So far this year, my lucky year of the rabbit according to Chinese astrology, has given me the most amazing experiences. I thank my lucky stars for granting my wish of traveling the world in between finishing graduate school and starting a full time position. I continue to learn and grow as a person and be in awe of the world. Since January, I made the holiday trip back home to New Jersey to reunite with family and friends and then headed for Asia from end of January til March to see cleft lips and palates for the first in India while observing other public health inequities and then reconnected with long lost family in Thailand. April was the month that I was finally able to go to Haiti and meet an already existing family network that I fell into. May was the official end of MPH through graduation and NJ visitors while concentrating on launching Room for Compassion. I spent the month of June in the Democratic Republic of Congo, Kenya and Tanzania with the greatest honor of carrying out public health/genetic research for Operation Smile and later the multiple programs for Room for Compassion. I still find it hard to believe that I am still at the same age of 23 because I turned this age while in Tanzania last year, changed my viewpoints on life and have since made a return trip to Shirati. So now I find it helpful to reflect and recap on the last 7 months through the following themes:
Culture: Dance, Drink, Food
Every new country is like an island to be explored thoroughly especially in its people and customs. I’m convinced that us Westerners can spend most of a lifetime in another culture and probably still learn from that culture. Food is one of the big pleasures in life for me. I grew up with a father as a Tex/Mex and Chinese chef and a mother that created the most divine Thai food. In college, I was an amateur food critic for the school newspaper and savored (pun intended) every moment. The problem with constant traveling and trying new food, other than the fear of intestinal consequences, is that you eat the most divine food and know that you will never know food that good again unless you returned to that specific region. I ate street food and homemade food in most of the countries I traveled to and albeit some minor diarrhea, it was well worth it. I reminisce about the seafood, noodles, and thai tea in Thailand, paneer and masalas of India, ugali and chips my eye in Tanzania, coffee and homemade food in Haiti. I notice that every country has its own selection of beer and sampling it all is a small adventure on its own from Dos Equis and Corona in Mexico, Saqqara in Egypt, Ndovo, Serengeti, Safari in Tanzania, Guinness in Ireland (best beer ever), Chang in Thailand. I like collecting tea from different countries, if you are ever in my apartment, I would be more than happy to let you sample tea from Tanzania, Ethiopia & Egypt. Dancing is one of my favorite cultural aspects to observe and learn. Back in 2008, I used to dance the night away nearly every night to the salsa and Reggaeton beats in the nightclubs of Guadalajara and even took dance lessons when I returned to the U.S. In Haiti, the GAP kids loved dancing and so did I. I had the most memorable moment while one of the sweet mannered kids, Jean Woody, and I danced in the pouring rain. In India, the one dance I learned looked like beautiful flocking birds as I danced to Hindi music in my sari. I practiced bachata and salsa in the Dominican Republic. I didn’t quite get to learn the Congolese local dances, but did want to. I also like the club scene in LA. In my recent trip to Shirati, I danced the night away at a wedding to Bongo flavor music, cool Caribbean-African sounding tunes.
Roots: NYC, Thailand, Shirati
I half wanted to go back home to New Jersey/NYC area this past Christmas. First, my family doesn’t do the Christmas thing anymore, we used to have trees and families over and presents but since us kids have grown and families have all moved away, putting up the tree is just unnecessary effort in the house. Secondly its cold and I’m coming from So Cal weather. Third, I always find that my maximum time of being home and not getting into an altercation with my mother is about 2 weeks and I was supposed to spend over 3 weeks home. This Christmas was the first in 7 years that I spent fully with my family since I used to spend it with 2-3 different families. My mom, dad, brother and I go to where my parents love most, Chinatown, NYC. It was the place they lived when they immigrated to the U.S. and learned the restaurant business and it’s also an ethnically Asian place, a respite away from our all white town and all white food. On the car ride home from eating and seeing the big NY Christmas tree, something extraordinary happened. I asked to stop by the apartment where my parents began living the American dream and they recounted so many stories for the hour-long car ride back from feeling outcast and homesick in such a different culture to working so hard that they would take naps in cars and be at the restaurant 7 days a week. The next 3-4 hours after that was my Christmas miracle. My parents and I were so enthralled in the conversation of their past that it continued at home, in my bedroom of all places. I somehow found it in my gut while my heart raced to bring up skeletons in our closet that have affected each one of us but never ever said out loud. To my surprise, I acted as a neutral mediator while my parents genuinely and honestly spilled their raw emotions about unresolved feelings, their insecurities and emotional pain throughout the years. I brought up my feelings of not having the soccer sideline supporting parents and sometimes having to grow up faster than I intended but at the same time thanked my back-breaking hard-working parents for everything I have ever gotten from them – unconditional love, sports, braces, Chinese school, freewill to choose my career, car insurance, etc. I was so glad it took everything inside of me to initially bring this up but I knew it then that it was one of those now or never moments. Many hours later, we end up embracing and I know that each one of us has left the burden we’ve been quietly and secretly carrying on our shoulders for the past 20 odd years and that my relationship with my parents would be forever different and their relationship with each other is somehow altered now for the better. I tearfully told them that I will always look back to this Christmas night long after they leave this world. Had we not had this discussion, maybe we would have taken all of our hurt to the grave. Getting to the root of the problem gives you the best chance at solving it.
A few weeks after leaving New Jersey feeling fulfilled and at peace with myself and my family, I headed to India and then Thailand to explore my familial roots. My dad is from Cambodia and fled as a refugee in 1975 to the US. He worked in restaurants and met my mother’s father in New York. After he saw a picture of my mother, my dad was instantly in love and waited two years before being able to leave and return to the US and embarked to Thailand. After 6 months of meeting, when my mom had a boyfriend at the time, they fell instantly in love and had a large wedding ceremony in Thailand and then migrated back to the US. I think about how different my life would have been had my parents chose to stay in Thailand instead. Out of my mother’s family of 7 children, all 4 girls immigrated to the U.S. while all 3 boys stayed in Thailand. As I was thinking about what would life be growing up in Thailand, I wondered about how I would have fit in racially, unlike in Byram, and if I would have ever learned English or if I would be attracted to Thai boys. When I was there, I realized just how different I was being brought up American. My tan skin didn’t go over well with grandma and the culture of skin bleaching and snow white skin. Families are more tight-knit and I think I would have liked that growing up knowing my dozens of cousins and kids my age. I was a little too independent, I noticed, as my grandma fretted about me taking a taxi by myself to the airport and holding my hand crossing the street. If she only could see me roaming around India in a taxi and Tanzania on local motorcycles. In America, you try to get out of the house at 18 and are determined to basically never return back to mom and dad’s basement unless it’s necessary but in Thailand, you stay as long as possible and sometimes until marriage – actually this is similar to upbringing in many countries I’ve seen. Had I been Thai, I would have been more religious and gone to Buddhist temples constantly and probably gossiped a lot more since that’s what my family did a lot of. Point in short, I reaffirmed my hypothesis at how drastically different my whole life would have been. Although my parents have enough money to retire to Thailand and live very well with servants and multiple houses, they choose to stay in the US to battle the cold NJ winters and work 2-3 jobs each. They always said it’s the opportunities in America that you cannot find anywhere else, the American dream.
My third connection to roots was returning back to Shirati, Tanzania. After spending 5 weeks there last summer, I didn’t want to leave and seriously considered skipping a semester of graduate school to stay and cancelling my safari. It felt like going back home to a place where I have this bond and instant connection. The same feeling I felt when I first visited and fell in love with Lycoming College. I’m super indecisive in 90% of my life choices and decisions but not with Shirati. As evidenced by my best friend Kelly referring to me upon my return from Tanzania as “post-Africa Steph”, my time in the village drastically changed me on the inside and makes me strive to constantly be a better person and now I know my life ambitions. To step foot back in the place that started a new chapter in my life was beyond words. All of the different vulnerable areas that I feel passionate about from school sponsorship to microlending and girls empowerment, I was able to engage in during my trip. I again wish I could have stayed much much longer but loved being there for a brief visit.
Empathy/Compassion: Guwahati, Bangkok, Dar-es-Salaam
I never had a particular desire to go to India. It’s not that I have anything against the country or people, it’s just that there were maybe 20 countries I wanted to go to before India and nothing specifically piqued my interest except maybe the Taj Mahal. I’m a firm believer in everything happening for a reason. Three weeks before departing, I learned from my boss that he wanted me to go to India and observe an Operation Smile mission. As the plane landed in Guwahati, I could see and smell the poverty. Unlike normal people, being immersed in poverty excites my closest friends and I, not in a sick sadistic way, but in the way that we know we are going out of our element and will have our life views altered after this experience. This is what happened in India. A lot of it reminded me of sub-Saharan Africa but there were many public health practices much worse. The pollution, latrines, sanitation and water systems were things that at times horrified me and made me realize the work that needs to be done in India. On my last day in Guwahati as I spoke through a translator, a group of children the oldest being no older than 16, said that well water as the thing they wanted most if they had assistance. This moment sticks with me and if possible, I want to return to Guwahati and follow-up. India stole the heart of Kelly in the way Tanzania did to me, she is going back for one year and I couldn’t be more excited and proud of Kelly.
During my time in Thailand, I felt a different form of empathy. I met one Burmese woman working for my extended family. The language barrier prevented me from asking her questions about her life dreams and current circumstances, but I sensed that she was looking for a better life than in Burma and was able to connect with her with very little language exchange. I felt immediate compassion for a begging 11 year old boy while sitting at a restaurant overlooking the pier in Dar-es-Salaam, Tanzania. Luckily, I had two friends able to translate with me, and was touched to learn how hard-working and determined this little boy named David was. He was the income provider for his grandma and younger brother by begging for a maximum of 1,000 Tsh (about 60 cents) a day. David had dreams of becoming a boat captain, which would mean going to secondary school and university. When my friend Castor gave him his cell phone number in case he ever needed anything, David asked if he could receive help buying books for school.
Sometimes the poverty I see in the U.S. and abroad can initially feel overwhelming. And sometimes people feel so overwhelmed by it, they tend to ignore it by walking tunnel visioned past the homeless in New York or LA or ignoring the begging children while vacationing in Cancun. I think that acting on compassion is what defines us, makes us human and lets us reach out to humans that are complete strangers that we will probably never ever see again. Everyone has a different way to do this, whether donating change, volunteering, being involved with long term efforts. I remember arguing with my boyfriend, Matt, while we were in Haiti after I commented that him giving money to an elderly begging Haitian woman wasn’t “sustainable”. I’ve since been learning that sometimes sustainable or cost efficient ways of helping excludes the most vulnerable, namely populations that really can’t provide for themselves. I also personally realized that it’s wrong to criticize an act of good, unless it’s really beneficent with obviously bad long-term consequences (like undermining local economies by providing massive amounts of free stuff or aid).
Inner Peace: India, Thailand, Tanzania
I sought on to many of my recent destinations with the goals of giving to others and trying to empower locals, but my travels also had an unintended effect on me. I somehow became more spiritual. It sort of began when home in NJ and feeling relieved and peaceful after my Christmas miracle. Then in India, Kelly, Minh and I went to different temples and sat through multiple prayer ceremonies. I was introduced to the concept of meditation, something I clearly was aware of but never practiced. Then in Thailand, I visited countless Buddhist temples which all required kneeling and praying among the orange robed monks and magnificent golden statues of Buddha. In Tanzania, the beauty of nature and the smiles of the locals bring a sense of peace to my soul.
When asked, “what’s your religion?”, I usually answer Buddhist. My parents are Buddhist by tradition but neither are practicing or religious. My grandma sort of is, she goes to temples all the time, is superstitious and participates in many Buddhist ceremonies. For awhile, when I was growing up, I wanted to be Christian but for all the wrong reasons. Since most of my friends went to church and Sunday school and I heard about how great it all was, I wanted to join the group. I’ve met staunchly religious people in my time, and liked some more than others. I never liked the “lets knock on your door and convert you” devotees of any religion. Its condescending and imperialistic to impose or force feed a religion. Unfortunately, it’s been done all too successfully...look around the world, it’s clear that many indigenous cultures have been re-wired and sometimes forced to convert to a Western religion. Also horrible are the wars over religion, I mean, if human beings were truly devoted, wouldn’t there be harmony rather than killing? Religious humanitarian organizations that either require you to be of their religion to receive aid or the ones that bring bibles or Scientology principles to “save” souls rather than medicine or life-saving materials to help all regardless of religion is ridiculous. But as a whole, I’ve had mostly positive experiences with very religious and devout people. Many of them are actually very open minded and are respectful of other beliefs or lack thereof. I have many religious friends. I respect the many devoted individuals that stick to their religious principles and not just half-ass their declared religion. I imagine its difficult amongst all the criticism and disdain for faith in many parts of America to stay true to your beliefs. I admire that religious organizations raise the most money and do so much good since it’s an important principle to give, especially to the poor.
I think I’m more agnostic. My belief system initially began from my parents’ beliefs of reincarnation, past lives, soulmates, existence of the supernatural and an afterlife. I like the Buddhist concept of living in the middle line and not gravitating towards extremes. The karmic system in India and Hinduism is appealing to me too as is meditation and calmness. I like the Christian principles of serving others and avoiding the 7 deadly sins. I think there are many more religions that I want to learn about still and incorporate some of their ideals. I notice a similarity that arises between different beliefs. There is first and foremost a belief in an afterlife. A lot of religions admire selfless, giving figures and promote a life of peace.
At first inspired by a sense of calm, tranquility and inner peace within myself as I spend time in nature and become more humbled by situations I see, I realized that it is in this state of existence that is deemed most connected with whatever higher power there is. Many describe it as being in bliss and pure love but all the time. I was told by a Thai monk that meditation and clearing the mind of thoughts is the way to go. I really enjoyed reading about Liz Gilbert’s spiritual journey in “Eat, Pray, Love” and how she sought after this same state of existence through months of meditation and reflection in India. Being in Tanzania and sometimes in the Buddhist temples in Thailand or the tranquil Hindu temple on monkey island in Guwahati gave me this sense of inner peace and made me realize this is what I should seek on a spiritual level. Easier said than done of course, quieting the mind of my very random curious thoughts or not getting agitated ever are not things that I’ve been practicing. In my life, whenever I want to change something about myself which is usually one or two things at all times, I try to focus my efforts from repeating a negative behavior or thought and aspire to be a better person. I’ve realized that after the few months of traveling, being spiritually aware is something that I want to work on.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
7/2/11 Perfect Strangers
In the morning I catch a bus from Dar-es-Salaam headed for Nairobi. I could have taken a flight, but the bus was so much cheaper at 50,000 Tsh ($33 USD). The bus is pretty nice, much nicer than dala dalas. It’s kind of like a coach bus you would take in the states with big seats and overhead compartment storage except there is no bathroom on the bus. I get to the bus station at 6:30am and wait on the bus until it fills up at about 7:30am. I sleep for a good chunk of the ride and commence to finishing Eat, Pray, Love as well as writing a little bit. They overfill the bus, typical, and some people who don’t have a seat actually remain standing for hours or sit on the floor. I marvel at the scenery while driving from Dar to Moshi and Arusha but don’t see Kilimanjaro from the road. I look over at my fellow Tanzanians and wonder how they entertain themselves. Besides a cell phone, nobody has a book or newspaper and they don’t seem to marvel at the scenery like I do. Then I think about how American it is of me, to be on a relaxing long bus ride and still need to neurotically find something to entertain myself.
When we reach Arusha, I ask a man on the bus if I can borrow his cell phone since my half functioning SIM card or phone refuses to allow me to load more credits unless I use someone else’s phone. He ends up sitting next to me and we chat for the next few hours. The man, I forget his name at the moment, is a business man selling beauty products and soap in Tanzania, Kenya and Uganda. I talk about my work with Operation Smile and Room for Compassion and my new friend is delighted at service work. I always find it easy to make new friends and many times it comes in handy. My new friend helps me get a good exchange rate when we arrive at the border. Some random guys at the Tanzania-Kenya border hand me 400 Kenyan shillings and tell me I need to take this to the Kenyan customs authority since its “compulsory”. So I start walking with it, thinking ok whatever, and the men demand that I give them 4,000 Kenyan shillings for it which they will promptly refund. I told them this makes no sense and try to hand them back their shillings and they say that no, I must go forward with it, its require. I angrily tell them that I’ve been at the Kenyan border several times and have never had to do this and that it makes no sense anyhow to give them 4,000 Ksh for 400 Ksh. After I tell them that I don’t even have that much money in Ksh or USD (which is actually kinda true being a poor mzungu), they finally leave me alone. It’s good to use common sense to avoid scams such as that. Had I been a newby, I probably would have fallen for it. I guess their trick must have worked for them to be constantly at the border making away like bandits with 3,600 Ksh ($45 USD), a significant sum of money if you’re living in poverty or own a tiny business. During the ordeal, my new friend was unfortunately not there, but he did later help me grab a cab at 11:30pm from the bus station in Nairobi to the Mennonite Guest House. I end up staying up all night so enthralled by electricity, hot showers and fast internet.
The next morning around 6:30am, I am jetted off to another mode of transportation, a flight to London and then eventually Los Angeles. I also make friends with the man sitting next to me. He is a Kenyan returning back to his dual business in Boston and Nairobi. We chat for a few hours on the plane ride. I sort of booked the cheapest hotel possible in London which advertised airport transfers. But when I e-mailed the hotel, they apparently don’t have airport transfer and instead recommend taking a taxi from Heathrow to their location past the center of London about 20 miles away. They estimate the one-way taxi costing 40 English pounds, which is actually slightly more than I’m paying for the night. I try to Google Map public transit but it estimates a transit time of 3 hours. I ask my new friend, Peter, about how he is getting back and if he would mind if his friend showed me a cost effective way to get where I need to go. Peter offers that I stay at his friend’s house with his family and after I double check if its alright, I decide to go for it. Peter’s friend Steve is a Kenyan living in London. They happily chat in Swahili as I get in the car and when asked if I mind, I say not at all. To me, it’s comforting and I’m sort of used to it when Fred and his friends were catching up in Swahili and when Pili and Enock converse in Swahili/Luo. Hearing the East African dialect lets me hang on to the last of Africa before returning back to LA and not being able to return for awhile. I love the way Kenyans and Tanzanians laugh. They laugh all the time and heartily about everything. They very much live the hakuna matata lifestyle which is worry-free. I know that the culture is all about hospitality in the mi casa es su casa style of the Hispanic culture and that is why I accepted the offer to stay at a perfect stranger’s friend’s house. When I arrive, there are several families of Kenyans having a barbeque at the condominium. It’s my first time in London outside of the airport and I sit in the backyard eating barbeque ribs with ugali and listening to the moms and dads converse in Swahili while their children, oblivious to Swahili and are first generation Brits, shout and swing on the playground set happily. After the guests leave, I go out to the pub and have a pint of Guinness, I forgot how good it is in Ireland and the UK. Peter and Steve and their friends drunkenly explain to me the culture of Kenyans, some of which I know and others I begin to understand, and are delighted that I know my 5 phrases in Swahili and can count to 10. I wonder how funny it looks, me being the little Asian American girl roaming around the empty streets of London with 5 large Kenyan men. I appreciate Steve and his wife’s hospitality for letting a perfect stranger stay in their home. Steve doesn’t allow me to pay for a taxi to the pub, my Guinness or the chicken wings we order afterwards. He also explains to me that to Africans, it is a blessing to have a guest and that you must dedicate yourself because in turn, you will bless your family and your guest and the world since kindness is circular. I listen to what he says an feel fortunate to be able to spend one more night immersed in the African culture. It’s also funny when the guys talk about cultural differences between Africa and Westerners like how when they hold hands with each other or other men in London, they were shocked to find out how that is perceived as a homosexual act. As I said my goodbyes in the morning while catching a cab to the airport, I genuinely offer my home to them in Los Angeles if they ever came back out to the West Coast and expressed my gratitude in their kindness to a stranger by treating me like family.
When we reach Arusha, I ask a man on the bus if I can borrow his cell phone since my half functioning SIM card or phone refuses to allow me to load more credits unless I use someone else’s phone. He ends up sitting next to me and we chat for the next few hours. The man, I forget his name at the moment, is a business man selling beauty products and soap in Tanzania, Kenya and Uganda. I talk about my work with Operation Smile and Room for Compassion and my new friend is delighted at service work. I always find it easy to make new friends and many times it comes in handy. My new friend helps me get a good exchange rate when we arrive at the border. Some random guys at the Tanzania-Kenya border hand me 400 Kenyan shillings and tell me I need to take this to the Kenyan customs authority since its “compulsory”. So I start walking with it, thinking ok whatever, and the men demand that I give them 4,000 Kenyan shillings for it which they will promptly refund. I told them this makes no sense and try to hand them back their shillings and they say that no, I must go forward with it, its require. I angrily tell them that I’ve been at the Kenyan border several times and have never had to do this and that it makes no sense anyhow to give them 4,000 Ksh for 400 Ksh. After I tell them that I don’t even have that much money in Ksh or USD (which is actually kinda true being a poor mzungu), they finally leave me alone. It’s good to use common sense to avoid scams such as that. Had I been a newby, I probably would have fallen for it. I guess their trick must have worked for them to be constantly at the border making away like bandits with 3,600 Ksh ($45 USD), a significant sum of money if you’re living in poverty or own a tiny business. During the ordeal, my new friend was unfortunately not there, but he did later help me grab a cab at 11:30pm from the bus station in Nairobi to the Mennonite Guest House. I end up staying up all night so enthralled by electricity, hot showers and fast internet.
The next morning around 6:30am, I am jetted off to another mode of transportation, a flight to London and then eventually Los Angeles. I also make friends with the man sitting next to me. He is a Kenyan returning back to his dual business in Boston and Nairobi. We chat for a few hours on the plane ride. I sort of booked the cheapest hotel possible in London which advertised airport transfers. But when I e-mailed the hotel, they apparently don’t have airport transfer and instead recommend taking a taxi from Heathrow to their location past the center of London about 20 miles away. They estimate the one-way taxi costing 40 English pounds, which is actually slightly more than I’m paying for the night. I try to Google Map public transit but it estimates a transit time of 3 hours. I ask my new friend, Peter, about how he is getting back and if he would mind if his friend showed me a cost effective way to get where I need to go. Peter offers that I stay at his friend’s house with his family and after I double check if its alright, I decide to go for it. Peter’s friend Steve is a Kenyan living in London. They happily chat in Swahili as I get in the car and when asked if I mind, I say not at all. To me, it’s comforting and I’m sort of used to it when Fred and his friends were catching up in Swahili and when Pili and Enock converse in Swahili/Luo. Hearing the East African dialect lets me hang on to the last of Africa before returning back to LA and not being able to return for awhile. I love the way Kenyans and Tanzanians laugh. They laugh all the time and heartily about everything. They very much live the hakuna matata lifestyle which is worry-free. I know that the culture is all about hospitality in the mi casa es su casa style of the Hispanic culture and that is why I accepted the offer to stay at a perfect stranger’s friend’s house. When I arrive, there are several families of Kenyans having a barbeque at the condominium. It’s my first time in London outside of the airport and I sit in the backyard eating barbeque ribs with ugali and listening to the moms and dads converse in Swahili while their children, oblivious to Swahili and are first generation Brits, shout and swing on the playground set happily. After the guests leave, I go out to the pub and have a pint of Guinness, I forgot how good it is in Ireland and the UK. Peter and Steve and their friends drunkenly explain to me the culture of Kenyans, some of which I know and others I begin to understand, and are delighted that I know my 5 phrases in Swahili and can count to 10. I wonder how funny it looks, me being the little Asian American girl roaming around the empty streets of London with 5 large Kenyan men. I appreciate Steve and his wife’s hospitality for letting a perfect stranger stay in their home. Steve doesn’t allow me to pay for a taxi to the pub, my Guinness or the chicken wings we order afterwards. He also explains to me that to Africans, it is a blessing to have a guest and that you must dedicate yourself because in turn, you will bless your family and your guest and the world since kindness is circular. I listen to what he says an feel fortunate to be able to spend one more night immersed in the African culture. It’s also funny when the guys talk about cultural differences between Africa and Westerners like how when they hold hands with each other or other men in London, they were shocked to find out how that is perceived as a homosexual act. As I said my goodbyes in the morning while catching a cab to the airport, I genuinely offer my home to them in Los Angeles if they ever came back out to the West Coast and expressed my gratitude in their kindness to a stranger by treating me like family.
7/1/11 Zanzibar
Enock finally arrives at night and we all spend the night at Fred’s house so that we can go to Zanzibar early. Unfortunately, the ferry does not run on Africa time like everything else, and left sharply at 7:15am. We arrived at 7:20am and had to wait until 9:30am to catch the next ferry to the island that was once an independent country on a 2 hour boat ride. I am glad to be able to pay for Enock and Pili’s ticket, which costs 1/3 of my non-Tanzanian ticket. They have been in Dar many times but never to Zanzibar or on a boat. Sometimes I forget the privilege I was born into and how unfair it was that my friends who were around my age would not be able to afford a $26 boat ride, which is more than even the most educated person in Shirati makes in one day.
Enock is studying marine agriculture, kind of like marine biology with an emphasis on fisheries, so he was delighted to be on the boat. I loved catching up with Enock and Pili. Enock is enjoying his studies and hopes to come back to Shirati and work with the fisheries management on Lake Victoria. Pili is the top of her class at her nursing school but she misses home since is about a 24 hours bus ride away from Shirati. Pili, the headstrong and determined no-b.s. woman, is in love to my delight and her boyfriend is a economics student near Dar named Gerry and I get to talk to him on the phone when he calls like 10x’s a day. Pili and Enock spend half of the 2.5 hour boat ride outside enjoying the wind and rocking of the boat. They are also very happy to see each other again since the childhood friends have not seen each other since last October before leaving for university in Shirati. Unfortunately, the last ferry leaves at 3:30pm and we arrive at about 12pm and spend about a half hour buying a return ticket and waiting in line so we have such precious time on the island. I briefly meet up with some of the mzungus that stayed in Shirati since they coincidentally happened to be in Zanzibar as well. Then the three of us wandered to an old church to learn about the slave trade from a personal tour guide.
Zanzibar used to be a slave trade hub where the slaves captured from Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda and other East African nations were chained at the neck and forced to Zanzibar. They were then crammed into tiny underground chambers for men and women and without food, water or bathrooms for several days. Once slaves were ready for auction, they were brought out under a big tree and whipped. The ones that cried were worth less since they were not deemed as strong. Men were sold and sometimes a child or two was thrown in for free, an extra incentive for your property. Women were also sold. Leftover children that were not given away were slaughtered and thrown into the ocean since they were considered useless for working and time consuming to raise. Most slaves sold ended up in the Middle East and some slaves were brought from Zanzibar to West Africa. Male slaves were castrated in the Middle East to prevent them sleeping with the slave owner’s wife. Pili and Enock were as horrified as I was as we were learning about this gruesome history and witnessing the small cramped underground chambers and the very tree that the auctioning would occur. Humans are capable of so much good and so much evil. I still can’t imagine viewing slaves as property and not as human simply because of the color of their skin. One priest back during the slave trade days felt the same way. He would purchase the most sick slaves and provide health care and release them. I forget his name, but he eventually built a church after the abolishment of the slave trade and the church sits above where some of the 15 underground chambers used to be. A monument was created in his name as well as the memory of all who perished and suffered during this horrible human rights violation.
As an American, I am always appalled to recently learn of all of these different human rights violations in the past and present and feeling so ignorant for not knowing. It’s not completely my own fault since our media features stories centric to America or the war. Our history books revolve around American history and once deviated to the Holocaust. If the purpose of learning history in public schools is to teach us about the past and not re-learn mistakes, then why don’t we learn about it all over the world. The ethnic cleansing in Rwanda in the 1990’s. The current oppression and human rights violation in North Korea and Burma. The utopian agrarian society model that failed in both Tanzania and Cambodia. I only recently started bringing to reality all of the atrocities in Cambodia from 1975-9 from which my dad fled as a refugee and learned that 25% of the population was slaughtered especially city-dwellers and intellectuals and the survivors were forced into concentration camps. The weapons for this massacre were provided by the US and China. There are also policies that undermined Haiti’s government and development by the French and US. The more I learned about US military history supporting Mubarak in Egypt until his overthrow or involvement in Libya prior to the current situation, the more shocked I am about the infliction of violence and control and how this ultimately makes the poor of the countries suffer while supporting the corrupt. Maybe it is no coincidence our education ignores international history.
Regressing back to Zanzibar, we run and catch the last ferry and Enock and Pili again enjoy their second boat ride. Since today was full of new experiences, I suggest that we try a new ethnic food that neither of them has tried. We rule out hamburgers since both have tried it. Pili is decided on Indian food and Asian food when I bring it up and Enock wants to try that and pizza. To our luck, we enter a sort of food court with 5 fast food places. So it’s definitely not going to be authentic and gourmet food, but it’s a good way for us to try Indian, Chinese, and Thai food as well as pizza and ice cream. I found bottled diet coke and was quite pleased. What a great day in Zanzibar and a perfect last night with my two good friends. We all have to return back to our schools/home tomorrow but know that we will meet again. I know that sadly I won’t be able to return for probably another year or two but promise to come back again.
Enock is studying marine agriculture, kind of like marine biology with an emphasis on fisheries, so he was delighted to be on the boat. I loved catching up with Enock and Pili. Enock is enjoying his studies and hopes to come back to Shirati and work with the fisheries management on Lake Victoria. Pili is the top of her class at her nursing school but she misses home since is about a 24 hours bus ride away from Shirati. Pili, the headstrong and determined no-b.s. woman, is in love to my delight and her boyfriend is a economics student near Dar named Gerry and I get to talk to him on the phone when he calls like 10x’s a day. Pili and Enock spend half of the 2.5 hour boat ride outside enjoying the wind and rocking of the boat. They are also very happy to see each other again since the childhood friends have not seen each other since last October before leaving for university in Shirati. Unfortunately, the last ferry leaves at 3:30pm and we arrive at about 12pm and spend about a half hour buying a return ticket and waiting in line so we have such precious time on the island. I briefly meet up with some of the mzungus that stayed in Shirati since they coincidentally happened to be in Zanzibar as well. Then the three of us wandered to an old church to learn about the slave trade from a personal tour guide.
Zanzibar used to be a slave trade hub where the slaves captured from Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda and other East African nations were chained at the neck and forced to Zanzibar. They were then crammed into tiny underground chambers for men and women and without food, water or bathrooms for several days. Once slaves were ready for auction, they were brought out under a big tree and whipped. The ones that cried were worth less since they were not deemed as strong. Men were sold and sometimes a child or two was thrown in for free, an extra incentive for your property. Women were also sold. Leftover children that were not given away were slaughtered and thrown into the ocean since they were considered useless for working and time consuming to raise. Most slaves sold ended up in the Middle East and some slaves were brought from Zanzibar to West Africa. Male slaves were castrated in the Middle East to prevent them sleeping with the slave owner’s wife. Pili and Enock were as horrified as I was as we were learning about this gruesome history and witnessing the small cramped underground chambers and the very tree that the auctioning would occur. Humans are capable of so much good and so much evil. I still can’t imagine viewing slaves as property and not as human simply because of the color of their skin. One priest back during the slave trade days felt the same way. He would purchase the most sick slaves and provide health care and release them. I forget his name, but he eventually built a church after the abolishment of the slave trade and the church sits above where some of the 15 underground chambers used to be. A monument was created in his name as well as the memory of all who perished and suffered during this horrible human rights violation.
As an American, I am always appalled to recently learn of all of these different human rights violations in the past and present and feeling so ignorant for not knowing. It’s not completely my own fault since our media features stories centric to America or the war. Our history books revolve around American history and once deviated to the Holocaust. If the purpose of learning history in public schools is to teach us about the past and not re-learn mistakes, then why don’t we learn about it all over the world. The ethnic cleansing in Rwanda in the 1990’s. The current oppression and human rights violation in North Korea and Burma. The utopian agrarian society model that failed in both Tanzania and Cambodia. I only recently started bringing to reality all of the atrocities in Cambodia from 1975-9 from which my dad fled as a refugee and learned that 25% of the population was slaughtered especially city-dwellers and intellectuals and the survivors were forced into concentration camps. The weapons for this massacre were provided by the US and China. There are also policies that undermined Haiti’s government and development by the French and US. The more I learned about US military history supporting Mubarak in Egypt until his overthrow or involvement in Libya prior to the current situation, the more shocked I am about the infliction of violence and control and how this ultimately makes the poor of the countries suffer while supporting the corrupt. Maybe it is no coincidence our education ignores international history.
Regressing back to Zanzibar, we run and catch the last ferry and Enock and Pili again enjoy their second boat ride. Since today was full of new experiences, I suggest that we try a new ethnic food that neither of them has tried. We rule out hamburgers since both have tried it. Pili is decided on Indian food and Asian food when I bring it up and Enock wants to try that and pizza. To our luck, we enter a sort of food court with 5 fast food places. So it’s definitely not going to be authentic and gourmet food, but it’s a good way for us to try Indian, Chinese, and Thai food as well as pizza and ice cream. I found bottled diet coke and was quite pleased. What a great day in Zanzibar and a perfect last night with my two good friends. We all have to return back to our schools/home tomorrow but know that we will meet again. I know that sadly I won’t be able to return for probably another year or two but promise to come back again.
6/30/11 Hope in the city
I am ever grateful to my friend Fred Chacha for happening to journey to Dar-es-Salaam for work perfectly timed at the end of my stay and for allowing me to accompany him. Because of this, I am able to reunite with my friends from last year. Enock and Pili were our translators last year and endured walking 6-8 hours every day in the hot sun to survey hut to hut and accomplish our study. They are both intelligent and talented people currently in university. I was saddened when I found out that they attended school too far away to return to Shirati but then was uplifted when I knew they could make it to Dar-es-Salaam. Another friend, Castor, I met through Melody. Castor studied in Italy with Melody and was once pursuing theological studies to become a priest but now wants to finish his Master in Public Administration.
I reunite with Pili early in the morning and Fred drives us around Dar-es-Salaam. I really like this city. There is as much unpredictable never-ending traffic as LA but it has a friendlier and less of bustle feel than Nairobi. Dar is humid and we can see the Indian ocean as we drive around. Fred, being an incredible friend, goes directly to find that wheelchair I need for Freddy Obote, the 13 year old boy in Shirati crippled from the waist down and will be given a chance to go to school for the first time in his life. I am delighted when we find it. The wheelchair is a little above my budget, but Rashim, a USC medical student has generously offered to cover the difference and personally deliver this wheelchair to Freddy. Fred in Dar will bring this 30+ pound wheelchair with him as a checked bag and lug it all the way to Shirati so that this may be accomplished.
Pili and I wander around Dar and eat some local food before we head over to meet Castor after his class ends at 3pm. After I embrace Castor, he tells me I look African now. It’s true, my arms are quite dark after a month in Africa. The three of us take a dala dala, local mini-bus, to the pier. I sort of chuckle at the fact that I’m a cheap mzungu and end up taking local transit instead of paying for a private car and driver like most mzungus. This always gives me the best moments from banging my head really hard (many times) on a tap tap in Haiti to cramming 6 people in a 3 person autorickshaw in India and to squeezing like sardines into a dala dala filled with about 50 people but seats maybe 20. Another thing that amuses me about Dar is the fact that they have autorickshaws/tok tok things. I find this highly amusing that the same 3 wheeled barely motorized vehicle with mini windshield wipers and plastic roof are found in India, Thailand and apparently Tanzania.
Castor brings us to a restaurant overlooking the docs. We start chattering about the work I’ve been doing in Shirati. Castor is from a rural village in the south of Tanzania near Mozambique. He was able to get sponsored to attend school in Czech and then in Italy to complete his seminary studies. Castor speaks Swahili, English, Italian, Czech and his tribal language. While he was in Czech, he became involved in helping out his home village. He realized that so many talented students were unable to afford secondary school, which costs about $40 a year. He invited some of the most poor students into his home and learned about their lives and encouraged them to help with harvesting a garden to teach the kids some basic skills while working alongside them. He managed to inspire some Czechs to directly sponsor these students and ensures that their tuition is paid for. Since the economic downturn, some of the sponsors withdrew and Castor is no longer in Czech to recruit more. He had asked for the assistance of Melody and I last summer and we liked his cause but never really followed up. Now that we are doing similar things in Shirati and have a website, I am hoping we can partner with Castor to do this noble thing of helping out his home village.
As we were engrossed in conversation, a young boy with a sad face and red t-shirt approaches us and asks for money. How could I possibly be engaged in a passionate discussion about helping educate children and see this boy looking to us with desperation and hope and ignore the situation. I usually don’t give out money anymore, so I instead offered to buy the boy food and a soda which he savored and ate. Through Pili and Castor, I was able to find out that the boy’s name is David and he is in 5th grade and about 11 years old. His father died and his mother went away (possibly ran away) so he lived with his grandma across the channel. He said that he has to beg to be able to feed his grandma, himself and a younger brother. At 11 years old, David is the income provider for his impoverished family. Touched by his story, I inquired about his school, how much did he normally make while begging and what did he want to be when he grew up. David is passionate about going to school and is able to earn about 1,000 Tsh (less than $1 USD) a day begging and save just enough money to pay for uniform and shoes. He said his dream job is to be a boat captain, to which Pili and Castor gave a small chuckle and explaining that this was a very prestigious career requiring university education. I was so impressed by this young boy and his drive and determination. I offered to buy him whatever groceries he needed for his family and asked Castor if it was ok to provide his cell phone number to the boy, which Castor of course agreed. David asked Castor if it would be alright if he called Castor when he needed to buy books for school. I know that Castor will be a perfect role model for David. We brought David on a bus and to the local market to buy 3 kg of rice, 2 kg beans, cooking oil and 6th grade books. As he ran into a crowded dala dala at the end of the shopping, he had the kind of smile on your face where it shines through although you sort of try to suppress it. I no doubt see a bright future for David and tell Castor to let me know when David needs to be sponsored for secondary school, I would gladly contribute.
While sitting in the presence of David a little earlier, Castor told me in English, about a few begging children he met in Dar when he first returned from Czech. He also invited the brother and sister beggars to a nice restaurant and ordered food with them while men in business suits and other professionals looked on. He said the brother quickly ate all of his food while the sister was not touching her food. When he asked why, the brother said that she was saving her food for the grandmother. Castor, obviously touched by this selflessness, of course ordered another entrée to take home to the grandma and the little girl then ate her food. He said he wished he had their contact information and wonders what happened to them. At the end of the day, I know that meeting Castor through Melody last summer was no coincidence and that he will also be a lifelong friend.
I reunite with Pili early in the morning and Fred drives us around Dar-es-Salaam. I really like this city. There is as much unpredictable never-ending traffic as LA but it has a friendlier and less of bustle feel than Nairobi. Dar is humid and we can see the Indian ocean as we drive around. Fred, being an incredible friend, goes directly to find that wheelchair I need for Freddy Obote, the 13 year old boy in Shirati crippled from the waist down and will be given a chance to go to school for the first time in his life. I am delighted when we find it. The wheelchair is a little above my budget, but Rashim, a USC medical student has generously offered to cover the difference and personally deliver this wheelchair to Freddy. Fred in Dar will bring this 30+ pound wheelchair with him as a checked bag and lug it all the way to Shirati so that this may be accomplished.
Pili and I wander around Dar and eat some local food before we head over to meet Castor after his class ends at 3pm. After I embrace Castor, he tells me I look African now. It’s true, my arms are quite dark after a month in Africa. The three of us take a dala dala, local mini-bus, to the pier. I sort of chuckle at the fact that I’m a cheap mzungu and end up taking local transit instead of paying for a private car and driver like most mzungus. This always gives me the best moments from banging my head really hard (many times) on a tap tap in Haiti to cramming 6 people in a 3 person autorickshaw in India and to squeezing like sardines into a dala dala filled with about 50 people but seats maybe 20. Another thing that amuses me about Dar is the fact that they have autorickshaws/tok tok things. I find this highly amusing that the same 3 wheeled barely motorized vehicle with mini windshield wipers and plastic roof are found in India, Thailand and apparently Tanzania.
Castor brings us to a restaurant overlooking the docs. We start chattering about the work I’ve been doing in Shirati. Castor is from a rural village in the south of Tanzania near Mozambique. He was able to get sponsored to attend school in Czech and then in Italy to complete his seminary studies. Castor speaks Swahili, English, Italian, Czech and his tribal language. While he was in Czech, he became involved in helping out his home village. He realized that so many talented students were unable to afford secondary school, which costs about $40 a year. He invited some of the most poor students into his home and learned about their lives and encouraged them to help with harvesting a garden to teach the kids some basic skills while working alongside them. He managed to inspire some Czechs to directly sponsor these students and ensures that their tuition is paid for. Since the economic downturn, some of the sponsors withdrew and Castor is no longer in Czech to recruit more. He had asked for the assistance of Melody and I last summer and we liked his cause but never really followed up. Now that we are doing similar things in Shirati and have a website, I am hoping we can partner with Castor to do this noble thing of helping out his home village.
As we were engrossed in conversation, a young boy with a sad face and red t-shirt approaches us and asks for money. How could I possibly be engaged in a passionate discussion about helping educate children and see this boy looking to us with desperation and hope and ignore the situation. I usually don’t give out money anymore, so I instead offered to buy the boy food and a soda which he savored and ate. Through Pili and Castor, I was able to find out that the boy’s name is David and he is in 5th grade and about 11 years old. His father died and his mother went away (possibly ran away) so he lived with his grandma across the channel. He said that he has to beg to be able to feed his grandma, himself and a younger brother. At 11 years old, David is the income provider for his impoverished family. Touched by his story, I inquired about his school, how much did he normally make while begging and what did he want to be when he grew up. David is passionate about going to school and is able to earn about 1,000 Tsh (less than $1 USD) a day begging and save just enough money to pay for uniform and shoes. He said his dream job is to be a boat captain, to which Pili and Castor gave a small chuckle and explaining that this was a very prestigious career requiring university education. I was so impressed by this young boy and his drive and determination. I offered to buy him whatever groceries he needed for his family and asked Castor if it was ok to provide his cell phone number to the boy, which Castor of course agreed. David asked Castor if it would be alright if he called Castor when he needed to buy books for school. I know that Castor will be a perfect role model for David. We brought David on a bus and to the local market to buy 3 kg of rice, 2 kg beans, cooking oil and 6th grade books. As he ran into a crowded dala dala at the end of the shopping, he had the kind of smile on your face where it shines through although you sort of try to suppress it. I no doubt see a bright future for David and tell Castor to let me know when David needs to be sponsored for secondary school, I would gladly contribute.
While sitting in the presence of David a little earlier, Castor told me in English, about a few begging children he met in Dar when he first returned from Czech. He also invited the brother and sister beggars to a nice restaurant and ordered food with them while men in business suits and other professionals looked on. He said the brother quickly ate all of his food while the sister was not touching her food. When he asked why, the brother said that she was saving her food for the grandmother. Castor, obviously touched by this selflessness, of course ordered another entrée to take home to the grandma and the little girl then ate her food. He said he wished he had their contact information and wonders what happened to them. At the end of the day, I know that meeting Castor through Melody last summer was no coincidence and that he will also be a lifelong friend.
6/29/11 Baadae Shirati, Karibu Dar-es-Salaam
My eyes squint to look outside as the car speedily passes by all the scenery. I try to take it all in. The wind blowing up red dirt and my hair collecting it all. The African sun that never fails to amaze me with its pounding rays. I look lovingly at the green grass, boulders balancing on boulders, women carrying large yellow jugs on their heads, clusters of straw and mud huts and feel a sense of inner peace I only receive when I’m here.
Baadae means “later”. Like the first time I left Shirati, I wish I didn’t have to leave again, or at least have another 6 months or something to complete all the work that I need to complete. Karibu means “welcome”. I’ve only ever been to Shirati while in Tanzania and the riches of the country are endless. I excitedly hop on a small puddle jumper in a racetrack-looking airport 2 hours away from Shirati in Musoma destined for the other side of the country in the city of Dar-es-Salaam which is conveniently found on the east coast of Africa and even more conveniently situated 1 hour away from Zanzibar, a once independent country that became a Tanzanian island. I am sad to go, but a little bit relieved that I may get a 3 day vacation from my vacation in Shirati which if you know me as being a workaholic, is not much of a hammock-swinging drunken lullaby two weeks.
Though it wasn’t the best idea work-wise or financially to be taking a 2 week break to Shirati, I couldn’t have made a better choice. Now when I return, about to sign on fulltime to a demanding international research study involving epidemiology and genetics and another study in cancer research, the next safari to Shirati may be later rather than sooner. I would have spent my entire years of vacation and more on this trip alone. My only consolation is that my job will not completely be a cubicle setting – the bane of any global public health worker’s existence. Actually, I am really excited to start working the minute I get back. I planned to arrive on the 4th so that I could maximize the holiday break and start work on the 5th. The research study is in its pilot stages but will eventually involve me managing the collection of genetics and epidemiological surveys from families in developing countries in multiple sites to study the cause of cleft lip and palate for USC and Operation Smile. I’m looking forward to getting my hands more into research, working on public health and of course, traveling internationally to do so.
My mind ponders back to the present. What a profound difference this trip to Shirati was from my last. No longer uncertain of my surroundings, the minute I arrived, I jumped out of the van to greet all of my local friends and then walked to the center of town. I’m not sure if I ever felt comfortable enough to walk around alone last year and was always part of some group, but this trip, I was totally uninhibited and walked where I pleased. I stopped brushing my teeth with bottled water and decided to just go with the sink well water. I ate food at locals’ houses rather than politely make an excuse…and the ugali and fish and watermelon were completely delish. The favorite part was reuniting with everyone from Babu and his sponsor mom to the soccer team and Killion. Rather than being pressed by the ambitious research study that Mel and I designed last year, I spent this trip working on multiple projects, all of them I am passionate about, and having extreme flexibility in plans. I do feel like my work was just beginning and then I have to leave. One thing does sadden me, I wanted to reunite with Junior, a 10 year old boy I met last summer that was severely mentally handicapped, and his struggling single mother that I at first resented and then befriended. I heard his mom moved to Dar-es-Salaam to seek a better job and nobody had her contact info and that she left Junior and her two sons split between 2-3 different extended families. I felt disappointed and guilty for not helping her earlier, if only I knew about microloans last year and could have offered her one or gave her more concrete solutions to deal with Junior’s situation, she wouldn’t have been forced to leave her low paying job in Shirati and leave behind her kids to a city that is a 13 hour car ride away. I know there’s not much I can do now, I wanted to see Junior but he was pretty far away in a village none of my local friends were familiar with. I do know that Junior and his mom profoundly touched my life, their situation breaking my heart and leaving me with a drive to want to do something about it.
I hope to be better about communicating with the SHED Foundation in Shirati, our partner organization in carrying out basically everything. I left SHED with a comprehensive exit plan detailing my wishes to carry out sponsorships and monthly stipends as well as plans for the soccer team. I am also more energized than ever to return and proceed with fundraising and legalizing Room for Compassion. I know I’ll be back in Shirati, until then, baadae.
Baadae means “later”. Like the first time I left Shirati, I wish I didn’t have to leave again, or at least have another 6 months or something to complete all the work that I need to complete. Karibu means “welcome”. I’ve only ever been to Shirati while in Tanzania and the riches of the country are endless. I excitedly hop on a small puddle jumper in a racetrack-looking airport 2 hours away from Shirati in Musoma destined for the other side of the country in the city of Dar-es-Salaam which is conveniently found on the east coast of Africa and even more conveniently situated 1 hour away from Zanzibar, a once independent country that became a Tanzanian island. I am sad to go, but a little bit relieved that I may get a 3 day vacation from my vacation in Shirati which if you know me as being a workaholic, is not much of a hammock-swinging drunken lullaby two weeks.
Though it wasn’t the best idea work-wise or financially to be taking a 2 week break to Shirati, I couldn’t have made a better choice. Now when I return, about to sign on fulltime to a demanding international research study involving epidemiology and genetics and another study in cancer research, the next safari to Shirati may be later rather than sooner. I would have spent my entire years of vacation and more on this trip alone. My only consolation is that my job will not completely be a cubicle setting – the bane of any global public health worker’s existence. Actually, I am really excited to start working the minute I get back. I planned to arrive on the 4th so that I could maximize the holiday break and start work on the 5th. The research study is in its pilot stages but will eventually involve me managing the collection of genetics and epidemiological surveys from families in developing countries in multiple sites to study the cause of cleft lip and palate for USC and Operation Smile. I’m looking forward to getting my hands more into research, working on public health and of course, traveling internationally to do so.
My mind ponders back to the present. What a profound difference this trip to Shirati was from my last. No longer uncertain of my surroundings, the minute I arrived, I jumped out of the van to greet all of my local friends and then walked to the center of town. I’m not sure if I ever felt comfortable enough to walk around alone last year and was always part of some group, but this trip, I was totally uninhibited and walked where I pleased. I stopped brushing my teeth with bottled water and decided to just go with the sink well water. I ate food at locals’ houses rather than politely make an excuse…and the ugali and fish and watermelon were completely delish. The favorite part was reuniting with everyone from Babu and his sponsor mom to the soccer team and Killion. Rather than being pressed by the ambitious research study that Mel and I designed last year, I spent this trip working on multiple projects, all of them I am passionate about, and having extreme flexibility in plans. I do feel like my work was just beginning and then I have to leave. One thing does sadden me, I wanted to reunite with Junior, a 10 year old boy I met last summer that was severely mentally handicapped, and his struggling single mother that I at first resented and then befriended. I heard his mom moved to Dar-es-Salaam to seek a better job and nobody had her contact info and that she left Junior and her two sons split between 2-3 different extended families. I felt disappointed and guilty for not helping her earlier, if only I knew about microloans last year and could have offered her one or gave her more concrete solutions to deal with Junior’s situation, she wouldn’t have been forced to leave her low paying job in Shirati and leave behind her kids to a city that is a 13 hour car ride away. I know there’s not much I can do now, I wanted to see Junior but he was pretty far away in a village none of my local friends were familiar with. I do know that Junior and his mom profoundly touched my life, their situation breaking my heart and leaving me with a drive to want to do something about it.
I hope to be better about communicating with the SHED Foundation in Shirati, our partner organization in carrying out basically everything. I left SHED with a comprehensive exit plan detailing my wishes to carry out sponsorships and monthly stipends as well as plans for the soccer team. I am also more energized than ever to return and proceed with fundraising and legalizing Room for Compassion. I know I’ll be back in Shirati, until then, baadae.
6/26/11 Microloan Excitement
Whenever I feel this rush of excitement and energy after meeting or thinking about work is when I reaffirm that I have found my true calling and passion. This is how I felt just after meeting with Dorothy Kawira, a local nurse who is also the mom of my good friend and translator Enock. Dorothy and her husband Ezra heard about the programs I was working on my short visit to Shirati and started telling me how they were also passionate about poverty alleviation and are involved with a local microloan program. Ezra told me that he worked with a German girl a few years back and met with 10 subvillages and established microfinance in the form of group loans and savings accounts managed by each village subchairperson. The discussion flowed rapidly from there as we talked about the many different models, solidarity groups, Muhammed Yunus, Fonkoze in Haiti and most importantly how he was interested in getting involved with the local effort with the SHED Foundation and Room For Compassion. Ezra gave me a microloan application form that he uses as well as a sort of check book balance sheet. After the hour long lunch invitation and discussion about microlending and a private primary English school they established, I happily walk home alone invigorated by the meeting and counting my lucky stars for finding yet another local person that has experience and passion in microfinance.
After much thinking and a meeting with Josiah and Rosie the other day, it seems to make sense to establish at least 2 or 3 different types of microloans. During the microloan meeting, it was very clear that we had invited to our interest meeting two distinct groups of women: one type were women that were single mothers and ran successful businesses and wanted loans to expand their current model and the second type of women were highly impoverished mothers that had no business experience and no means for occupation. It never occurred to me that we could have such a distinguishment when I pictured my group of “vulnerable single mothers in need of a business loan”. The successful business women were not interested in meager loans of $20 USD in a large group while the second group of women would be more inclined. The first group would have security, collateral, business experience and would very likely pay back their loan. The second group would have none of those things necessarily but are in much greater need of a loan to life themselves out of poverty. Rosie and Ezra are the local experts, but I proposed a 3 step system. The “Apprentice” loan would give inventory valued less than $20 to help train impoverished women individually. The “Entrepreneur” loan would provide small capital between $20-$199 over a short period of time in a mandatory solidarity group of 5 to help women with some business skills develop their own plans. The “Professional” loan would bse loans of $200+ to help the women with successful businesses expand and grow. This system would allow for already capable women to utilize a loan that will financially benefit the program when they return the money and interest.
After much thinking and a meeting with Josiah and Rosie the other day, it seems to make sense to establish at least 2 or 3 different types of microloans. During the microloan meeting, it was very clear that we had invited to our interest meeting two distinct groups of women: one type were women that were single mothers and ran successful businesses and wanted loans to expand their current model and the second type of women were highly impoverished mothers that had no business experience and no means for occupation. It never occurred to me that we could have such a distinguishment when I pictured my group of “vulnerable single mothers in need of a business loan”. The successful business women were not interested in meager loans of $20 USD in a large group while the second group of women would be more inclined. The first group would have security, collateral, business experience and would very likely pay back their loan. The second group would have none of those things necessarily but are in much greater need of a loan to life themselves out of poverty. Rosie and Ezra are the local experts, but I proposed a 3 step system. The “Apprentice” loan would give inventory valued less than $20 to help train impoverished women individually. The “Entrepreneur” loan would provide small capital between $20-$199 over a short period of time in a mandatory solidarity group of 5 to help women with some business skills develop their own plans. The “Professional” loan would bse loans of $200+ to help the women with successful businesses expand and grow. This system would allow for already capable women to utilize a loan that will financially benefit the program when they return the money and interest.
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