First world problems

I survived a small bout of homesickness last week only to be struck down by a sudden wave of overwhelming sadness and guilt at how much I have compared to most Tanzanians. 'You've been living in the one of the poorest countries in the world and you're just noticing this now?' is what you must be asking, but I don't mean that I was ignorant of this huge disparity before, but it had affected me differently.

Before, I had certainly seen the poverty around me: subsistence lifestyles, lack of education, torn clothing, poor health and dental care.* I didn't romanticize it or ignore it, but my sadness was always tempered by hope and energy. I saw every heartbreaking thing as an opportunity for things to get better for the people I've been meeting, and for this beautiful country. The dignity with which everyone carries themselves made me optimistic and confident that things are going to get better for Tanzania and Tanzanians. And I was here, working hard and doing my best to be a part of that recovery.

But this week, that optimism dissolved into despair. I blame the babies.

On Sunday, I went with Freddie (you remember Freddie, right? He's Lema's mum's neighbour) to help at the orphanage that the Green Foundation supports. It's for kids four years old and younger. Right now, there are 21 little ones living there, including 2 four-month-old babies. We got there just in time for the kids' early lunch/mid-morning meal, and our extra hands were much appreciated. I discovered that all of these babies and toddlers are taken care of by only two mamas.
Freddie and I helped dish out the food and spoon- and bottle-fed the really young ones their lunch of ugi, a thin millet- and milk-based porridge (I've had it, it's nice), and bean stew over rice. Then we cleaned up, I changed a lot of diapers (no pins or snaps on these bad boys—just folding, and some fuzzy velcro on the diaper cover), and we played with the kids until their afternoon naps. Then I helped in the kitchen, chopping and grating for dinner.
I was completely overwhelmed. How those two mamas managed it, I had no idea. It wasn't the physical work of it that got to me, though; I've changed many a diaper in my time, and the kids were fairly well-behaved and kept each other entertained. It was the emotional toll. My mind filled with everything I've ever learned about infant and early-childhood development, from nutrition to socialization to one-on-one affection, and all I could think of was what these kids don't have. For all I knew, this was a luxe orphanage—there were some toys, plenty of second-hand clothing in various sizes, food, room to play—but I wanted to cry, and scream, at how little they had.

The children were genuinely excited to see us, which was nice. They viewed me as someone to play with, not as a white-skinned novelty, which was a welcome change from being followed down the street outside our house by shouts of "Mzungu!" (European).

When I chose my placement, I briefly considered volunteering at an orphanage but decided against it. I figured that it was work that could be done by 18-year-old gap year students, and that I would be more useful in a "harder" job where I could use my work experience and education. As I left the orphanage Sunday afternoon, however, I had no doubt which job would be harder. My work with the Mamas may be more complicated, but I was left an emotional wreck by my Sunday-morning visit. It was so hard to be there, and when we left, I never wanted to go back. As we closed the gates behind us, I wanted to run down the road in the opposite direction until I reached the ocean.

And as if I weren't already feeling low enough, Monday made me feel even worse.

I chose that day to visit the UN International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda for the first time. It's based in Arusha (the city's nickname is the Geneva of Africa), and trials are open and free to the public. The experience deserves its own blog post, but suffice it to say that watching a war crimes trial isn't uplifting in the traditional sense of the word. The terrible details of particular deaths and burials on particular days were described matter-of-factly by survivors and perpetrators. It was fascinating, and I went back this afternoon, but I still left the room at lunch grateful for the fresh air and sunshine.

If you can believe it, though, that was the cheeriest part of my day. On my way home from meeting the Mamas (Alex was home sick after a bit of bad pork in town), Mr Shija and I stopped in at a couple of connected houses about halfway down the road. It's a long concrete/plaster building with about four shallow rooms all in a row, and a connecting porch or step along the front. I don't know what facilities or land might be out back, but there's an outdoor cooking area next to it, and there's always washing hung out to dry in front. There are usually people sitting or working out front when we go by, and they always say hello to us and Mr Shija. This time, I was excitedly welcomed by a couple of young women, (I think a bit younger than me, but I'm not sure). They invited me to sit down, gave me a Coke, and asked if Mr Shija could take a picture of us together. I didn't really know what was going on, of course, as everyone was speaking very rapid Swahili. Then Mr Shija said that I was invited in to eat with one of them. It would have been rude to refuse, so I went into her part of the building—one small room, a bit smaller than my bedroom here—and given a plate piled with rice, potatoes, and greens. The room held a bed, a cushioned bench, a rack of clothes, some boxes and crates covered in blankets, and one corner was piled with cooking things. They said they were so happy to have me in their home, and thanked me for joining them, invited me back anytime, etc, but for the life of me I didn't know why. I hadn't really met them before, I had barely conversed with them in my limited Swahili, but I was being treated as an honoured guest. And they didn't seem to be asking for anything in return, either.

I learned that Rosie, the one whose home I was in, had had to drop out of school when she became pregnant. The father lives in Dar, and she can't afford to go back to school. She has tried to set up a small enterprise selling used clothing, but doesn't have any capital and so is struggling with it (I think—the translation there was iffy). She'd like to take the six-month hotel-management course in Arusha to work in the tourism industry, but can't afford it. She lives in that small room with her son (and, I think, her sister), and provides for him all by herself, and yet she invited me in, fed me, and acted like I was the one doing her a favour.

I felt helpless and lost. Rosie isn't an unusual case; there are so many men and women with similar stories and circumstances, and I felt like nothing I could do would ever be enough. There I was, with my biggest worry whether or not I'll be accepted to law school, and I felt so guilty and miserable and hopeless. The fact that Rosie didn't resent me for it just made it worse; I resented myself.

Part of this story has a happy ending, and I'm feeling better today than I did Monday evening. Alex and I went again to the orphanage this morning (I had to psych myself up for it), and were greeted by four smiling young European women making breakfast and changing diapers. Apparently, the Mamas I met on Sunday aren't alone in their work after all, though I didn't learn this through the language barrier the other day. These other volunteers (a German midwife, a Finnish kindergarten teacher, and two German education students, plus another one who's on holiday right now) are there Monday to Friday, and do a wonderful job with the children. Two of them are doing year-long placements sponsored by the Lutheran Church of Bavaria (and a German government grant, I think), while the others are here for about a month each.

The older kids also have nursery school during the week, easing my mind even further. There's a stand-alone building on the orphanage grounds that I hadn't seen inside on the weekend, but has alphabet posters, number charts, pictures, and all that.

Our help was still useful today, of course, and I really enjoyed meeting the other volunteers. After breakfast, we cleaned up, I did a diaper or two, helped with folding some laundry, and of course played with the littlest kids. I sat in the yard with an infant on my lap (I brought an extra shirt to change into, which was good because she spit up on me), while Alex tried to keep a toddler from eating mud. It was a really good morning.

Seeing the kids so happy, and the other volunteers working so hard, made me feel a lot better. My feeling of helplessness is mostly gone, and I'm hopeful and energetic again. Two days ago, anything I can do seemed like a drop in a bucket. Today, it still does, but maybe the bucket is half full. (Geez, that's a schlocky analogy. This blog is now officially owned by Hallmark. The point is, I feel better. And isn't that what counts?)

Baadaye,
Robin

*I don't want to give the impression that everyone here lives in squalor; they don't. There are varying levels of wealth and comfort, with houses like ours (with a gate, power, hot water, and glazed windows) just down the road from two-room houses that shelter families who cook on outdoor fires. (There are also the "middle class" as we'd think of it, and the extremely wealthy, but you mainly see them in Arusha). Mama Hans, who hosts our meetings and is the Mama Machumba Project's secretary, has a home made, I think, of sticks and mud in the traditional style. But she has a large yard, many chickens, banana trees, and separate buildings for sleeping and cooking. They have electricity, and even a small TV set. She's doing very well (it helps that she can read and write, obviously) compared to many of the others in Ambureni Moivaru. But I don't know if she can afford to send all her children to school, or at least until what level. And her life is exhausting; she and her husband work their fingers to the bone just to maintain this small level of comfort they've managed to achieve.