Maybe I’ll Become a Farmer

January holds up his lesson book.

Invariably it happens. Every time I set off to help others I end up feeling like I’m the one who has gained something. I forget and am reminded every time.

After our trip to the see the wonders of the Serengeti, Suzy and I made our way to the small village of Buswelu outside of the town of Mwanza. We carried the clothes, shoes, school and art supplies we’d been lugging since Chicago and a hope that we could somehow be helpful. The cab ride from Mwanza took us from the main road into the dirt roads of the village. We passed small mud and brick storefronts with tin roofs, and houses of the same materials, until we came to a crater-size pothole. Or maybe a better description is that half of the road wasn’t there. Many sections of the dirt roads showed the scars of rain, but this section was especially precarious. The first attempt of passing failed, though luckily we didn’t get stuck. A second go with more revving before allowed us to get pass the crater, just barely on the left, and make it to the house where volunteers at the Watoto Wa Africa Orphanage stayed.

After unpacking our things, a fellow volunteer from Australia who’d been volunteering at the orphanage for a few weeks brought us and the two other new volunteers from Belgium to the meet the kids. Being near the equator, the land was as tropical as one would imagine. Lush greenness greeted us in every direction. Most families had crops- corn, bananas, potatoes, sunflowers—growing right up next to their houses. Small yards consisted of neatly swept, compacted dirt, not grass.

The dirt roads of Buswelu rarely held cars.

We walked down more dirt roads, often going single file on the left side of the road where the ground was firmer instead of sandy.  Calls of ‘mzungu’—literally translated to meet white wanderer in Swahili, echoed in our ears from children in their yards. Whenever we walked in a group, our mzungu parade drew a bit of attention, at least for the little ones who seemed to enjoy the game of calling out and then sometimes running out to shake our hands.

The new Watoto Wa Africa orphanage buildings

We arrived at the orphanage the first afternoon after the fifteen-minute walk. The boys playing soccer in the yard spotted us first. Soon the fifty-some children came out to inspect the new visitors and grab the shiny soccer balls we carried under our arms. The toddler and preschool age children took our hands and lead us up to the buildings. The Watoto Wa Africa Orphanage has been run by a man named Josephat and his wife Rosemary since 2000. The Tanzanian government offers no support, and they rely on donors to help pay for everything including shelter, food, private school in most cases, and the hired workers who help with the daily care of the children. The orphanage moved to its current site (with new buildings and more room for the children to play outside) just a few months ago. We saw the girls’ and boys’ dorms, the simple classroom where supplemental lessons are held, and a room for cooking (where meals are prepared over low fires).

Boys play a game in the yard next to the dormitories.

The children’s dormitories consisted solely of beds and just a few clothes hanging from each bedpost—with no possessions in sight otherwise. And yet the children happily played and chatted or did their chores, unaware that other cultures, like ours, put such emphasis on things to make us, and our children, happy. One three-year old boy proudly demonstrated the effectiveness of his bow and arrow made from sticks and string—luckily without sharp arrows.  Other girls played skipping games on squares drawn into the ground with a stick. Through our subsequent walks through the village, it appeared most children must create their own games, lacking material goods as well.

Vanessa demonstrates how she can carry the water bottle on her head.

During the weekdays we made the trip to the orphanage twice daily—in the morning to do activities with the toddler and preschool age youngsters and then in the afternoon to tutor the small amount of school age kids that went to government school instead of private school. (Individual sponsors pay approximately $300/ year for a student to go to the better private school that is taught in English).

One Saturday afternoon Suzy and I brought out the colored thread we had carried with us and demonstrated to a group of boys who’d gathered in the classroom how to make friendship bracelets. They picked their colors and began criss-crossing their string into patterns. At the arrival of a car into the driveway they all ran out. Apparently a local physician had come and brought two more children to stay there. We saw everyone gathering and then heard the children singing. The doctor brought cookies and after the song ended they were each given a small package. Soon they came back into the classroom munching away.

A little boy named January, the one who fashioned the bow and arrow, came up to me breaking his cookie in half. Speaking little English, he simply offered one of the halves. I refused at first, saying no thank you. A large smile spread across his face as he continued to hold out part of his cookie to me. He emanated such joy in wanting to share. I accepted his cookie with a smile and a thank you in Swahili. Here was a little boy with essentially nothing of his own, and yet he wanted to share this one thing he had gotten. Another child offered part of her cookie to Suzy with the same happiness. And the next day, when another visitor brought a snack for the children- the same thing happened. And I thought: if there is one thing I have gotten from this trip- this is it. It was an unparalleled example of sharing and giving that I hope to keep and reference and emulate. If only we could all, especially those of us who have so much and don’t really even realize it, could share so freely as well.  

Nicko poses next to the cow (that often liked to lounge in the classroom as well).

      

Zebras and wildebeests graze near the western entrance to the Serengeti.

Next to a small gate, a simple sign with a buffalo skull perched on top announced that we had made it to the entrance of the Serengeti National Park.  Before entering the enormous land preserve famous for its multitude of animals and annual wildebeest migration, our safari guide, Ben, explained a bit of the park’s history. As we sat in our SUV he told us how the land had first been designated a game reserve in the early part of the Twentieth Century before it became a national park in the 1960s. The Tanzanian government had forced all of the people living on the land to move, except for the Masai tribe. I hadn’t considered this aspect of the Serengeti, widely heralded for being a sanctuary for many of the world’s great animals, before. Ben asked if we had any questions before we headed on. Anxious to begin our journey we all shook our heads no. And with that we drove past the small gate.

Grassland with occasional trees stretched as far as we could see. Moments after entering we came upon a herd of gazelle. We took closer views through our binoculars and even tested out the technique of shooting the camera through the binocular lens.  Shortly after driving on zebras came into view. They munched on grass and stood in groups. They often stand two or more together looking like they’re hugging, facing in different directions, in order to keep an eye out for lions. Up close some looked more brown than black and Ben explained that females and the little ones do have a more brown tint. Ben also mentioned that when a predator approaches the group, a stronger animal will stay behind longer in order to give the others a chance to get away.

The intermingling of all the animals struck me. The animals both shared the same space and sometimes cooperated together, like wildebeests and zebras that often graze and migrate together since one has better eyesight and the other better hearing. A Belgian couple we met related seeing a baboon in a tree that spotted a lion about to prey on zebras. The baboon sent out a call that alerted the zebras and made the lion miss his meal. The mixing went against the orderly separation of zoos. Throughout the first afternoon of our four-day trip we continued to spot giraffes, elephants, wart hogs, buffalo, hippos, monkeys, and a multitude of birds. 

Later, Ben asked if he were interested in visiting a Masai village. I knew a little of the cattle herding tribe and did want to know more. But we hesitated a little, feeling slightly weird about being tourists to their lives and homes. Ben explained how the Masai are traditionally nomadic, setting up their simple homes as they moved to better grazing land. The government had asked a few villages to stay put in order for people to get a look into their culture. The money paid to visit the village allows them to buy supplemental milk and food they need since they are not able to be nomadic with their cattle. We decided we would stop in the village two days later after visiting the Ngorongoro Crater.

On the third day, after having seen a wealth of animals up-close, including lions, cheetahs, and rhinos, we headed to the Masai village. The circle of small homes was nestled amidst a backdrop of stunning beauty, but also unimaginable isolation. The word Serengeti stems from a Masai word meaning endless plain. And endless it seemed. In the distance we saw boys and men wearing the traditional red and purple plaid blankets as they herded the cattle not far from where we had spotted lions.

The village we stopped at welcomes tourists at all times, so as we pulled up another safari group was heading out. It seems like it would be a bit tiring constantly greeting people with the traditional dance and song, but the men and women’s faces didn’t give a hint of this if they felt the tedium. Ben had prepped us that when tourists join in with the dances that sometimes this energizes the performance. So after being greeted by about six men and six women who sang out a range of repetitive notes, they ushered us into the village. The men danced first, jumping up as others sang. Then the women danced and sang with smaller hops. Not wanting to be the boring tourists who just watch, we joined in. I don’t know that our addition to the dances necessarily made the Masai feel like dancing more, but we enjoyed it having been sitting most of the day.

A young man, speaking fluent English, greeted us after the dancing. He brought us into a small house made of straw, sticks, and mud. We crouched down to get inside. The structure, not high enough to stand up straight in, had a low-burning fire in one section. The other section was for sleeping. Masai men have multiple wives, so each wife has a house for her and her children.

A simple Masai house

Our Masai guide showed us the small nursery school and then we visited the cooking area across the road where only Masai men are allowed.  Over a pot of boiling meat, the men clarified that the only food they eat is the meat and milk from the cattle and goats. I knew that these were the staples of their diet, but I didn’t consider that this is the only food they ate.

I asked Ben as we walked back to the car whether many Masai leave- thinking of how some Amish in the US end up leaving their contained worlds. He said that even if the men leave and work in the cities that they earn money to then bring back to buy more cattle. As we drove away, I thought how difficult their life seems due to the environment and isolation, but on the other hand, to be connected to the same land and traditions of countless generations offers a link to the past that few people in the world have. 

A Masai village sits amongst the stark beauty of the Serengeti.

Our word for the Tanzanian island of Zanzibar: exotic. Not only was this our first destination in Africa, but the island melded Arabic influences in such an otherworldly Indian Ocean setting that we had no other word for it. Suzy, Dan, and I spent a few days here then went inland for a safari in the Serengeti and Ngoronogoro Crater before Suzy and I headed to an orphanage near the town of Mwanza.

Zanzibar is known as the Spice Island due to its history of spice growing and exporting. While today the island relies more on the tourist industry than the spice industry, we got a peak into its famed products during a spice tour.  The Clove Hotel where we stayed (with a rooftop balcony that offered breathtaking views) connected us with the daylong tour.  We hopped in the white van and soon narrow alleys between whitewashed buildings gave way to a main paved road as we made our way north out of Stone Town.

Men carry large loads, and a large fish.

A view of the island we hadn’t yet seen emerged. The land became more rural, dotted with tiny storefronts and simple mud and brick houses. In addition, streams of people walked and rode bikes along the sides of the fairly fast moving road. Women, with their heads covered in hijabs, balanced loads on their heads. And the myriad of male bike riders either had an additional passenger on the back, or basketfuls of goods attached. Looking out the front window, I gripped the seat back in front of me on a few occasions as it seemed there’d be no way for our van, a speeding car from the other direction, and all the people on the sides of the road to all fit at once. Somehow we did.

After about a half an hour’s drive north, we arrived at the spice farm. As we unloaded from the van, a boy passed us driving an ox cart- a reminder that small farms here use traditional, organic methods not out of choice but necessity. Our tour guide explained that most family plots have a variety of crops— perhaps bananas, sweet potatoes, and spices, rather than just one in case of a crop failure. We began the tour with a fresh taste of pineapple—cut from the middle of the low growing spiky leaves jutting straight up from the ground. 

One of the tour helpers demonstrates how he climbs a palm tree using only ropes tied to his feet.

In addition to the tour guide, a half dozen boys around twelve years old assisted as unofficial helpers– fashioning every conceivable, and inconceivable item from palm leaves. The goods included spice holder cones, rings, bracelets, necklaces in the shape of frogs, and even an ornate crown. The boys asked our names and where we were from in between stops to see vanilla beans growing on the vine, the bark that makes cinnamon sticks, cardamom, pepper, and cloves. One boy when asked his name proudly responded, “Barack, like Obama”. Obama fever was high here in Kenya’s southern neighbor.  We wished we had brought Obama pencils or key chains to trade for the myriad of souvenirs we desired. Suzy asked her young helper if he was still in school, and he responded he was done. We later read that just 7% of Tanzania’s population goes on to secondary school. In government schools, primary school is taught in Swahili, but secondary school is taught in English. The difficulty in comprehension, in addition to being needed on family farms or to help run businesses, must contribute to this low number.

After tipping our unofficial guides for their assistance and goods we headed back into the van and made our way down the road for lunch. We had been told we’d have a traditional lunch in a village made by local women. So it was unsurprising as we drove down a dirt road and then walked amongst the simple structures to our eating area. Used to tourists coming through, the women cooking and children playing hardly looked up.  We sat on mats on the floor as the meal cooked over a wood fire outside was brought before us. We savored the potato curry over rice, cooked greens, and bananas for dessert.

Suzy dishes out the curry lunch.

The tour continued with a quick stop at the bathhouse of a former Omani Sultan who ruled large sections of east Africa in the late 1800s, as well as a cave where the Sultan had hidden 200 slaves during the time after it had been outlawed by the British to own slaves.  We had learned the day before at the museum in Stone Town that the influence on Zanzibar from the Middle East had included not only Islam—the religion of the majority of the island, and about half of mainland Tanzania, but also language with about 25% of Swahili words coming from Arabic.

Our last leg of the tour included a swim in the warm, azure waters of the Indian Ocean. As our tour guide said, “I know white people like to swim.” Our guide selected his dinner from one of several fisherman docked down the beach as we waded in.  

Fisherman and boats in the Indian Ocean.