometimes when we leave early enough in the morning there will be burning piles of trash all along the dirt path we hike up to the road. In the evening, sometimes there are so many burning piles of trash in Arusha town that the entire city is covered in a smoky haze.

From a public health perspective this is both a respiratory and environmental hazard. So, we’ve got a couple of projects focused on waste management. One of them is in a community called Kikatiti where we’ll be participating in the movement of a village trash pile (I’ll put up some pics tomorrow) and participating in a weeklong education fair. One of the focuses will be waste management. Another is a project that Elliot and I are putting together to have volunteers picking up trash in our neighborhood if they get home early from projects. I’m interested in the effect on the “Broken Window Theory,” of both projects. In essence, it is a criminology theory that states that a broken and unkempt urban environment creates social norms that also suggests a lack of care and therefore encourages crime. The most common example of the evidence for the theory was the rapid drop in crime rate in NYC after a focus on “idirect” causes of crime like public urination or vandalism.

So my question is if cleaning up a neighborhood can (arguably) reduce crime, can cleaning up the country change the attitudes of people who live there? It’s something I hope to examine a bit as we work piece by piece on our street.

As for all you wonderful readers back home – in our Kikatiti education week, we’ll be having a week long competition for the best reuse of “trash.” Whether it is aluminum coke bottle caps into earings, or a water bottle into a childes windmill toy, we’re going to have people submit their creations and promote the reusing items like cans, bottles and bags instead of throwing them into the woods. Do you have any fun ideas? If someone comes up with an idea ingenious enough to create a market, who knows – we could create the dala dala garbage industry!

Dala Dalas – Life, Death and a triumph of the free market economy

After three layovers, five airports and over 35 hours of travel, we (me, a first year med student named Elliot, a soon to be first year MPH Nisha, and undecided U of U sophomore Michelle) emerged from Kilimanjaro airport and into the arms of our loving country directors Tyler and America (yep, that’s her name!). They grabbed our bags and threw them into what at that time I assumed was the team van. It had four rows of seats, was very rickety, had no interior lining, and the door was so rusted through in parts that you could see outside.
Two police stops, as many bribes, and one clever maneuver later, we were home and I had survived my first dala dala ride. Dala dala’s serve as Tanzania’s privately owned and operated mass transit system (and for enough money, as our private transport to the airport) They are only licensed to travel between certain towns and have a stripe indicating their route along the side (which explains the two police stops for our out-of-line dala dala on the way home from the airport). They normally have a driver, a hustler (more on him later), and as many rows of seats as fit in the van. Each is painted and stickered up according the tastes of the driver (I can’t tell yet if any have ads on them – a lucrative market perhaps?) Fares are set at certain prices for specific distances but other than their areas of operation and the fare they charge, they operate completely unregulated (and it is questionable how often the other two are regulated anyway)
Dala Dal’s wait at the starting point of their route with the driver in the car while the hustler walks around banging the side of the van and yelling out the final destination. Since there are normally a couple Dala Dalas sitting around, they are competing against the other hustlers for your business and pursue you somewhat aggressively, to the point of grabbing your arm and pulling you toward their van if you aren’t assertive. You want to pick your van wisely, because if it’s empty, it won’t leave until they’ve gathered enough people to more than fill it. So you’re best off in a van that’s almost full because that means it’s almost ready to go. And when I say full, I mean full. You’re usually packed four people to a row, and if they can get enough to have people standing in the van, they’ll pack them in. The most I’ve had in a van with me so far was twenty five. On the way home from church last week we even had a sheep under a seat.
Once filled, the Dala dala literally takes off. The driver’s profits depend on how many paying customers he gets from point A-B so he’ll try and pick up as many as possible and get them in and out as fast as possible. If someone in front is moving too slow, they pass them – no matter how fast the car in the other lane is coming. If the van isn’t full enough the hustler will have the van pull over and open and hop out the door while still on the move to try and round up some more customers. When you’re ready to get off you just bang on the roof and they pull over. After disentangling yourself and squeezing out you can hit dry ground happy in the knowledge that you survived another brush with death.
This system isn’t very comfortable. I’m positive that it’s dangerous (and exhilarating. PS mom – no calling the office about this one). And yet it works – almost perfectly actually. In an area in which the government can hardly pay for hospitals, schools, or other basic necessities, their exists a system of mass transit that rivals in efficiency any system in western world. There is hardly any wait time – a dala dala passes nearly every thirty seconds – and for a pittance (the price of a ride to town is 300 Tanzanian Shillings, or about 20 cents) you can get anywhere you need to go. It’s a miracle of supply, demand and the invisible hand. After solving (somewhat) the issue of mass transport, it begs the question, if properly incentivized, what other ills can the market cure? How could the market fix the roads, sewage, or....

A brief note-

This blog is not going to be a journal. I’m keeping my own journal, on my laptop, password protected. This blog is going to be a blog. On occasion I may post about the specific things I’ve experienced that day/week, and every post will be influenced by the happenings here in TZ, but most of what I’ll be putting up here will be ideas, thoughts, and musing inspired what I’m seeing and doing. So, think with me. I’ll be asking for your feedback. And if you want to know about my day to day stuff, I’ll talk to you when I get back.

The Great Adventure

It has been one heck of a Tuesday. Trying to finish a pair of classes early, move out of two apartments and training a replacement doesn't leave much time for goodbyes or pondering. I don't tell her enough, but I'm glad God saved my Mom for me. Don't know what would have happened if she hadn't been out here to help. And thank goodness there is an 11 hour layover in London tomorrow to collect my thoughts!

On this the eve of perhaps the great adventure of my life, I am, understandably, a little nervous. This trip has been something I have dreamed of doing for a long, long time, and even though I know it will be nothing like I expect, I wonder exactly what is going to surprise me. What am I going to see? What am I going to learn? and how will this all change me?

Adventure. I would assume that it comes from the same root as the word "Advent" - the arrival of something notable. I feel that this will be one of the most notable events in my life, a defining 12 weeks. I'm glad that you'll get to share them with me. (am I allowed to wish this on myself?) Bon Voyage!