Namibia Diaries

241: Two Endings And Two Beginnings

2010-06-06T22:19:00.000-07:00

Ending Experience #1: The last Big Hike in Namibia (from Bernd)

I always had a special fondness for the Naukluft, a mountain range at the edge of the desert, some 300 km south of Windhoek. There is an 8-day/120km round-trip trail with shelters for every night, but otherwise nothing but unspoiled nature. We hiked it in 2002 (see Namibia Diary #132), and I wanted to do it once more. Our daughter Elsita agreed and persuaded two of her colleagues, Michelle and Ari, to join the adventure. So, on the 21st of May, I set out with a load of supplies from Windhoek to Gobabeb to pick them up, and on the next day we started from the Naukluft Park Headquarters with all the clothes, food and other essentials that we would need for the next 8 days on our backs.

The first day’s trail climbs up to a plateau along the Eastern rim of the mountains, where we saw baboons, rock hyrax, mountain zebra, several eagles and many, many wildflowers. But we had started late and didn’t make it quite to the firstt shelter that night. Instead, we camped out in the open, using a clearing made by zebras for their sand baths. The soft ground suited us just fine and we had a great time sleeping under the moon and stars of a clear sky.

Early the next morning, we made it to the shelter and there was trasheverywhere. Due to flood damage during the last rainy season, the “jeep track” for maintenance was impassable, and the baboons had used the opportunity to raid the place. But the water pump was fine (every shelter is supposed to have a water supply, and so we needed to carry only 3 liters per person per day.) All morning the trail wound across the high plateau and for lunch we stopped near a huge active nest of sociable weavers. (It’s like an apartment house for birds.) From then we climbed down through a deep gorge, partially secured on chains, to the site of a former- vacation home that is now the 2nd night’s shelter. That night a herd of zebra visited us, munching the grasses behind the nearby bushes.

On the third day we had to climb back up through the same gorge, and then take a long hike over the hilly high lands. We saw more zebra, and lots of klipspringers, but not the white rhinoceros that roams the area (we were assured, it’s friendly, and yes we saw lots of fresh unmistakable rhino dung, but that was it). We continued on the 4th day, until we reached another gorge. This is the point of no return: you have to slide down a smooth rock face with no possibility to climb back up. Soon we had to climb up another slope to
bypass a large (but now dry) waterfall. The beautiful view from above was worth the struggle. On the other side, once more in a valley, we found Namibia’s largest Moringa tree (known locally as a medicine tree for its curative values), with the stem of 4 meters

(13 feet) circumference. That night we all had a much-needed quick shower from a huge water tank before crawling into our sleeping bags.

After a steep ascent in the morning, day 5 led us across the extensive milkweed plain – again with klipspringers and zebra watching us. However, in the evening we hit a crisis at the shelter: No water. This despite the fact that there was a huge tank and a solar water pump. It seems that someone had inadvertently left the valve open on the out-flowing pipe.

Eventually, we saw that somebody else before us had drilled a small hole at the bottom of the tank and closed it with a wooden peg. By opening it, there just was enough water to fill our bottles. What a relief! Of course, we closed it carefully again, and also the main valve, so that future hikers may have more luck.

That night we had another good meal thanks to Michelle’s art of cooking – despite the limited choices of dry foods that we could carry, she always came up with surprises. And then we enjoyed the last of our hot chocolate under a full moon.

Day 6 was the hardest and longest day, starting with climbing up steeply next to a 200 meter waterfall, and then continuing over the boulders in the riverbed above. At times we climbed the side of the gorge so high that we could look into eagle’s nests from above. Finally, following the remainders of an old farm road, we descended down to Tufa shelter – nicely nestled between large trees in a valley. There, the pipe on the water pump was broken, but water was gushing out on the side, which allowed us to fill our water bottles anyway – this time a double load, because we were warned that the last shelter also was unreachable by vehicle and its water tank was empty.

The 7th day hike began on a path through scruffy bushes, and at some particular narrow place, Ari tripped and fell backwards into the bushes, pulling Elsita with him. Not much happened since the

backpacks protected them somewhat, but this time the medical emergency kit was needed to mend some ripped pants. Shortly after, we arrived at the last big ascent of the hike, a climb up along a waterfall where we had to pull ourselves up along a long chain. Over many more boulders and rocks, we eventually gained the highest point of the hike at Bakenkop – rightfully called “World’s View” over the desert far below.

That night we camped at Kapokflakte shelter on the high plains. As the sun set, we saw a herd of springbok, but later they disappeared. We had expected to see more in the full moonlight – but a cold wind came up, forcing the animals into lower valleys and us into our sleeping bags. Next morning the temperature was below freezing with a hoar frost on the grass.

The last day led across a rubble-strewn high plateau

and then into the waterkloof gorge and down from the mountain. There was still plenty of water, and some of the pools were tempting for a swim, but we were running late and had to rush back. By mid-afternoon, we reached the park office, greeted by the park ranger and the next group of hikers, who were eager to hear about our adventures. Hopefully the park officials can do something about the conditions we reported.

Despite the hardship and some big scratches and bruises, we had eight glorious days in the wild without seeing any humans except our own group. With the gorgeous views and herds of animals around, this was always my favorite hike and I am glad I could do it again – providing a bit of closure to thirteen years in beautiful Namibia.

Ending Experience #2: Success leads to new challenges (from Lucy)

I recently returned from Zambia -- my last African trip before Bernd and I embark on our Round-the-World adventure. Eleven hours by road from the capital of Lusaka, I reached Mansa – an agricultural outpost along Zambia’s northern border with the Congo. Here I met a group of amazing people associated with the Luapula Foundation, whose history is about as “far out” as its location.

Founded in 2001 by two Zambian citizens and a former US Peace Corps volunteer, the Luapula Foundation began with a donation of $870 from Louisiana, USA. Distressed by the growing numbers of children orphaned by AIDS

and unable to attend school, the three founders used their fledgling organization to provide 23 orphans with school fees, uniforms and the supplies they needed. As the years passed, more volunteers became involved and international assistance poured in. Currently, the Luapula Foundation supports over 3,000 orphans and vulnerable children as well as their caregivers. Their goal is to empower local families who are infected or affected by HIV to take responsibility for their own wellbeing, using the Foundation’s support to increase their access to education, health-care, and new techniques of “conservation farming.”

My visits always include a trip into the field to see what is really happening on the ground. Staff took me to meet with eighteen members of the Mushila Support Group of People Living with HIV/AIDS, an hour and a half away from the office. All the members looked healthy, which is remarkable in itself, as most had been bedridden and near death just a few years ago. Currently, all are receiving life-saving anti-retroviral drugs and have benefited from several training courses and start-up capital to improve their nutritional and economic condition.

What specifically, did the group get? Beginning two years ago, funding from the Stephen Lewis Foundation provided them with training on leadership, new farming

techniques and “positive- living.” They were taught how to construct fuel-efficient stoves (saving wood and labor), and they received several sacks of maize-meal and oil to make and sell fritters at the local market. (This paid for their immediate expenses.) They were also given a pregnant pig and some goats, and out of the 18 people with whom we met, seven said that they have gotten at least one animal from the offspring. (In addition to providing a source of food, these farm animals constitute the local bank – they represent a family’s savings until a major expense must to be paid.) Finally, the Foundation provided two bicycles to the group, to help people get to the Health Clinic without having to pay others for transport.

Group members spoke glowingly about the continued impact of the assistance they received. Their peanuts and soya crops have already produced two big harvests, thanks to the new farming techniques that they learned. For the first time in years, they have enough protein in their diet. Profits from the sale of fritters paid for last year’s school-fees, so that the children of group members could continue their education. Overall, the members said that they feel healthier and more respected in their community, and this has resulted in the reduction of stigma and discrimination. Now, other people are even asking for their advice, especially about HIV/AIDS and conservation farming. They are proud of what they have achieved, and feel much more optimistic about their future.

This is a success story except for one catch. When the group started it had 12 people and – had they remained that size – all of them are convinced that they would be completely self-sufficient now and able to support their families. But their success attracted more and more members, and today they are 51 people, with more wanting to join every month.

The problem is that African culture dictates that, when someone has achieved relative wealth, then others are entitled to share the bounty – both family members and neighbors in the community. Thus, the Mushili group was obliged not only to welcome the new members, but also to include them in the outcome of the work undertaken so far. Spreading the earnings to 51 people has watered down the benefit that any one person can enjoy. Thus everyone is a little bit better off but no one has enough to lift him- or her-self out of the depths of poverty. Once again, paying school fees has become a problem. And, as we were told, “Having two bicycles was great for 12 people, but not for 51. Moreover, we expect we’ll be 100 members pretty soon.”

I asked what the group intended to do about this onslaught of interest. I was told it is “not African” to turn neighbors away. The group’s chairperson said, “We are thinking of restructuring our Board so we can deal with this, but we don’t know how.” Clearly, this will be Luapula Foundation’s next challenge: to help the Mushila Support Group remain small enough to guarantee integrity and impact, but also ensure that others in the community can start their own groups with a similar outcome.

The odds are against such a development,however. Jealousies are bound to break out between groups, and to retain peace the local chiefs may decree that it is better to remain poor and unified than unequal and at-war. If that happens, it’s back the old ways of doing things, and true progress – even when it has proven itself possible – may be rejected. This is how Africa will survive (and part of what we love about it), but also why true progress is be so difficult to achieve.

Beginning Experience #1: Mazel Tov to Us

This morning (June 6th) the woman who will live in our house while we’re gone became a mother. You may remember Lydia from

her great wedding in the north, about 18 months ago (see Namibia Diary #222). She gave birth to a beautiful baby girl and all is well. We weren’t allowed to know the names until the baby arrived, but a few minutes ago the father told me: The parents are calling her Twapanda (We are grateful) Etugama (God is on our side) Twapewa (She has been given) Sharon (Biblical, denoting the valley of Sharon). And because Lydia lives in our house, we also got to add a name: it is Tsipora, meaning little bird in Hebrew (and also the wife of Moses).

Beginning Experience #2: Eighteen days to go

Yikes! We’re mostly in denial about having to say good-bye, and our “TO DO” list is still too long for comfort. Nevertheless, we plan to have a website up and running (http://web.me.com/berndlucy/sevencontinents) before we leave, so you will be able to see photographs and keep abreast of our itinerary and adventures as much (or as little) as you want. We’ll also send out periodic letters, as now. Many of you have written us encouraging notes. Thanks for your support.

With best wishes,
Lucy and Bernd

240: Countdown: Forty Days to Go

2010-05-17T07:06:00.000-07:00

Every day our friends ask us if we're excited about leaving for our round-the world trip next month. The truth is that we're exhausted. I don't know how it's possible that our “To-Do” list still keep growing, but it does. And then there are all the good-byes we have to squeeze in – very gratifying but they tug at our heartstrings. Even though we plan to come back next year for at least several weeks, it’s hard to leave a country – and the people – we’ve come to love.

Nevertheless, the logistics of leaving are well underway. We conducted a sample packing and were able to stuff everything into two big suitcases, two small back-packs, and a carry-on. Former students Lydia and Pandu will move into our home next week (they’re the couple who got married in Namibia Diary #222) and their baby (!!!) should arrive before we leave. Our dogs will also get a new home, though I dread saying good- bye to them as much as to our human-friends.

A couple days ago Bernd and I went in search of elephants one last time. We found them at a watering hole at night, shortly after watching two lions mate and also seeing rhino, giraffe and assorted other mammals and birds. (We splurged for our 30th wedding anniversary and stayed at a new game-farm

that is larger than the countries of Lichtenstein and Andorra combined.) Still ahead of us is one last visit to Gobabeb, the desert- based research center where Elsita works. She also has exciting news: The faculty at Israel’s Ben Gurion University have invited her to join their Master’s Degree program in Desert Ecology, starting in October.

Unfortunately, we won’t get to see Sergio before our departure. He remains in Japan and is unable to take home-leave.

USEFUL INFORMATION YOU PROBABLY DIDN’T KNOW:

Question: Do you know how to tell the difference between the way male and female elephants leave their poop?

Answer: Males poop in a row, while walking. Females stop, poop in more-or-less one place, and add urine. (No kidding! I also bet if they had toilet seats they would also put down the rim.)

Meanwhile, we are still heavily engaged at our work. Bernd finishes teaching at the Polytechnic in a couple weeksand still plans an 8-day hike with Elsita and her friends (see Namibia Diaries #132 for the route). And starting later today, I must still travel for three-weeks to Zambia for the Stephen Lewis Foundation and also finish up writing two life-skills curricula for youth.

Training at Osire Refugee Camp

One of the curricula I’m writing led to an interesting experience last week. In order to pre-test it, I had arranged a five-day workshop at Namibia’s Osire Refugee Camp, about 3 hours from Windhoek on the edge of the Kalahari. Since the curriculum is designed for use in many countries (to be published by Strategies for Hope – www.stratshope.org), the multi-ethnic composition of the Refugee Camp made for a good fit. Moreover, all the youngsters (ages 11-15) spoke good English -- thanks to the presence of an English-medium government primary school on-site.

About 7000 people live at the Camp, mostly from Angola, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Rwanda and Burundi. Many of the young people, like the student Sofiana who moved in with us eighteen months ago, have lived there most of their lives. The place is like a massive low-security prison, completely surrounded by a high-wire fence -- albeit with dozens of churches, several mosques, a makeshift market, a health clinic, a library, school, and a large police station inside.

Although everyone living at the Camp has been found by the U.N. High Commission for Refugees to have a “well- founded fear of persecution” (which theoretically allows them to stay at the Camp indefinitely), the Namibian government doesn’t like the fact that the services to which they are entitled cost a lot of money (i.e. the school, health-clinic, police, etc), and the government wants them to go home as soon as possible. Thus, they keep things uncomfortable by reducing food subsidies to a minimum and disallowing electricity and running water except in a few public buildings. Families must also construct their own homes and latrines from mud-bricks and straw, and find their own way to make a living. Most supplement their diet by coaxing vegetables, beans and maize out of the meager soil. Others engage in buying and selling, as even cracked pots and worn-down clothing have value in this forsaken place.

Several good-Samaritan Non-Governmental Organizations try to make life reasonable by offering English-language classes, income-generating activities, theology training and youth-programs. This is how I slipped in, although I was still required to get a Government permit for entry. Fortunately, I had been to the Camp several times before and I already had a good relationship with Gabriel Sehenu, the volunteer Coordinator of the Osire Boys’ and Girls’ Clubs (himself a refugee from the DRC and a teacher in the Camp’s school). Together we recruited nineteen youngsters, met with their legal guardians, and subsequently held three two-hour sessions every day for an entire week in order to test and revise the curriculum.

The kids were great! The curriculum includes a lot of games, drawing and role-plays, so we could have lots of fun together. Gabriel and I addressed issues of sex and sexuality, how to solve problems, good study-habits, self- esteem, “Who is my Hero?”, “What is Love?,” HIV & AIDS, and issues of addiction and alcohol abuse. While I got lots of tips about how improve the curriculum, overall the workshop was a great success. By the second day, our anonymous Question-Box was filled with 23 questions that the participants wanted us to talk about – everything from menstruation to career guidance -- and that meant staying until very late each afternoon. But nobody minded.

I also became “mother confessor” to a few of the girls who sought my advice on personal issues. Most concerning was an incredibly bright and articulate 14- year-old named Rosa who told me on the third day that I was “the first adult to know” that she is pregnant, based on a Clinic-test she took a few days before. Oh, my heart broke as I felt her dreams just crumble to bits in my fingers!

Over the next few days, Rosa and I spent several hours talking things through. Rosa has been motherless since the age of five – and has been living alone for the last three years since her father moved in with a new girlfriend. (Tragically, there are quite a few child- headed households in the Camp.) She told me that she didn’t want an abortion --which would be illegal anyway, given Namibian law -- because her only sibling had died from a botched abortion three years ago. Rosa also said that her 17-year old boyfriend admits his role, but he is scared of his parents’ reaction and refuses to talk to them about it. No wonder this girl is feeling lost, lonely and vulnerable!

I tried to help Rosa put her new-found problem-solving skills into practice: Define the Challenge; Identify the Choices; Think through the Consequences; and then Make the best Decision... Unfortunately, the Camp contains very few resources with which to assist, as I’m told

this type of story repeats itself almost every week. Above all, Rosa and I decided that she must try to stay in school to finish her basic education. By the end of the week, she agreed to tell Gabriel about her situation and he said he would help with the school authorities. But how will she support herself and her baby? Who can help guide her through the tough times ahead?

Driving back to Windhoek after the training, I wondered if I could do more if we stayed longer in Namibia. The answer is, “Not easily.” Once I am physically away from the Camp, my only linkage can be through Gabriel. He has received some training in counseling and wants to learn more. So Bernd and I agreed we would try to help him with his goals and he, in turn, said he will do what little he can for Rosa...

Yours truly, Lucy

239: What continent is this?

2010-03-27T21:08:00.000-07:00

For the last three years, the World Council of Churches had been planning a regional meeting in Madagascar to support the efforts of local churches dealing with HIV and AIDS. Finally, it happened. Our small plane left Johannesburg, crossed over Mozambique and the Indian Ocean, and graced over rocky outcrops and luscious green rice fields until it landed in Antananarivo, Madagascar’s capital. Very few tourists have come to this island since last year’s military coup, so in February the country cancelled all visa fees and now gives every new visitor an informational booklet on the history of Madagascar’s lunar calendar (which is Arabic in origin). Does the government really think these gestures will persuade tourists to start coming again?

An international city – in a time warp

Unfortunately, I could only stay less than one week. But what an amazing experience! Antananarivo is one of very few historic capitals that lie neither on the ocean nor on a major river. Instead, it is located in the middle of the country, perched on hilly outcrops about a mile above sea level. There are 2 million inhabitants and not a single traffic light. Not one!

The traffic is terrible, as you can imagine. But I enjoyed looking at the proliferation of cars from the 1950s, which gives a feel of Old Havana – albeit with a French overlay. Most cars are rattling Renault 4s and 2-horsepower Citroens, which are used as taxis.

Old buildings line the streets, with sloping tiled roofs, tiny wood-shuttered windows and small balconies where people hang out their laundry to dry. None of the structures seemed quite straight, least of all the narrow outdoor staircases that lead one to the second floor or up the steep hillsides of the city. Looking at these scenes, I was reminded of old Moldova or parts of Eastern Europe fifty years ago. Yet the street signs are all in Malagasy and French. And, given Madagascar’s history as a former French Colony, our meals invariably included croissants every morning and French wines at night.

Perhaps because I knew so little about Madagascar, I never expected the city’s residential and business areas to be so crowded. People’s homes and shops are squeezed into tiny spaces in between flower-potted gardens, polluted canals and sour-smelling garbage heaps. Most surprisingly, however, the flat areas that surround the city’s hills consist mostly of rice paddies. In the middle of the city! Sadly, however, the paddies are becoming less productive every year, as an epidemic of hyacinths choke out the oxygen in the stagnant water. Seemingly, no one knows how to get rid of this invasive plant. (The same has happened in the Chesapeake River outside Washington, I understand.) A number of local farmers try to induce their cattle into the water to eat the hyacinths, but with little success.

These scenes and my interactions with the Malagasy people transported me even farther afield -- to Asia. Most people look Polynesian and they speak a local language that resembles a Papua New Guinea dialect. (The photo of me is with Rev. Vololona Randriamanantena – a descendent of Malagasy royalty and coordinator of the World Council of Churches’ efforts in the country.) What little you see of new construction is almost entirely financed by Chinese banks using Chinese labor, and in my Chinese hotel nobody even bothered to translate the instructions from Chinese on how to operate the TV or telephone. Over and over during this trip, I kept pinching my arm to remember what continent I was in.

The two sides of HIV in Madagascar

But of course, we came to focus on the HIV situation. Coming from other southern-African countries that have the highest HIV-prevalence rates in the world (for example, Namibia’s adult population is 18% HIV-positive ), once again Madagascar blew me away. The national prevalence rate in Madagascar is less than a half-a-percent – far less than in Washington D.C. (at 3%) or the United States as a whole (close to 1%).

What is Madagascar’s secret to success?

If you answered “its isolation” you are probably correct. But it’s not only that Madagascar is an island, far away from Africa’s mainland. Even within the country people don’t move around a lot due to the country’s miserable road network. So the normal patterns by which disease is spread don’t apply here.

Moreover, when people do travel, it often means that they are looking for work outside Madagascar and, because of language issues, that usually means going to Mauritius or France or West Africa where the HIV prevalence is much lower. Finally, you may be aware that male circumcision reduces the likelihood for HIV infection by 60%. And, despite the fact that Madagascar is mostly Christian, virtually all Malagasy boys get circumcised by the age of two. It’s not a foolproof solution (as Jewish and Muslim men with HIV can sadly testify), but it certainly helps.

Unfortunately, the downside to this low prevalence rate is that for those Malagasy citizens who do happen to be HIV positive, the stigma and discrimination issues are awful and overwhelming. Most people living with HIV are afraid to tell their employers or even their family members that they carry the HIV virus for fear that they will be thrown of their jobs and homes. Clinics and support organizations for HIV-positive people are few and far between, and also very difficult to find. (The desire for anonymity keeps them hidden, without any public outreach.) The churches have a big role to play in breaking down stigma and discrimination, and from what we could see many are trying their best.

We visited a number of HIV/AIDS clinics and support groups. Interestingly most of the people living with HIV whom we met were men, while worldwide the disease predominantly affects women. Is this because of the relatively more-accepted practice of men-having-sex-with-men in Madagascar? I can only guess. So much on this island remains a mystery – and not only to me.

Lemurs are best!

Of course, no trip to Madagascar is complete without taking in some other unique aspects – specifically, some of the country’s 16 surviving species of lemur. Our natural history guide was named “Good-smelling,” which I thought bode well for our adventure.

Lemurs are the world’s earliest prehensile mammals, maternal in their social structure, and generally living in groups. They are primarily vegetarian and females always eat first. A night, lemurs sleep in a circle, with the males forming a protective ring around the females. They are naturally curious creatures, their round eyes staring at you intensely like Namibian bush-babies. Tragically, a loss of habitat has endangered many lemur species (15 are already extinct). We saw them in the zoo, in an open reserve. I would have loved to visit their natural habitat. Yet even here, I could have watched them for hours.

Madagascar is not on our world-trip itinerary but I hope I can come back one day. To end, here is a wonderful local proverb that I learned during my stay:

Let your love be like the misty rain,

coming softly but flooding the river.

...............(Madagascar)

238: The constancy of change

2010-03-06T23:10:00.001-08:00

Three years ago I first visited MWEDO, The Maasai Women’s Development Organization in Tanzania. Leaving Arusha in Northern Tanzania, we spent an entire day driving over rough tracks to reach a group of Traditional Birth Attendants who had received training in basic health, hygiene and HIV/AIDS, thanks to support from the Stephen Lewis Foundation. At the time, my efforts were rewarded with a warm welcome by my age-mates (women of similar years) who dressed me as a local Maasai and told me – through translation – how much their training increased their knowledge and the respect they receive from other villagers. (To my left in the photograph is the mother of MWEDO’s founding director, Ndinini Kimesera Sikar, who was taken out of the village as a young child to receive an education, and is now a world-famous champion for women’s rights.)

On this trip, I learned that MWEDO (www.maasaiwomentanzania.org) has expanded its work in six districts, where it now empowers thousands of women through various income generating activities, advocacy over land-rights, and follow-up training with the Traditional Birth Attendants. They also involve young men as peer-educators, as these men often travel to the towns and cities looking for work and are therefore most-at-risk for bringing the HIV-virus back home to the rural areas. I visited three villages to ask about these experiences and find out what the participants had learned.

The work has been extraordinary, but some questions still remain. As Ndinini and I sat under a tree, one young man challenged me: “We learned how to
use condoms, but were told you could still get infected (with the HIV virus). So why should we bother with them?” Ndinini had already warned me against speaking directly about sex in this culture, but I sensed this question was a test. How I answered could determine the way this community continues to accept training by the Stephen Lewis Foundation. I thought carefully before responding, and then looked up at the new road that was under construction about two hundred meters from where we were sitting.

“You know, if you cross that road, the danger always exists that you could get hit by a truck,” I said. “In order to avoid that danger altogether completely, you have to stay on this side of the road. But if you want to cross the road, then you should reduce the chance of getting hit by a truck as much as you can. So you must look both ways to make sure it is safe and then you walk across very quickly. Well, it’s the same with the condom. There are things you can do to avoid getting hit as much as possible.”

I held my breath and looked at Ndinini who smiled. The young man said he understood and was satisfied. Then the women followed with stories and questions of their own, mostly related to and about HIV-testing and care. Before the Training, they said, it used to be their custom to share razors when shaving each other’s heads (a traditional sign of beauty). But now they realize this habit could spread the HIV infection. So they are teaching each woman to keep her own razor. As Traditional Birth Attendants, these women also know that if a pregnant woman is infected with HIV, she should go to the doctor to get certain drugs that can reduce the transmission of HIV from mother to child. As further protection, the pregnant woman should give birth in a health clinic, rather than in the bush. But Maasai women are used to giving birth in a squatting position, these women explained, while the clinics require you to lie down on your back. Could we do something to change that?

The truth is, I’m not sure how much can be done but I wish all organizations would pose challenges like this one. By contrast, I found out that another organization I had waxed eloquent about in 2006 (that was founded by two volunteer-doctors) has gone down the tubes. Fortunately it was the exception: Ruined by external funding and the lack of administrative know-how, though very little money was lost.

Where to next? I have a meeting next week in Madagascar, followed by consulting work for Family Health International. I’ll be back in time for Passover and an Easter-weekend trip with Bernd to see elephants, and then I head to Malawi for more work. Meanwhile, however, our “to-do” list for the Big Trip seems to be growing longer rather than shorter.

We’ve started to figure out what we should pack and what we should leave behind. I’m reminded of a jewellery-bedecked saleswoman I met in January at Chico’s (one of my favorite stores in the U.S.) when I was looking for a wrinkle-free blouse that I could use as an all-purpose “dress-up” outfit on the trip. The poor woman’s eyes popped out when I told her why I was being so fussy about what to buy. “How do you pack for a whole year?” she sputtered. Now, I’m beginning to wonder myself.

Nevertheless, we are making progress. This past week, Bernd and I went to hear a local speaker who had travelled around the world for fourteen months, albeit mostly as a beach bum -- not our style. He re-enforced two very important concepts, however: First, that in order to be truly open to new experiences, you have to detach yourself from the parts of your life that don’t matter so much. Second, don’t try to plan everything ahead of time because that doesn’t work anyway. (As an inveterate planner, this last bit of advice hit home. I have promised myself to try to hang loose on some of the details, for example waiting until we get settled in one country in order to decide what to do in the next.)

We still hope we’ll get to see Sergio before we leave in June, but aren’t sure. He remains in Okinawa and has turned his body into a canvass for the tattoos he designs. This latest photo includes one of his beloved guitars. (Appreciating this artiness is also a test – we’re okay with the picture but wonder what it will be like in-person.) Elsita’s future is also unclear at the moment: she didn’t get into the graduate schools she wanted and now wonders: Should she stay in Africa longer, move back to the USA with her friends and look for a job, or apply to Ben Gurion University in Israel for a Master’s Degree in Desert Ecology? (All three options have pros and cons. See her below at work in the laboratory - www.gobabebtrc.org.)

Bernd is teaching a course in Cryptography for the first time and really enjoying it. After six weeks of agony and applications to every tertiary-level course we could find, Sofiana (the Angolan refugee who lives with us) got into a 2-year diploma course in Accounting at the University of Namibia and is thrilled. She hopes for on-campus accommodation next term, but will continue commuting from our home in the interim.

(The photo of President Bush was taken during his visit to MWEDO in 2008, kissing a tall Maasai woman. I think it’s a hoot!) As a final note, yesterday I was interviewed by Namibia’s Anti-Corruption Commission based on some non-profit work I am doing (where the director was being investigated), but happily it was all a false alarm – motivated by party-politics and another Board member’s vindictive nature. I wish all disputes could be ironed out this easily!

237: Transitioning

2010-02-09T08:55:00.000-08:00

One thing we’ve recently learned is that airlines can only book you 330 days in advance. Under normal circumstances that shouldn’t be a problem, but when you want to plan a year-long-trip around the world that basically means you can’t – at least, not all at once.

With our plan to leave Namibia in late June (2010), we ran straight into the World Soccer Cup tournament in South Africa. Already, there are no seats available in or out of Johannesburg (our major transit-airport). We’re reminded of the First Lesson in Travel – “Be flexible!” Our apologies to the environment, as we’re forced to take more airline flights than anticipated in order to bypass the soccer-glut. Already, we are promising to plant lots of trees somewhere along the route, maybe while in Belize.

Many people have asked for our itinerary. Some of our choices may strike you as odd. One factor was that we are trying to maintain an affordable budget by averaging all the costs, meaning that every big splurge has to be countered by cheap nights back-packing or bunking on the floor of friends. (Thanks to all of you who have offered!) Had our budget been higher, we would have included Terre del Fuego (Chile) and New Zealand, but then again, we’ve got to leave something for next time.

Our first six months features nine main stops:

The ten day Dingle Walk in Western Ireland – 15 miles a day but with good Irish pub-music at night and a B & B at each stop. (The best part is that someone else will transport our luggage from place to place.) www.walkinghikingireland.com
A wedding in North Carolina and some “legal business” in Washington. More on that below.
Relaxation in Cape Breton and Quebec, touring with Steinitz relatives from Nova Scotia
Three months’ volunteer work and learning all about orchids at the Belize Botanic Garden. www.belizebotanic.org
Three weeks’ one-on-one Spanish lessons in Granada, Nicaragua, including a home-stay. www.1on1tutoring.net
The tour-of-a-lifetime (aka “the Bribe” to get Bernd to agree to come on this trip) – 17 days to the Antarctic Peninsula, South Georgia Islands, and the Falklands/Malvinas. Penguins and icebergs galore! www.quarkexpeditions.com
Two weeks in southern Peru and northern Bolivia, operating out of Cuzco, Peru
Two weeks with cousin Anita Steinitz in and around Quito, Ecuador
Ten days back in the USA with friends in Arizona, including a hike down and up the Grand Canyon

The Pacific (Australia) and Asia (Cambodia and India) fall to the second six months.

Now for the glitch.

When we landed at Dulles Airport last December 31 for a brief vacation, Bernd and I found ourselves hauled off to a “little dark room” at Immigration because he had broken the rules of his US Permanent Residency by staying out of the country too long. Essentially, Permanent Residents are not allowed to leave the US for more than six months at a time without giving up the privilege, the consequences of which could block Bernd from Medicare and a whole series of other US benefits.

Whoever wrote those rules obviously didn’t understand modern principles of globalization, but the bottom line is that we had to hire an immigration attorney plus pledge that we’ll return to the USA permanently as soon as possible – thus answering the “what next” question for both of us. (So much for my fantasies of another Namibia-like experience in a far-off Shangri-la after the world-tour.)

Fortunately, our round-the-world itinerary calls for another US stopover in July for our friends’ son’s wedding, by which time we hope the worst of our legal problems will be solved. Bernd also plans to take the Graduate Record Exams in July (ha! ha!), just like Elsita did a few months ago -- in his case for a possible Master’s Degree in Philosophy at the University of Maryland starting in August 2011. Hooray for him! Don’t ask me what I will be doing when we eventually return to the US to live because I haven’t a clue, the one advantage being that this leaves me open to any ideas you and others might have.

Of course, under these difficult legal circumstances we were especially delighted by the warm welcome we received last month by friends in Washington and beyond, and we loved walking around on the newfangled aluminum snowshoes that have replaced the Native American tennis-rackets that were used for the same purpose in the past. (See photo. I bet you East-coasters wish you had some now!) You can also imagine how relieved I am that Bernd likes the hundred-year-old colonial row house I bought in his absence eighteen months ago in the Petworth neighborhood of Washington (off North Capitol Street). It’s now under two feet of snow like everything else in the District, but has a lot of storage space and a guest-room downstairs for anticipated visitors. (You, included!)

 

Despite our efforts to look forward, we know that the hardest thing about leaving Namibia will be saying good-bye to the students we sponsor. Some we’ll miss like second sons and daughters.

Most of the young people are doing extremely well, and we cluck with pride at their achievements. As of December last year, half of them have graduated and are either working or continuing their studies or both. And by this time next year, all but three (out of 14) should have finished their undergraduate degrees. Unfortunately, Catholic AIDS Action’s main donor for the program has “moved on to other things” so they can’t take on new students – which is probably another sign for us to also move on in our lives.

That said, four of the students will stay in our house while we are gone – free rent and a subsidy in return for taking care of our dogs and personal belongings. But it still won’t be easy for them or for us, as we know how much personal turmoil many of these young people face despite our support. Thus, we recently spent about two weeks running interference for one orphaned student who faced a possible diagnosis of cancer (still not completely resolved). Two other students had sisters who died of HIV over the December holidays and left very-young children without proper care. Mostly, I try not to think about the welfare of these newly orphaned babies because it just makes me crazy, knowing how little attention the extended families are giving to their needs.

And the list goes on.

Over Christmas, our beloved Helvi learned that her 91-year-old grandmother (who raised her) had been physically abused by an aunt who wants to inherit the grandmother’s shamba (small land-holding). With this news, we had to move quickly: I made a quick study of will-writing and the laws governing protection in Namibia, and with the help of both the local Headman (the traditional Chief’s appointee) and the Namibian Police, Helvi got a restraining order against the aunt and the Headman endorsed the grandmother’s wish that Helvi should inherit the land instead. But the worry continues, as the aunt left her teenage son behind for the grandmother to care-for – nothing less than an “up-yours” retribution by the aunt for chasing her off the property.

On a completely different issue, the Polytechnic of Namibia recently changed their admissions criteria, which meant that Sofiana (the Angolan refugee who lives with us) didn’t meet the admissions requirements for a second year in a row – even though she would have sailed in under the old rules without any problems. Poor Sofiana has been feeling so hopeless that Bernd and I felt we needed a full-time psychiatrist on-hand, even as we desperately search-out every alternate option we can, in order to avoid her returning to the Refugee Camp with nothing to do.

It’s these situations that make us feel how fortunate our own family has been, to have had so many more opportunities and support-systems available. Within that context, we are glad to report that Elsita and Sergio are fine – both in a holding pattern until Sergio’s Japan-based assignment finishes in six months and Elsita finds out about the graduate schools to which she has applied. Two weekends ago Bernd and I visited Elsita at the Gobabeb research and training center – see photos, including one with Lucas and a Wilwitchia plant, the oldest living plant in the world. And yesterday we took Helvi on a hike over rough terrain in a nearby National Park – practicing for our big trip. The highlight was seeing a herd of 23 oryx (see photo), which has got to be the most beautiful animal ever born.

On a final note, I’m glad to call your attention to the link below for a copy of a book I worked on for two years at Family Health International – my swan song, now that I’m leaving. It has received excellent reviews and we’re hoping it can help many programs worldwide, even in Haiti where so much of the country must be rebuilt. Feel free to download the book and circulate it to others.

http://www.fhi.org/en/HIVAIDS/pub/guide/res_The_Way_We_Care.htm

We wish the snow-diggers along the East Coast all the best, and we’ll stay in touch,

236: We've got news

2009-12-20T13:15:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

This e-mail consists of two parts. The part your are reading is a narrative about aging and new beginnings. The second part is a retrospective, looking back on our lives in Namibia in 2009 via photographs (an attachment).

The narrative started last June, when a bug entered my brain and my whole body started feeling antsy. Well, maybe it didn’t exactly START back then, but that’s when I began putting words to the feelings. We had just passed our 12th anniversary in Namibia, and I felt ready for something new. So, I took Bernd out for a romantic dinner and asked him a leading question. “Sweetie,” I said, “If you were to go around the world, just hypothetically, what would you want to do?”

At first, Bernd answered innocently. “I’d like to see something interesting, like mountains and nature and wildlife. And historical places and maybe some culture. Yes, culture goes with it. What’s about you?”

I said, “I would like adventure, with good stories to tell.”

I think this is when Bernd began to realize this was no longer just an idle conversation. But for a while, he played along, “What do you mean by adventure?”

I answered, “I would want to do interesting things, meet interesting people, grow closer to you and feel more at peace with myself.”

Bernd said, “You mean, like something you have never done before?” Then he waited a moment and offered, “If so, I have an idea.”

I got excited, “You do?”

Bernd smiled inwardly: “Yes, you could stay put and not go anywhere for a while. Now that would be really different for you.”

Hmmn. Obviously, I needed to try a different approach.

In July Bernd and I went to Zanzibar and had a fabulous time (see Diary #230), and I raised the issue again. By this time, Bernd knew what was coming and was better prepared. He also began warming up to the idea. But being the logical one in the family, he insisted that we should first check out our health, then our finances, and only then indulge in our fantasies. Some weeks later, when the first of these came out clean, we decided to put our Swakopmund (beach) house on the market to raise the money we would need. At the same time, I started to have doubts: At our age, wasn’t this idea a bit reckless?

In July, I flew back to Tanzania for work and spent a weekend with Sister Raphaela, with whom I had co-founded Catholic AIDS Action in Namibia in 1998 (see Diary #232). We had worked together in Namibia for eight years, before her religious order called her back to southern Tanzania. Although now approaching her 70th birthday, she remains active as the prioress of her religious order, as head of a regional high school that she founded two years ago, as trustee for the District Hospital, and as director of Uzima, a local offshoot of Catholic AIDS Action.

During our weekend together, we found ourselves talking late into the night like old schoolgirls. I had promised Bernd that we would keep our ideas a secret until we felt confident enough to go public, so I didn’t say anything. Nevertheless, Sister Raphaela asked me: “When you look back at your decision to move to Namibia, what do you think?”

I answered without hesitation, “It was the best decision our family ever made.” Sr Raphaela responded in kind. “Yes, I would agree with you: living in Namibia was the best part of my life, so far. But I have to add, ‘so far.’ You never know what might come next, if you just stay open to the future.”

Was Sister Raphaela prescient or just guessing? I always appreciated Sister Raphaela’s God-connection. Was her message coming from some Higher Power?

Two months later, I became convinced we were on the right track. This time, I was talking to my friend Sue Parry in Zimbabwe about our dreams, adding that in a way I felt silly about our starting over at ages 58 and 64, respectively. Sue answered by quoting Mother Theresa to me. As you read the quote, be sure to answer the question for yourself, too. According to Sue, Mother Theresa once said, “If you didn’t know how old you are, how old would you say you are?”

Great question, I thought. Then I answered, “43.”

Sue added one piece of Mother-Theresa advice. “Now, act it!” she said.

Oh wow! What fun! I couldn’t wait to pop the question to Bernd. If he answered similarly, then I would know we’re on the same wavelength.

So before I told Bernd how I responded, as soon as I got home I asked him, “If you didn’t know how old you are, how old would you say you are?”

Bernd hesitated momentarily and then took a deep breath.

“45,” he said.

Whew!

With this, we starting talking and searching the Internet in earnest, and we agreed on certain parameters:

1. We would wait to go until Elsita leaves Namibia for graduate school, probably next summer.
2. We would spend 11 months to a year traveling, using one of the round-the-world 16-stop tickets from the big airline networks (One-World or the Star Alliance)
3. We would go to mostly new places, touching all seven continents.
4. We would travel primarily in cheap countries, but intersperse them with some big splurges (see below).
5. Six months of the year will be spent volunteering for “good causes.” The first of these will be at the Belize Botanic Garden (obviously in Belize), staring in September 2010. We’re still looking for a second site, hopefully in Asia. (We shall apply through the American Jewish World Service but they are not yet accepting applications - so alternate ideas are also welcome.)
6. We will learn Travel-Spanish for three weeks in Nicaragua, and put it to practice in Bolivia, Peru and Ecuador.
7. Bernd would fulfill his life-dream of going to the South Georgia Islands, the Falkland Islands and Antarctica, and Lucy would get her life-dream of traveling for the same number of days in Northern India.
8. We would take two long hikes (Ireland and New Zealand), and bunk with friends and relatives wherever possible to save costs and renew old acquaintances.
9. We willl keep a blog, email frequently and/or stay connected via FaceBook.
Bernd decided to stop Lecturing at the Polytechnic in June next year and I shall quit Family Health International in February, but keep up with consulting work until we’re ready to take off. Last week the house sold in Swakopmund, so we know now that this is truly “beshert” (meant to be) – and we’re very excited!

Sergio and Elsita are the wild-cards: they don’t know where they will be next year; so we don’t know where (or when or if) we’ll meet up. As for our local (Namibian) kids, we shall maintain our support through the Saving Remnant program, allow four of the youngsters to stay in our home in Windhoek (in exchange for dog-duty and general house maintenance), and postpone our long-range plans until after we come back and figure out what-next. (This probably won’t involve another extensive stay in Namibia, but we can’t say for sure. Even for plan-and-pack-ahead freaks like us, deciding things that far ahead would be extreme.)

Meanwhile, all recommendations, advice and good wishes are welcome.

Yours truly, 
Lucy and Bernd

P.S. Sister Namibia Magazine just came out with a huge double-issue in which both Lucy (on her work in Namibia) and Elsita (on adoption) are featured. Check out the brand-new Sister Namibia website (still under construction) where you can click onto this latest issue of the magazine. www.sisternamibia.org

P.S. Enjoy the attachment, and it’s Elsita who was wind-surfing, not me.

235: A children's champion

2009-10-18T17:17:00.000-07:00

I initially met my new hero, Marko Ndlovu, eighteen months ago when I visited the children’s organization Chiedza on the outskirts of Harare, Zimbabwe, for the first time. Last month, on behalf of the Stephen Lewis Foundation, I returned to see how the organization was doing. Chiedza, which means “Dawn’s Early Light” in Shona, is a day-center for several hundred of Harare’s poorest and most disadvantaged orphans. The organization operates out of a donated five-acre plot that houses a pre-school, after-school program, communal kitchen, large vegetable garden, rabbit-hutch (where the children breed rabbits for food), caretaker’s cottage, training-rooms, and offices. Just before my first visit, the founding director had announced her resignation, and Marko was told to anticipate a promotion. So when I returned to Chiedza last month, I sat down with Marko to interview him with a single question: I asked, “Given last year’s hyper-inflation, HIV and cholera epidemics, post-election violence, and clamp-down by the government on charitable organizations, how would you describe your first year as director?”

Marko looked at me and laughed. “If anyone had told me in advance that my promotion would mean dealing with all these challenges, I might never have taken the job. The worst part was that, on top of all of the terrible things that were happening inside Zimbabwe, our grant-funding got cut because the global economic crisis caused our faithful donors – including the Stephen Lewis Foundation -- to suddenly experience their own loss of income.”

Marko said, “In late 2008, we applied to the Stephen Lewis Foundation for a significant increase in funding – which is what we felt we needed to keep serving the 305 children who came here daily, plus their siblings, grandparents and other family members in the community. You can’t imagine our shock when we got an apologetic phone call from Canada and were told that the Foundation could only afford $20,000, due to the global recession. As soon as possible, they said, the Foundation would try to increase our funding once again. But when would that be and how would we cope in the interim?

“Suddenly, it felt like the earth fell out from underneath us. The Foundation had paid for several salaries, my own included. Even worse, we had relied on the Foundation for the educational support we provide to children – specifically, the payment of school fees, supplies and uniforms, which are required in Zimbabwe -- and for the purchase of maize-meal and beans that we use to feed the children each day, Monday through Saturday.”

When the news came in, Marko gathered the staff, volunteers and Board of Trustees. He told them that they had to prioritize activities under the new grant, and determine the best way forward. This was a group process, as everyone involved had a stake in the outcome. They chose to focus on education; using what money they had to keep as many children as possible in school. (School uniforms got scrapped, though – children were told to keep wearing their same clothes as the year before.) At the time, they hoped that Catholic Relief Services would meet their food needs, as that organization functioned as a conduit for the World Food Programme.

Unfortunately, about a month later the World Food Programme announced that they would concentrate exclusively on rural areas. Once again, Chiedza’s children lost out. Chiedza now had to rely on individual donors to buy food, supplementing the vegetables they grew in the garden. Marko said that he felt haunted every night by the image of 300-plus orphans who came every day to the Centre to eat the only decent meal they ever got, and to enjoy the emotional support and recreational games they desperately needed. “This isn’t just something we knew in the abstract,” Marko said. “We had been to every one of these children’s homes: we knew their caregivers, and we knew we were their only lifeline…” Marko said that there were days that he and the other staff just walked around dazed, unable to see straight.

Marko also spoke of a loss in medical care. The biggest hospital nearest to Chiedza closed down with the government’s health-care collapse. Caregivers and clients on treatment simply couldn’t access drugs anymore. Two of Chiedza’s children died because they could no longer get the HIV medications, as did 6 caregivers and one of their staff. Marko said, “We provided transportation over and over to go to the hospitals for medicines and tests, but the medicines were simply not there. Food was not available, either.” Twice, Chiedza had drive to Botswana to buy large supplies of food, which was expensive and hard to obtain.

Like some other non-governmental organizations in Zimbabwe, last year Chiedza also lost their reserve-funding – in their case about US$19,000-- when the government took control of all the accounts held by these organizations in the bank. “They simply wiped us out.” Marko said, “They claimed that the government needed this money as part of their emergency recovery plan.” This money was never returned. Then Chiedza tried to get government fuel-coupons and other types of in-kind support as an exchange –“just anything,” Marko said -- but all their appeals have gone unanswered. This money represented Chiedza’s back-up funds that were supposed to cover the organization in the event of an emergency. Now the emergency happened, but the back-up had disappeared too.

Marko took up the story again. “I am just relieved we have soldiered on,” he said. “The organization survived as did most of our children, although sadly we lost some of the quality-of-care that had been our hallmark.”

By mid-2008, many of Zimbabwe’s schools ceased functioning because the government paid the teachers so little money that it cost them more to get to school and back, than they got paid at the end of the day. Seeing once again that their children were suffering, in September 2008 Chiedza’s staff decided that, since education was no longer taking place in the schools, they would establish a supplemental school-tutoring program. They hired four part-time teachers, four afternoons a week for two hours a day, and they concentrated on serving children who faced the government-exams at the end of the year -- in Grades 4, 7 and 10. Marko said they went beyond their own children to include some others but suddenly this meant that they also had more mouths to feed. “These children rarely ate more than once a day,” he reminded me. “You can’t expect them to learn on an empty stomach.” The staff spent a lot of their time running around for food wherever they could get it – maize at one place, cooking oil at another, leftovers from some embassy function at a third. This meant other things didn’t get done and the program staff spent less time working directly with the children, but they felt they had no choice.

Marko had hoped that the need for tutoring would be temporary but with the near-total collapse of Zimbabwe’s educational system in 2009, they decided to continue the program. Marko had included the tutoring activities in their proposed budget to the Stephen Lewis Foundation. When that fell through, Marko tried a potential opportunity with Children First (a US government program). But that required an entirely redesigned school-support program. “It was touch-and-go for a long while,” Marko said, “because Chiedza didn’t quite fit into the USAID (US government) mold.”

Marko continued. “We insisted on maintaining a holistic service, despite the rules that keep USAID from paying for food except under very restricted circumstances – which we didn’t meet. But still, we needed to feed these children. We also wanted to build the children’s resilience and give them hope, which meant infusing our activities with emotional support and the opportunity for psycho-social expression. But where would that money come from?”

Via their USAID funding, Chiedza started providing block-grants for two terms (8 months) to local schools, to which they would give learning materials and supplemental teacher-training in exchange for a pledge by the school to absorb 150 poor children each, without requiring their payment of school fees. At first, just three schools were involved -- but with additional savings, Chiedza added another school, meaning that 600 children could be helped. Soon discovered that many of the Chiedza’s own children were not among those pupils covered by the grants because they attended different schools. To fill the gaps, they used funding from their Stephen Lewis Foundation grant, and also from Quantas Airlines (their other long-term donor). Before the end of this year, Chiedza will add four new schools under USAID, and hopefully this next set of schools can include more of their existing children.

In the meantime all the schools have added other costs that families now have to pay (not covered by the block-grants). Children who don’t contribute these extra expenses are sent home, made to sit in the back of the classroom, or prohibited from taking exams. “It’s not that the schools are mean-spirited,” one of the principals explained. “The problem is that the government no longer pays for any supplies or repairs, and many teachers have made it clear that they will only continue teaching if their salaries are supplemented by the school.” Around the country, children are increasingly being forced to bring US$1 per week to help pay their teachers, plus extra fees for chalk, office expenses and their schools’ upkeep. But in many low-income households, one dollar represents more than a day’s earnings.

Of course, the children who suffer the most are, once again, the poorest of the poor – in Chiedza’s case, those children who came to the center every day. “When this happened, I didn’t want to come to work in the mornings,” Marko said. “It was so terrible. The children would cling to us, crying that they wanted to go to school and study, but we couldn’t promise them anything. All we could do was assure them that we would try.” Then Marko reflected. “I think by now we have got just about everybody covered again, although one girl came to me yesterday and it seems that her situation has not yet been resolved. But we are working on it.”

Unfortunately, with the tutoring program last year the support came “too little too late.”. None of the eighty children who took the exams passed. The government allowed the younger children to continue into the next grade anyway, but the Grade 10 pupils had to repeat the year. When Chiedza decided to continue their tutorial program this year, they re-designed it to focus specifically on preparing for the exams. When word got around, one afternoon, Marko found 150 students pushing into a room that only holds 20 children. After a while, another tension arose: A teachers’ strike began at many schools, and several principals responded by sending the children to Chiedza for lessons. It got so bad that some community-children were heard to say that they wished they were also orphans, so that they could get Chiedza’s help.

Eventually the USAID program paid for more tutors (through September this year) and “classrooms” were established under trees. Chiedza hopes that they have done enough this year so that at least some students will pass their exams in November. They also hope that the government will take over their responsibility and that the schools will start functioning properly again, beginning with the new school year in January 2010.

It won’t be easy. The quality-of-care remains Chiedza’s major concern. It’s not just attending school that counts, but what the children learn. Marko calls Quality his “driving force.” He would rather ensure long-term impact on a fewer number of children, than focus just on the number of children served. They lost a chance of funding from UNICEF because they couldn’t scale-up fast enough. Marko said, “We are about trying to change children’s lives. We have already trained every staff person in basic counselling skills and we want to train them more in psycho-social supports. We want our children to feel comfortable and loved and to know that this is a place where they can go for help. You can’t do this piecemeal – to provide a quality service you have to respond to the whole child.”

Whew! What can you say after hearing all this?

P.S. I inadvertently forgot to take a photo of Marko, but the young man with whom I'm standing is called Washington -- now going by the name "Tino" -- to whom I introduced you previously in one of my earlier diaries about Howard Hospital's work in Zimbabwe. At that time we "discovered" this boy -- then 15 years old -- who was single-handedly taking care of himself and two younger siblings. Here is his now, obviously doing much better due to the support provided to him and his family by the hospital staff and volunteers.

234: What we learned in Kindergarten (in Zimbabwe)

2009-10-04T22:17:00.000-07:00

Although Zimbabwe has changed dramatically since we first lived there for a few months in 1994, I still love it. Despite the economic shambles and destroyed infrastructure you will find a level of dedication and inner resilience that surpasses any other country I have seen.

I recently had the opportunity to conduct twelve organizational assessments for the Stephen Lewis Foundation in Zimbabwe. These visits always include a financial and programmatic review, as well as a field visit. Sometimes my most important tasks are simply to listen and observe, and to offer encouragement and appreciation for the incredible work that is being done under indescribably difficult conditions.

History's Worst Inflation

For example, on this trip I heard how the country’s currency lost 25 zeros during 2008 and still reached an exchange of 3 trillion Zim-dollars to one US dollar: Prices changed four times a day so if you took a bus into town in the morning you were sure to pay 50% more or even twice as much for the return trip in the afternoon. If you went to a store to ask how much an item cost, they would tell you a price that would last only one hour. Shops couldn’t stock goods so groups sent emissaries once a month to shop in neighboring Botswana or South Africa. The health and educational systems crumbled to a stand-still. A lack of decent sanitation in the country’s swelling urban slums led to a cholera epidemic, just at the same time as all government hospitals shut down for lack of medicine and personnel. Schools were looted and consequently closed, and in June last year, the government shut down all in-country travel by non-governmental organizations (blaming them for supporting the opposition). Unbelievably, many of the organizations I visited still found ways to distribute food and other assistance, often resorting to barter and even traveling in disguise. While some conditions are slowly improving (for example, the US dollar is now the main local currency), other problems remain.

Double Hope

I have lots of stories to tell. Three of them come from the work of an all women’s group called Hope Tariro Trust (actually Double-Hope, as Tariro means hope in Shona) in Masvingo near the ancient Great Zimbabwe National Monument, three hours from the capital. (See photo). After first visiting two years ago, I convinced the Stephen Lewis Foundation (www.stephenlewisfoundation.org) to grant this small, start-up organization its first international grant. This time, my emotions ran the gamut – anger, joy and gratitude – but all the time feeling deeply privileged and completely blown away by the spirit of caring, hard work and voluntarism I witnessed.  

(1) Education – that Isn’t.

Fezile Ncube, the organization’s widowed director, took me to Coronation Primary School – deep in the bush on a dirt track. As we approached, I noted that every single window had been broken. Inside the classrooms the only equipment consisted of a few benches and tables. There were no wall posters, educational supplies, or books to be seen. (Only the headmistress had a few frayed books on two shelves in her office – one set per teacher, she said.) Of course, there was also no electricity or running water, and the children we met – mostly barefoot and in rags – did not carry any notebooks, pens, or textbooks. The headmistress explained that the school enrolled 364 pupils in grades 1-7, for whom they should have 9 teachers. “However, three are on strike,” she said, ”And one has been attending a relative’s funeral for more than a week.” So now there are only five teachers left. How on earth can any of the children learn under these conditions?” I wondered.

I asked the headmistress how many came to school on the day I visited. “This was a good day,” she said. “The children knew you were coming and I told them all to come to school, even if they couldn’t pay the school fees. So we had 268.” “How many come usually?” I asked. The Headmistress answered, “This is a very poor school that serves the farm-worker community. What you have to understand is that only 71 of all the children have paid even part of the fees. So I chase the children home if the can’t pay. Somehow, they must come up with the money. We only change $3 per term, and we need that amount for chalk and other supplies.”

Hearing this, Fezile became upset (and me, too). Felize reminded the Headmistress that UNICEF had promised to pay the fees at Coronation School and others like it, although their bureaucracy has delayed the payments. Later Fezile added that she had already pleaded with the Headmistress to be patient, but now, six weeks into the new school term, the Headmistress has apparently taken matters into her own hands.

This whole situation broke my heart. It is true that the Headmistress’s action – sending children home to put pressure on their families to pay school fees – is common throughout Southern Africa. But it is horribly stigmatizing and destroys the children’s desire to learn. Obviously, very-poor children are not at-fault and shouldn’t be held responsible because their families don’t have money to pay these expenses. Worst of all, these children are missing more than their education: Via Hope Tariro Trust, the Norwegian People’s Aid provides a soy-blend porridge for the children at 10:00 every morning, so that they can get at least one nutritious meal a day. And with support from the Stephen Lewis Foundation, there is also an after-school children’s club for psycho-social support and life-skills training. So now the children who are turned away from school are denied all of that that, too!

After we left the school, Fezile confided to me in frustration, “I have already offered the Headmistress whatever supplies we have – chalk and paper and even some pens from the office – to help keep them going. But sending children home has another advantage from the school’s point of view: It helps to cut down the classroom size, which makes teaching more manageable… I’ll go back to the school again to try and convince the Headmistress once more to welcome all the children back – even telling her that the extra support we provide requires this. But we are working with over a hundred schools like Coronation, and we can’t police each one.”

(2) Kindergartens under a Tree

The second place we visited was far more heartwarming. Thanks to the volunteers that Hope Tariro Trust has trained (with support from the Stephen Lewis Foundation), the organization has opened 56 pre-schools in the district. Once again, the Norwegian People’s Aid provides porridge for the children who attend the Play Centers, as they are called – thus ensuring basic nutrition for thousands of under-five-year-olds. To reach the Play Center we visited, we had to use a borrowed 4x4 truck over an incredibly rough track. Eventually we arrived at a compound of huts with a shaded overhang, an open field, and a playground with rope swings and a few climbing logs that the children call their “buses.” The volunteer in charge of the Play Center lives on site, and children come each morning – sometimes accompanied by a parent or grandmother. Here they spend a few hours playing games, singing songs, and enjoying their meal. When we arrived, about 20 caregivers, 10 local volunteers, and 80 children greeted us with song and dance.

Usually each Play Center caters to about 55 children, I was told, but since many of the schools are on strike some older siblings also come each day. Most of the children are orphans, and all are extremely poor. None of the caregivers are paid, but all have been trained and receive a daily meal – the same porridge that the children receive.

What I loved most about the Play Center was how obviously happy and outgoing the children were. Usually when you visit pre-schools – especially as a foreigner – the children are shy and hesitant to interact. Alternatively, if there is no attachment to primary caregivers, they will run to you and jump all over. This was different. The children were willing to come to me -- but slowly. First I squatted down to their level and we smiled, and then they looked to one of the adults to see if it was all right for them to approach. When given the nod by their caregivers, the ice broke and soon we played small hand-games together, made funny faces with each other, and joined together in a song.

With the adults too, the joy felt genuine. When we sat together, I asked them how the Play Center and the training they received made a difference in their lives. One of the care facilitators said that, since these play-centers have been started, none of the children are malnourished anymore and all are more active and open. Several grandmothers said that they appreciate having some time for themselves, away from their orphaned grandchildren, so that they can attend to their vegetable garden and other household chores. I was told of one child who had been sexually abused and came to the Center acting very withdrawn. Through their child-rights and psycho-social support training they received, the caregivers realized what was going on and carefully worked to re-engage the child. Today, the child is much more active, and she engages properly with other children her age. Based on their follow-up, the alleged perpetrator was arrested.

After hearing from the adults, I explained that I also wanted to talk directly with the children. So a group of youngsters gathered together and I sat very low in the ground so we could look at each other, eye-to-eye. Then I asked them what they liked about the Play Center. The answers were exactly the kind you would hope for: “The porridge!” two of them shouted. Then one by one others added, “Playing on the swings!” “Playing ball!” “Making friends!”

I decided to test them about what they might have learned at the Center, as well. “What do you do if you see two children fighting with each other?” I asked. The answer I got was perfect: “Tell them to stop,” a girl said. “And if that does not work, then go to the grandma (caregiver in charge) for help,” another added.

“What do you do if you see a child sitting all alone, looking sad?” I pressed on. “”I will go over and play with that child,” several children chorused. Like Robert Fulghum’s famous book[1] -- even under the simplest of conditions -- these children will one day be able to testify that they learned all of life’s most important lessons while in “kindergarten.”

In terms of recommendations, the caregivers want help in growing their own food, rather than have food-aid delivered. Fezile said she would take the recommendation to Norwegian People’s Aid. As we talked some more, I made some suggestions about how to make toys and games out of rubbish and recycled materials (I actually brought a book to that effect, which I left as a gift), and made a special point that an old truck-canopy that lay to one side of the play area could easily be turned into a pretend “Play House.” This was a new idea for the women there, but I think several of them liked the idea.

(3) What it means to be More Blessed

The final visit was equally heartwarming but on a much smaller scale. Fezile’s assistant explained that about a year ago, she learned of a little girl whose parents had died and who was living with an aged grandfather, himself ill and unable to meet the child’s needs. The girl’s name was More-Blessed but her situation seemed like “anything but.” Seemingly, there were no other relatives to look after her. The staff had just finished training local caregivers and one couple – upon hearing about this child – offered to take her in. We went to visit, and I was struck by the care and support that both foster parents (father and mother) showed this little girl who is now about 3 years old. More-Blessed was clean, healthy-looking, showed interest in her environment, and clearly felt attached to her new family.

I asked the foster parents if they faced any problems with this arrangement. “We want to live long so that we can care for this child until she is all grown up,” the mother said. “We have three older children, but this little girl has added joy to our lives.” Then the father spoke. “Our biggest problem is that the girl does not have a birth-registration,” he said. “We have finally decided that I will tell the authorities that I am the father with another woman who died. This will be the easiest way. The girl’s grandfather – who is still alive -- agreed to verify this story and sign a letter that he has also asked us to raise the child.”

I thought this was an ingenious solution and also very generous on the part of both parents. “But make sure that you tell More-Blessed the truth,” I said. “She will find out anyway as she grows older. If you try to get her to believe something else, when she finds out the true story she will lose trust. But don’t worry: it is clear she loves you now and she will always love you, no matter what.” The parents thanked me for the advice, and I thought about our own adopted children, and how truly universal the concepts of care, support and honesty really are.
 Yours truly, Lucy

[1] i.e. “All I Ever Really Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten” by Robert Fulghum.

233: Elsita's walk to the sea

2009-09-20T16:09:00.000-07:00

About two months ago, Elsita and five of her colleagues at the Gobabeb Research and Training Centre (www.gobabebtrc.org) decided to do what no-one they knew or heard-of had ever attempted in the same way before: to walk due west from the middle of the world’s oldest desert (where the Research Centre is located) about 60 kilometers (40 miles) to the tip of Sandwich Harbor on the Atlantic Ocean. The youngsters trained for six weeks, planned for all contingencies they could possibly conceive of (though they missed a few, as you’ll read below), and set out water-containers by car at 3 pre-selected spots along the way. Here is Elsita’s write up of this most amazing epic journey, all done under the name of “research,” in order to get the permit needed to attempt this otherwise crazy feat. Best wishes to all for a sweet new year --
__ __

Starting out in the early morning of September 9th, we found ourselves at a little spot in the (dry) Kuiseb River called Klipneus, with only the Central Namib Sand Sea between us and our destination: the ocean at Sandwich Harbor. (See map, below, with our camp-sites and water-points) We were 6 -- intrepid and daring adventurers all -- ready to take on anything sandy that could possibly come at us. Immediately, we left the cozy dry riverbed behind and began marching west, the sun rising behind us, up to greet our first set of dunes. For about two-thirds of the distance between the river-bed and the ocean the topography consists of linear dunes - line after line of dunes like giant orange waves. The last third of the Sand Sea turns into a maze of dune after dune in no particular order, a vast hilly stretch that we nicknamed "the House of Pain" in grim anticipation.

We expected that we would have to climb up the steep wind-formed dune slip- faces (the steepest slopes of the dune with the loosest sand) while lugging 8kgs of water as well as food, sleeping bags and other accessories like jackets and tents. But when we finally came face to face with our first dune we were pleasantly surprised to find the sand was hard and we could pick our route carefully - winding over the lowest crests, avoiding the steepest ones, and walking around sand-dips and crater-like bowls that would have cost us precious energy. Prior to the hike we had managed to drive out to and bury containers of water at three set-points along the way, and with the help of Google Earth maps and GPSes we navigated through terrain with minimal landmarks.

Map ............................................... Linear Dunes

In the photos, you can see us marching. The best way is to step in each other's footsteps to minimize sliding backwards too much. (Now, wherever I go I still feel the urge to step in the footsteps of the person ahead of me!) But when I was leading the group I got many complaints that my stride was too short, so I started doing funny things -- making my tracks go in meanders, hopping on one foot for a few steps (etc), that everyone had to follow. It was all quite silly (which was in-keeping with the spirit of the hike). It also occurred to us that I get the award for the most steps walked on the hike - 3 for every 2 of everybody else (tall people with long legs)!

Each day we started marching early in the morning and hiked until midday when the heat of the sun forced us to set up tents and nap for 4 hours (we augmented this siesta by stuffing our faces with peanuts and raisins and throwing around a Frisbee.) Then, as the temperature dropped from its mid-day boiling point, we picked up and continued until sunset.

Dune Crest ......................... In the Dunes

The first few "interdunes" we crossed – that is, shallow valleys in-between the linear dunes -- contained light-patterns of desert vegetation. But as we moved closer to the ocean, we saw less and less green. Amazingly, we still saw quite a few critters though. We found a Golden Wheeling Spider perched on top of a dune - so called because of their awesome ability to roll down the dune using all eight feet to whirlwind downwards. We put it on a steep slip-face and poked at it to make it wheel - quite a nifty party-trick. We also found ourselves shocked when, after sighting ostriches in the distance (yes, running around across the 7th dune oceanwards), we passed their footprints in the sand and discovered that their stride reached 2 meters (over six feet)!

Once, while trying to find a bush big enough to pee behind (I couldn’t find one), I startled a speedy Namib Sand Snake. It darted under some twigs and I approached, knowing that it was harmless. Unfortunately I was unprepared for what happened next: the snake coiled itself like a spring and then, to my utter horror, launched itself into the air straight at me! I may or may not have screamed like a small child and ran around in circles swearing while being chased by a jumping snake. By jumping I mean full horizontal, total extension, flying leaps. We eventually caught it in a hat and calmed it down.

And so we passed our time - hiking, napping, eating, refilling water bottles, dodging snakes and so forth. The nights were cold and windy, but it was a sweet moment when, at our second camp site 12km (8 miles) from the ocean, I lay looking up at the stars and brightest moon and realized that the faint yet consistent background noise was the ocean. The third morning, thick fog rolled in, covering our interdune like an impenetrable cold wet blanket. Here we spotted several Fog-basking Beetles (/Onymacris orbicularis/) doing their thing: perching on the top of dunes, butt up in the air allowing fog water to condense on their exoskeletons and trickle down to an eagerly awaiting mouth. Soon the fog made long-distance vision impossible and we were forced to navigate blindly by GPS. Here is also when we left the reassuring guidance of the linear dunes and entered the House of Pain. There was nothing we could do to avoid charging up and down sandy slope after sandy slope (each several stories high), attempting to remember every single summer-camp song, rhyming game and marching cadence we had ever heard to lift our spirits. There were several rounds of the a cappella free-for-all of "Old Joe Clark" (an American folk song), "Amarula" (a popular tune in local !Nama language) and "Don’t You Want Me?" (an 80s dance hit) before we finally scaled the tallest dune yet and to our great joy glimpsed the sweet SWEET glorious ocean for the first time.

House of Pain .................... Fog Basking Beetle

The marine sighting boosted our morale incredibly, and we crossed the remaining 6 kilometers (4 miles) at breakneck speed, pausing only to take a "Safety Break" to hydrate before charging onwards. Our long hours of training prior to the hike kicked in as we sped up and down like Dune Gorillas (a non-existent creature invented solely for the purpose of confusing school groups.)

And finally the ocean spread out in front of us. We pitched tents, tore off our clothes, linked arms and charged into freezing cold water under the watchful gaze of a curious seal. After our siesta we turned south, following the beach towards our final destination. The view that now greeted us was both epic and stunning: A magenta sunset over the ocean, the tide rising and the strip of beach on which we walked narrowing by the minute between the ocean and tall steep dunes. The near-violent waves became unavoidable and I found myself running along the beach when the waves rolled out and running up the dunes when the waves rolled in. Alas, my best efforts to keep only my feet wet were thwarted when a large wave ricochet off a sandy bank and soaked me to my waist. Soon we found a superb campsite halfway up a dune, where a bowl of sand had been hollowed out by wind, leaving us with a view of the ocean and shelter from the wind. Fortunately, we slept deeply that night, because the next morning we noticed brown hyena tracks right near our tents!

Dune meets Ocean

The next morning we made it to Sandwich Harbor - a haven for seabirds such as cormorants, gulls, flamingos and also several very fat jackals. We passed a series of lagoons and an abandoned cabin (haunted by the Sand Witch –ha ha), followed by a long peninsula jutting out into the ocean with a mass graveyard of sea creature skeletons, shells and guano. We reached the end of the peninsula and looked inland across the small bay. We stopped for lunch and ate the most delicious sandwiches ever created with leftover trail food.

Elsita Kiekebusch
Research Technician
Gobabeb Research and Training Centre
P.O.Box 953, Walvis Bay, Namibia
Tel: +264-64-694199, Fax: +264-64-694197
e-mail: elsita.k @ gmail.com
Website: www.gobabebtrc.org

232: Two sets of clothes, one pair of shoes, and a blanket

2009-08-09T00:21:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, Catholic AIDS Action – the organization I co-founded and headed in Namibia for six years[1] -- gave birth to a child in Tanzania, and called it Uzima (“Wellness”). I hadn’t seen the offspring until last week. Uzima is a small holistic organization based just north of the Mozambique border, whose mother is Catholic AIDS Action’s other co-founder -- my mentor and friend, Sister Dr. Raphaela Haendler.
 

Getting to Uzima required enormous coordination and support from lots of people. The rinky-dink airline that I dubbed (Im)Presicion Air doesn’t allow anyone to book flights from outside the country. To add insult to injury, the flight left Dar es Salaam five hours late. Fortunately, I met a nun who was waiting for the same plane and of course she knew Sr. Raphaela and could assist with logistics. A car picked us up in Mtwara, which is a coastal town that I couldn’t even pronounce before I got there, and drove two hours to the convent where Sr Raphaela serves as Prioress. (Although almost 70 years of age, this is just one of Sr. Raphaela’s many duties. She also oversees medical care at the district hospital, provides leadership for a new Catholic high school, and helps run Uzima.) When I finally arrived, she greeted me with open arms. Then Sr. Raphaela and I chatted like old school-friends, late into the night. Finally she said. “It’s time for sleep. Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to Uzima and then we’ll go swimming.”

We set off early to meet the people involved. Uzima is a beautiful “child,” ably led on a day-to-day basis by local Tanzanian staff, a volunteer social worker from Switzerland, and Catholic AIDS Action’s first accountant, Piet Hein Meckmann, who followed Sr Raphaela to Tanzania three years ago. Like Catholic AIDS Action in Namibia (which is still going strong), Uzima provides care and support to local villagers who have been ravaged by poverty, AIDS, and other tragedies. Many of the principles we carved together in Namibia have been replicated: the organization trains and supervises local volunteers who visit the sick in their homes, provide counseling, make referrals to the local hospital or schools, distribute emergency assistance, and above all, offer hope. The same training curricula are used, as well (translated into the local language, of course) -- both for home-based care and HIV-prevention.

 

Uzima works in six local villages, relying on small donations from the Catholic Church to meet expenses. Yet many of the clients and almost half of the volunteers are Muslim. In working side by side, the volunteers don’t just care for the sick; they also nurture a fresh ecumenical spirit in the area. Thus, for group prayers, they switch off – one time Christian and the next time Moslem. Similarly, when they had to design a logo for Uzima, the volunteers opted against any religious symbol but agreed to the picture of the Catholic Church because, as they explained, the church represented their region and not just the Christian faith.

Sr Raphaela and I joined several volunteers on their supervision rounds. One difference for us is that we had the luxury of a car, but usually the volunteers must walk. They spend hours doing this work every day, without any monetary compensation. I find this incredible, knowing that most are just as poor as the clients they visit. So what is their motivation? Later in the day, I heard some reasons: “Our neighbors need us.” “I am grateful to God to do this work.” And “I appreciate the training I got, which gives me respect in the village.”

Uzima aims for the alleviation of suffering, human dignity, and the chance for a better life in the future. Yet these are difficult goals to achieve. In Tanzania, 17% of all children are considered “most vulnerable,” due to illness, the loss of one or both parents, child labor or abuse, disability, and/or grinding poverty. Okay, you may say, in a country where most people are needy, just how poor is poor? By way of one example, the national standard for the “adequate material well-being” of children is two sets of clothes, one pair of shoes, and a blanket. And shockingly, this remains far out-of-reach for most. According to the government own documents, less than 20% of all Tanzanian children currently meet this standard.[2]

 

At each home we visited, we met outside under a tree or on a grass-mat, as the mud-and-stray home of the patient was invariably small and unsuitable for visitors. One woman we visited had just started medical treatment for HIV the week before. Previously, she had lain bedridden for months, and had almost died. The volunteers were delighted to see her. “I’m feeling much stronger,” the patient explained. “I can already sit up for long periods of the day.” Then she looked at her elderly mother who sat on a straw mat few feet away, and who takes care of the patient’s children. The woman continued. “But we have a new problem… Now that I am on treatment, I am hungry. Our harvest failed last year and we don’t have enough to eat. My appetite means that either I don’t eat or else someone else in the family has to skip food for the day.” One of the volunteers checked the storage-baskets and saw that they were almost empty. “Uzima will allocate some maize-meal for the next few months,” the volunteer said. “Once you get stronger, you can start working the fields again.”

At another home, we met an eleven year old girl who had first come to the volunteer’s attention some months back. It turns out that this child had never gone to school, and instead functioned as the household servant. The mother, who was undergoing medical treatment, had also never received any formal education as a child and didn’t understand what was wrong. “This won’t do,” the volunteers said. “In Tanzania today, every child has the right to a primary education.” Then they arranged for tutoring so the youngster wouldn’t have to start at Grade One, and got the mother to agree that her child would be given sufficient time each day to attend classes and do homework. The day we visited, the eleven year old was very excited but also a little scared. She would start attending school for the first time in two days, beginning in Grade Three. “Don’t worry,” the volunteer comforted her. “Soon you will make new friends and then everything will work out fine. Next week, we’ll come back to see how you are doing.”

In yet another household, we met a small girl that the volunteers had never seen before. The child, around four years old, looked horribly malnourished and dirty, with many small scabs covering her skin and big bald-patches on her head. “Whose child is this?” they asked. “She’s the daughter of our neighbor who ran away to Dar es Salaam and left the girl behind,” came the answer. “We couldn’t let her die but we also don’t even have enough food for ourselves. Even the water needed to wash must be paid-for.” The family members added that they keep hoping a relative will come to claim the child, but so far no one has. The Uzima staff and volunteers quickly conferred with each other about the situation. Ideally, they need the involvement of a government social worker to find a temporary placement for this child and then track down the parent(s). But Tanzania’s social welfare system is so broken that this will likely prove impossible, and meanwhile the child’s condition will only worsen. Fortunately, Uzima has its own social worker who can access some immediate treatment and start to make inquiries in the area. “We’ll be back on Monday,” the staff said. “Then we’ll figure out the next step, together with you.”

Back at the office, I reviewed Uzima’s excellent accounting and data-base systems, and stopped next door at the parish hall. Here, 80 high-pitched voices chorused joyfully to the beat of a hand-made drum. Sr. Raphaela introduced me as a visitor who was born in America. “Do you know anything about America?,” she asked in KiSwahili. Half a dozen hands shot up. “Obama!” the children shouted. I was amazed by the recognition until I hit the roadway the next day, on my way back to Dar es Salaam. Every third fourth bus has a huge picture of Barack Obama plastered on the back, with messages of “Hongera” (“Congratulations!”) and more. Could anyone have imagined this level of pro-American imagery in the heart of Africa, nine or ten months ago?

 

In the afternoon, I joined Sr Raphaela for the best lake-swimming I have ever experienced, halfway up a nearby mountain on church property. (The lake is certified with pure spring-water that tastes like silk, and is sold in bottles as an income generating project for the parish.) The next day, before leaving the area, I also stopped to see the Catholic High School that Sr Raphaela is building. It started in 2005 but quickly floundered due to a lack of finances and good management. Then the Bishop asked Sr. Raphaela to take over. Today, 270 students attend, with the projection of doubling the number in two years’ time. Frantically, Sr Raphaela tries to raise scholarships for those who make the grades but can’t afford the school fees. In addition to academics, many life-skills are taught. On the brand-new campus, you can already see a half-dozen classroom blocks, the start of a girls’ dormitory, a science-laboratory and an IT room with 38 computers. Students often walk 90 minutes each day to school and back, so hot porridge is served daily – cooked outdoors on an open fire. Already, this is the best school in the area, with both Muslim and Christian families clamoring for their children to attend. This blew me away, once again: Muslim families choosing to send their children to a Catholic school because they know, deep down inside, that what really counts is the quality of the education and the moral values that their children will be taught. It seems that here in rural Tanzania, a whole new world order has begun.

Back in Dar es Salaam, a strange sensation rolled over me. I had already been in Tanzania for two weeks, conducting both research and training. That night, I spoke to Bernd on SKYPE. He told me that Kelev, our 13 year old shepherd dog, had contracted a massive infection and was possibly dying. When I hung up, I started bawling like a baby and felt depressed for two days. Not only because I loved this dog and will miss him terribly, but also because it felt preposterous to me that I was so upset about the passing of an old dog who, by anyone’s measure, had had a better life than most of the people in Tanzania. Fortunately, Bernd informed me later in the week that Kelev was making a remarkable recovery and would surely be around a little while longer. And yet, what does this teach us about the inequalities to which we have grown so accustomed?

Over and over, I kept thinking: Is it too much to expect that, at the very least, every child in this world should have access to basic food, health and education – let alone, two sets of clothes, one pair of shoes, and a blanket?

[1] See www.caa.org.na for more information
[2] Tanzania HIV/AIDS and Malaria Survey, 2007-2008

231: Parental Pride

2009-07-19T17:10:00.000-07:00

We have a Lance Corporal in the family! Contrary to what you might think, the reference to ancient weaponry does not refer to a fencing title, but rather to a promotion last week for Sergio in the US Marines. He remains stationed in Japan for another year or so, working in the transport detail and hanging out at the beach with his new buddies whenever time allows.

Elsita also got a promotion but with a less fanciful title. She is now on the permanent research staff at the Desert Research Foundation of Namibia, assigned to a contract with NASA (yes, the National Air and Space Administration) to document and analyze the presence of extreme bacteria in the Namib Desert. The folks at NASA think these bacteria might, just might, be similar to life in outer space -- that is, IF there is life in outer space, they hasten to add, not wanting to forsake their jobs for the loony bin until all the data comes in. Elsita plans to continue doing this desert research – presumably also on some other projects – until starting graduate school next year in environmental biology, hopefully back in the States.

We hope you won’t think us too boastful in the way we are “shebbing naches” (absorbing joy) from our children’s accomplishments. Being so far from friends and relatives, however, these e-mail letters are the best way we have to share our good news. (We also welcome your updates about family, and promise to respond accordingly!) Meanwhile, we remain grateful for the support that many of you gave last year to Elsita for her Central American adventures, courtesy of the American Jewish World Service. Happily, a summary of Elsita’s experiences now appears on the AJWS website at
http://ajws.org/what_we_do/service_and_travel_opportunities/world_partners_fellowship/profiles/.

Most recently, however, both Elsita and I were asked to testify to the Namibian government on the new draft Child Protection Bill, in our case to offer guidelines on how Namibia might consider International Adoptions. (By way of background, most Namibians distrust adoptions, in part because they believe that adoption cuts off the child’s biological link to his or her innate spiritual and ancestral heritage. Nevertheless, we take it as a good sign that folks still wanted to hear our perspective.) Elsita couldn’t give her testimony personally because she was at work in the desert, but her open-letter generated a huge round of applause. I share it below, at the end of this e-mail.

As for Bernd and me, there’s not much to add at the moment. This past weekend we hiked some of the world’s highest sand dunes at Sossusvlei (truly, the height of mountains). This part of the country is really gorgeous, especially now. Although in 2008 the dunes received only a total of 5 millimeters of rain, this year already brought 218 millimeters and the “short rains” in October or November may still add more. As a result, the grass is now higher than anyone can remember, and the animals have gotten fat and happy. On the other hand, the heavy rains also caused the once-golden sand-dunes to turn reddish-brown, probably because the iron granules inside the sand-dune became rusty. So almost all the dunes send of a deeper, darker reddish hue than we ever remember them before!

Tomorrow Bernd starts a new semester at the Polytechnic, amidst the usual headache of too many students, too few classrooms, and a shortage of lecturers and equipment. At least our own students are well situated (now numbering 14, whom we help sponsor as part of the Saving Remnant program): one recent graduate won a scholarship to continue studying in France; another got a good job at the national power company; and a third graduate started night-school (in addition to full-time work) where she is “acing” her way through an added year of studies. Three other students have internships and the rest remain in school full-time -- all doing well.

Yes, we’re proud parents. No two ways about it. Meanwhile, I’m heading back to Tanzania tomorrow for three weeks’ work, but I should be available on-line. Catch you later, I hope!

Elsita’s adoption testimony (which was read aloud):

Hello Everybody,

This is Elsita Kiekebusch writing. As my mother probably explained to you already, I was adopted at the age of 6 months from Guatemala, a country in Latin America. I lived in the United States until age 11 at which point I moved to Namibia with my family.

I do not know the details of my birth, but I do know that I ended up living in an over-crowded orphanage in Guatemala’s capital city before being adopted and moving to the USA. As you can imagine, my life is certainly quite different than what it might have been, had I not been adopted. I think one of the most widely cited positive aspects of adoption is the change in the level of opportunity that a child experiences when adopted from a disadvantaged background into a more privileged environment. Within this context, material wealth comes to mind -- but even basic opportunities such as education and health care are clearly invaluable. My life in the USA (and also Namibia) has certainly been less danger-filled in comparison to the then war-torn Guatemala. However, to me, one cannot overlook the emotional benefits of being adopted into a caring and stable family environment.

One of the fears accompanying international adoption that I have come across here in Namibia, is that an adopted person will lose their connection to their biological family, their ancestors and their heritage. These are definitely real losses, and have given me cause to more strongly consider my own identity. My younger brother (not biologically related) is also adopted, and he is the one and only person I know who can share the same unique story as my own. I know that we both sometimes speculate about our biological relatives. We wonder what they are like, what they believe in and all the other “might-have-beens.” It seems obvious to me that the cutting off of these familial ties has more to do with the extreme circumstances of my birth and subsequent abandonment than the adoption itself. Adoption has allowed me to find a new and wonderful family and home.

It follows that in my “new” life I was also given the opportunity to reconnect with my heritage. I have been given the great gift of parents that have always encouraged me to explore my roots. I have traveled to and lived in several parts of Latin America (including Guatemala) in my adult life. I have learned about the history and culture of Guatemala and also to speak Spanish (the official language there.) Perhaps for some people who are adopted, learning about their country of origin isn’t a priority, but this has always been very important to me.

Adoption has probably been the single most defining event of my life. And I’m pretty happy to report that it has worked out very well for me. For children who do not have a family of their own, it can provide a great opportunity – a second chance at life.

Sincerely,
Elsita

230: Breathless moments

2009-07-13T00:09:00.001-07:00

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take,
but by the number of moments that take our breath away.
(Anonymous)

That quote stares you in the face in my friend Kathryn’s kitchen in Zanzibar. Bernd and I slept in her guest-room during our first two nights on this Tanzanian island, in her Arab-style penthouse apartment atop Stone Town’s tallest residential building. Welcome to Breath-away Moment Number One, with its golden-glow sunsets and vast rooftop views! (I’m cheating a bit: the roof was six flights up without an elevator. So even if it weren’t gorgeous – which it was -- we would have been out of breath.) Far below, we surged through winding streets, propelled through the exotic local market like a rivulet seeking deeper water. And we had that, too: the beautiful blue Indian Ocean was just a few minutes away, with its quaint fishing dhows, haunting Muslim prayer-music, and the beckoning smells of a hundred different native spices.

Twenty-four hours later, we experienced Breath-away Moment Number Two. This happened five times, in fact, as that’s how often we went snorkeling during our week’s “re-honeymoon” -- sometimes surrounded by throbbing puffball jellyfish (slippery to the touch and barely stinging), sometimes by schools of iridescent blue and gold swarms (so many fish, they looked like floating snowflakes), and sometimes by large groupers, slim trumpet fish, beautiful angel fish, spongy sea cucumbers, long-fingered starfish, giant clams, and the occasional octopus or lobster -- but always with the gorgeous coral below us, like the flowerbeds of a botanical garden.

If you can imagine heaven as the Baltimore Aquarium, all warm-water and a hundred-thousand times bigger, then we were in the middle of it, without any glass windows or heaving crowds to separate us from the incredible, other-worldly surroundings. We wanted to ooh and ah every few moments except then we would have swallowed gobs of water, proving (among other things) that we weren’t in heaven just yet. So we gesticulated wildly instead, pointing this way and that. The fish names conjure up the incredible variety of what we saw: crocodile fish, parrot fish, sweet-lips, sea-squirts, basket-stars, lionfish, zebra fish, squirrel fish, damsel fish, lizard fish, emperor fish -- a veritable underwater safari.

Breath-away Moment Number Three took place when found ourselves face to face with a huge underwater hawksbill turtle that we followed until it surfaced for a gulp of air and then slithered away into the ocean depths.

Breath-away Moment Number Four happened on Zanzibar’s Prison Island, full of history and crumbling buildings, and now a sanctuary for giant Aldabra Tortoises (the Indian Ocean cousins to the famed Galapagos Tortoises), to whom we fed fistfuls of their favorite green-leaves. The tortoises gravitated to the food like waddling puppies to their mother, but even better than feeding them is this: As we learned from the much smaller land-tortoises we used to raise and release in Namibia, all tortoises love to be gently stroked under their necks and around their heads as they can’t reach this part of their anatomy in the event of an itch or entrapped dirt. Amazingly, these Aldabra tortoises loved the scratching so much that their necks protruded by almost a foot and got stiff like a hard-on, heads emerging from their winkled neck-skin and bobbing to the touch. Don’t think I’m joking or over-sexed until you try this yourself; then I promise you’ll find it as bizarrely sensual as we did.

Breath-away Moment Number Five also involved communing with animals. We visited Zanzibar’s only national forest where extended families of endangered Red Colobus Monkeys have become habituated to tourists. You need only to stand amongst them and they come seek you out, rather than the other way around. We could have stayed for hours longer, but nevertheless we took almost fifty photographs.

If you do follow us to Zanzibar, however, the one place you must absolutely visit is Chumbe Island. It’s a jaw-dropping, breath-taking, magical sanctuary like none we’ve ever visited before. Chumbe Island is the only private marine reserve in the world, six miles off the main Zanzibar coast, with seven overnight cabins, delicious food, fabulous views, and a gazillion environmental awards for their low-impact habitat, go-green pit-toilets, environmental research, and commitment to local education.

On land you can relax on the sandy beaches, walk amidst a dense mangrove forest, explore the inter-tidal marsh, or seek out the island’s four species of local crabs (including the endangered coconut crab, the world’s largest). The guided snorkeling is the best, though. You’re so close to the reef that scuba diving isn’t even permitted. The island’s underwater coral park boasts 430 different species of fish and Bernd says he wouldn’t be surprised if we saw almost all: the diversity overwhelmed and delighted us at every turn.

The difference between a damaged and a healthy coral reef is like night and day. To further the conservation messages we absorbed, let us briefly share what we learned about why coral is so important:

Waves: Coral reefs cause waves to break far from shore. This means less erosion and calmer water for people to work in and live by.
Fish: Coral reefs are full of little holes and spaces, the perfect place for young fish to hide from predators. The reef is also an important fish-breeding ground and nursery. In Zanzibar, over 70% of the local dietary protein comes from fish, so it is vital for fish stocks to be maintained. By contrast, less reef yields fewer fish and less food.
Biodiversity: Coral reef is the home of a huge variety of animals and plants. Just think of it as the rainforest of the ocean.
Medicine: Scientists are discovering that many marine organisms contain powerful drugs. For example, the Caribbean Sea Whip Coral contains anti-cancer drugs, and can even be used to replace bone!
Tourism: Coral reefs are beautiful and stimulate the imagination. But because coral polyps (that is, the little animals that make up coral) like warm water, most reefs are found in tropical or sub-tropical areas. Therefore, a lot of reef is located in poorer countries, where it attracts visitors, generates jobs, and brings in much-needed cash.
Our camera doesn’t take underwater photos, so hopefully you can see this for yourself some day. We promise it will take your breath away!

229: Connecticut encounter

2009-06-10T23:36:00.000-07:00

While Bernd and Elsita scaled Namibia’s highest mountain (see Namibia Diary #228) I was in the United States. Family Health International conveniently paid for my fare and I spent two weeks at their headquarters in Arlington, Virginia, and at a nearby conference. (This was the closest I got to President Obama, but it was fun anyway.)

Afterwards I added a few days’ vacation and a visit to southwestern Ohio where my undergraduate alma mater awarded me an alumni citation for professional achievement. Returning to Wilmington College after 37 years felt both strange and wonderful: This small Quaker school now aims for similar goals as ours in Namibia – namely to provide an opportunity for first-generation college students to get a degree and build a better future(40% of their student body). Although hard-hit like everyone else in the recession, the faculty voluntarily agreed to a pay-cut and several retired professors are offering their services for free (including several of mine from way-back) -- thus ensuring that the college will pull through without sacrificing the quality of their education.

In the New York and Washington areas, I was royally treated by friends and relatives, and I marvel that our family has not yet been forgotten – if anything, the friendships have deepened over the years. Thanks to everyone for their interest and hospitality. I feel spoiled and loved and eternally grateful.

That said, I hardly thought my stories of travels in the US could compare to the nail-biting adventures of the family’s mountain-climbers, especially Elsita’s Saga of the Shredded Shoes -- until I reached Connecticut.

Heading northeast by train from New York, I looked out the window for signs of wildlife. Just to the side of the tracks, I saw a gray heron, some egrets, a few chipmunks, two deer, and a loon. Once in Connecticut, my cousin announced the daily program: We would spend the first day near a local pond to go hiking and swimming and enjoy a picnic on a grassy knoll. On the second day we should look for wild orchids, hike in a nearby state part, and have another picnic. Everything worked out perfectly: The swimming was cold but clear, the food was yummy and fresh, and the hikes provided an incentive for more of the same. Sure enough, we also got to see some blooming wild orchids (here is Bob pointing at one), walk along the Appalachian Trail (you see cousin Carol and Bob by the sign-post), and enjoy some lovely views.

If it weren’t for my cousins’ cat, however, we would have missed the highlight of my stay. While the rest of us slept, he (the cat) started pacing at 5:20 in the morning, eventually waking Carol. As she got up to let the cat out, she looked outside the back door to the tin garbage bin that stores the household supply of wild bird food. Suddenly, Carol let out a hoarse whisper that she repeated three times, each time elevated in volume and alarm: “Bear! Bear! BEAR!”

The instant these magic words reached my ears, I jumped up and grabbed my camera. I needn’t have rushed, however. The object of Carol’s call was sitting placidly, nose inside his treasure trove, seemingly oblivious to the gawking humans just inches away on the other side of the glass door.

The scene took my breath away. I had seen bears only fleetingly before, and always at a distance. This bear was huge. And powerful. And very, VERY close.

With the rising dawn, I snapped some pictures. We didn’t want to frighten him, thinking that a scared bear might be more than we could handle. On the other hand, Carol lamented that they had just bought a large sack full of bird-seed. Would the bear eat it all? Trying to save his investment, Bob opened the bathroom window, just inches from the bear’s head. The bear slowly rose, sauntered across the lawn and turned back around, only to return across the little garden bridge two minutes later in order to finish off his object-of-desire. This dance took place twice more in the next half hour, as the lure of fresh sunflower seeds always brought the bear back. Here he is, in full glory.

When he finally had his fill, the bear stood up and left. Graceful and unperturbed, he was an object of great beauty. The rest of us talked about the bear’s visit all day. This was the first time Bob and Carol had seen a bear in over a year, and they had never encountered one this close. And only two hours from downtown Manhattan! It takes my breath away, just thinking of it. I’m still smiling.

228: Brandberg, Namibia's highest mountain

2009-06-01T22:02:00.000-07:00

When you scramble up a mountain on all fours over boulders and through bushes behind the rest of your group, there is something really nice to it: You can smell all the exquisite fragrances from the broken leaves of wild herbs and grasses. I wish someone invented “photography of smells” to convey those pleasures of the nose.

For the recent super-long weekend our daughter Elsita and I attempted to scale Namibia’s highest mountain, the Brandberg with its peak the Königstein, variously reported between 2573 and 2606 meters high (8442 - 8550 ft.) – starting at the village of Uis in Damaraland a height difference of about 1800m (5900 ft). The Brandberg is an old volcanic massive outcrop rising from the surrounding flat Namib Desert and one of the less explored areas in Namibia, so much so that only recently a new order of insect was discovered there, the Mantophasmatodea ("Gladiator") (see: http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2002/03/0328_0328_TVstickinsect.html). Moreover, there are no marked hiking paths and no tourist maps – we hired a local guide, and even he got lost on the return.

On Thursday we stayed overnight at the comfortable Brandberg Rest Camp in Uis, from where they took us and our backpacks next morning to the starting point at the Southern side of the mountain. After the most important water check (2.5 liter per person) we hiked up on the side of a gorge, carefully staying in the shade as much as possible. It’s winter in Namibia with cool air but bright sunny days.

Aside from a few human-made rock piles and occasional footprints, we trusted our guide Angula to find the way – communicating in a mixture of Afrikaans, German, Oshivambo and very little English. He led us over boulders, through bushes and across steep rock faces. We did not have to climb seriously, but in many places hands were needed just as much as feet. But we also enjoyed watching the birds, the lizards, the dassies (rock hyrax), and even a few klipspringers (small mountain antelopes). At every one of the hourly rest breaks, we took deep breaths, shared snacks, and marveled at the view from higher and higher up. About lunchtime, it was time for another “Pause” (break) in the shade of a big rock – this time we found a surprise: beautifully preserved rock paintings, thought to be several thousand years old.

Becoming a bit tired now, walking became more and more challenging. And then another problem developed. Elsita’s hiking shoes, which had served her well in Europe’s Alps, on Africa’s Kilimanjaro, across the South American Andes, and on many hikes in Namibia, began to come apart, despite recent repairs. Some safety pins kept the soles in place for the day – to be repaired again with shoe glue and gauze from the medical emergency kit in the evening.

Late afternoon, we reached the first ridge and crossed over into several small grassy plateaus, passing by some giant aloes in bloom, and some traditional tombs of the San people who used to live here. Finally, after eight hours, we arrived at the campsite for the night, recognizable only by two important features (a) a small stream with sparkling clean water from the previous rainy season and (b) a ring of stones for a fireplace and a small wind-protected sandy area to unroll our sleeping bags. Soon our guide had lit a fire, and a hearty soup was cooking on the camping stove, all the while I was gluing Elsita’s boots and she was hobbling around in my far bigger boots. Delightfully, dinner ended with a rich cup of hot chocolate for everybody. Meanwhile the sun had set and the stars filled the beautiful Southern sky. As we crawled in for the night, I could discern the Southern Cross, the Jewel Box and Scorpio, a lonely satellite passing by, and even a few shooting stars promising good adventures.

The next day, I woke up at 4 am to a howling wind that even blew our pot off the rock on which we had left it. But by sunrise, it was calm again. Breakfast of oatmeal and tea, and off we went for the final ascent to the peak. This time we needed to carry only water, snacks, and the emergency kit as we would return to the same campsite afterwards. We still had to climb up, but in between we crossed several high plateaus, some of them even swamps from the previous rains. With much laughter, we sunk in ankle-deep several times, but the dry air and the long grasses cleaned the shoes quickly each time. Elsita discovered even a frog so high up. Mid morning, we climbed up a small incline to overhanging rocks – we thought for a break – but there we found the most exquisite rock paintings, protected only by a small sign as an archeological research site of the National Museum of Namibia. High on the mountain there are pictures of elephants, giraffes, and many more, even a giant snake. Either these animals could climb or the artists (San - bushmen) had come far to observe.

The final ascent looked daunting – it turned out to be much easier than thought.
By 1 pm we stood at the peak surveying the landscape far below in bright sunshine. It is amazing, how big the Brandberg really is and how many smaller peaks and valleys are parts of the mountain. For example, the famous “white lady”, another rock painting, is found in the North-Western valleys, however the path up from there is said to be extremely difficult. Well - our names in the book prove we were on the top – not many sign each year.

On the way back to camp we were elated: we made it – but also a bit sad: it signaled the end of this great adventure. But it was not the end yet: After another step too deep into the swamp, Elsita’s boot almost lost its sole again. More safety pins, more bandages in the evening – let’s hope we make it down the mountain all right. That afternoon some klipspringers came near, and we enjoyed observing their agility on the rocks. Later on we passed one other group of hikers, who even brought a dog, but they stayed in another place for the night. Again we enjoyed a simple meal and hot chocolate and the stars overhead at night – and talked of memories of past adventures.

Sunday – the final day, and we need to get down from the mountain. The guide estimated 5 hours from the camp, and we left at 7 am. Initially, we recognized the same path where we came up, but as we passed over the ridge, the guide took a turn – directly down and supposedly faster. No problem, we were game for another adventure. As we were nearing a ravine, the boulders become bigger, and more and more often we had to really climb over them. And then final disaster – the sole came off one of Elsita’s boots and the other one split partly. There we sat ¾ up the mountain, seeing the end of the path below, and were still bandaging shoes – luckily we had a good supply in the emergency kit. As we went on, Elsita had to walk especially careful not to slip, and my legs were just getting wobbly from the stress. Steps became shorter and shorter and increasingly we needed to hold on with our hands … and we noticed that the guide wasn’t sure anymore where he went. Straight down of course, but in a ravine the boulders are the biggest. Eventually he found the path again, but by now the 5 hours have become 7 hours.

But the driver was waiting and welcomed us with ice cold beer.

And as we sat in the old truck, we pondered what was so great? It was not the longest, but one of the roughest hikes. And we made it all the way up with great weather, great views, a big challenge, in an area little known and explored, and most of all it was a special adventure for the two of us, Elsita and me. And lastly, at the end we felt good knowing that every muscle was still in place (and aching) – better than any doctor’s diagnosis.

Bernd

227: Two secrets revealed

2009-05-01T00:27:00.000-07:00

#1: dateline Botswana

Don’t tell anyone from Botswana, but this has got to be one of the most boring countries in the world. I recently returned from a two-week work visit (my fourth) and have never witnessed so much inactivity in my life. Given the choice, most folks in Botswana would spend every day sitting in the sunshine, cooking some pumpkin with millet-porridge and bits of chicken, and then taking a long nap. If you read any books in the Ladies’ Detective Agency series by Alexander McCall Smith, you would also realize that page after page is devoted to much ado about nothing. The smallest incident can become the subject for an hour-long debate. This may make for pleasurable light reading, but the reality can drive you bonkers.

Botswana’s customer service makes Namibia look positively jumpy and that says a lot. My favorite story comes from a rural hotel along the Zimbabwean border where, as the restaurant’s only customer, I was given a menu for dinner. I asked for the vegetable curry, only to hear from the waitress ten minutes later that they didn’t have the ingredients. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll take the chicken salad.” Ten minutes later, the waitress came back with the same answer. Finally I offered, “How about a burger?” But sure enough, the waitress returned from the kitchen empty-handed. “We don’t have that either,” she said. “There isn’t any food from the menu.” With that, I marched into the kitchen and looked the chef in the eye. “So,” I posed, “what did YOU have for dinner?” The chef stammered a bit and then described traditional maize-pap with spinach that we often eat at home. “I’ll have that too,” I said firmly. Happily, the food was delicious (especially given the alternative). The next day, the chef explained that he had thought foreigners always want European food. Actually, I smiled stiffly, it’s just truth in advertising that we really want.

Why is Botswana this way? Perhaps the people are spoiled. Diamonds have made this country relatively rich, resulting in solid brick houses for almost everyone (even though many are small and still rely on an outside privy). Except for a single slum in the capital, Gaborone, I saw no signs of desperate poverty. The democratically elected government squirrels away its income during the good years to maintain their social benefits when times go bad, like now. Corruption is low and peace permeates the land. This part of Botswanan life is wonderful.

But with the government doing such a good job, there are few incentives for people to take their own initiative. Even where there is sufficient water, you see almost no gardens, very farm few animals (despite lots of open grassland), and almost no signs of private entrepreneurship. Whereas in my last e-mail I wrote about the benefits of giving very poor people in one Namibian village the equivalent of US$10 a month to stave off hunger and promote income-generating activities, here the pendulum seems to have swung the other way. By contrast: give the people too much, and folks would rather take a nap.

#2. Dateline Namibia

I returned to Namibia on Friday night. Lucas cooked maize-pap and spinach for dinner, and everyone is doing well. On Saturday morning, I had plans to meet Jozefina, a brilliant university student we help support. Six years ago, while still in high school, Jozefina had tested HIV-positive at the largest government hospital in the north. Shattered, she felt isolated and alone for years. But as we slowly got to know each other, I noticed that – despite an increasingly hectic schedule – she wasn’t showing any of the usual signs and symptoms of HIV that usually show up after four or five years.

“The virus is either progressing very slowly with you,” I said. “Or something else is going on.” Although I didn’t say anything to Jozefina, I knew that about 1% of all people tested for HIV initially come through as false positives. Since HIV testing began in Namibia, protocols from the Ministry of Health therefore require that all positive-results are tested a second time, using the same blood sample but with a more rigorous and expensive regimen that snuffs out this margin of error. (There is no such thing as a false negative.) Thus, positive results may only to be announced to the patient after both tests are completed and both turn up positive. But what if that second test was never done?

So a few months ago, I suggested to Jozefina that she get tested again. She went with a friend and told me afterwards that she couldn’t believe the result. Jozefina tested “Negative,” but the counselor told her to come back in three months’ time to make sure that she wasn’t in the window-period, before the HIV anti-bodies take hold and show up on an HIV test. This time, Jozefina asked me to come. “I won’t believe it until I get the result after this test,” she said. “And I’m scared…”

Nowadays there are many places to go for an HIV test in Windhoek, and Jozefina chose the newest one that opened, just down the street from the President’s residence. The test is free and anonymous. When we entered the building, there were 8 people in the waiting room – all young and good-looking, including two couples who sat holding hands. The staff counselors took each person in turn – first for a pre-test counseling session, then for the blood-prick, and finally for the results.

Back in 2001-2003 when Catholic AIDS Action opened its three Voluntary Counseling and Testing Centers (while I was still the national coordinator), I remember that each one had a TV in the waiting room on which we were supposed to show various health-related and HIV-prevention videos. No more: After repeated complaints by clients that they were nervous enough awaiting their results, the Testing Centers complied and started showing comedy. So last Saturday, as the probability ratio suggested that 3 out of the 8 people sitting with us were likely to find out within the next hour that they are HIV-positive, we sat roaring with laughter at the silly antics of Rowan Atkinson (aka Mr. Bean) on screen.

Finally, it was Jozefina’s turn to hear the results of her test. She trembled. “What if it is positive?,” she whispered. “I don’t think I can take this any more.” She went into the counselor’s room by herself, and a few minutes later asked me to join her. Then, her face impassive, she silently handed me the file. I looked inside and saw the stamped results in large black letters: “Negative.”

Whew!

I suggested we take a walk, and slowly Jozefina began opening up. “I guess I have to believe it now,” she said. “I know it’s good news, but I don’t feel happy. It’s like my whole identity has been changed. I don’t know who I am any more.”

In a way, my own reaction was equally tempered. While the news was great, I began to feel a huge anger swell up inside my gut. For six years, Jozefina’s life had been practically destroyed by the apparent failure of the government hospital to undertake the back-up test, simply because it is more complicated and expensive. Seeing how Jozefina fit the demographic profile of most new infections in Namibia in those days (i.e. young, black and female), some lazy nurse probably just said, “Why bother?”

Jozefina was also mad: “You know, I almost killed myself after hearing those results six years ago.” She said. “Just think: it would have been for nothing.”

Additionally, because the tests are done anonymously, no one can go back and prosecute. She just has to look forward and accept what’s done is done. I’m convinced that Jozefina will find her way: she is a strong young woman and is thinking about writing a letter to the local newspaper encouraging others in a similar situation to get tested again, just like she did. But we are also left to wonder, how many other people have been wronged in this way and may never find out the truth?

___
P.S. My colleague Marika Matengu drew the picture in this entry for a new guide we are writing for managers of programs for orphans and vulnerable children. More on that, soon.

226: Socialism and Sun-worship in Namibia

2009-04-12T15:08:00.000-07:00

After we sent out our last “Namibia diary,” several readers expressed surprise that news of the devastating floods in Namibia’s northern regions had not appeared on TV or in any of the journals or papers they read. Being so isolated, Namibia often falls off the news-map, if only because there are no international reporters stationed here. Fortunately, the UN system conducted an investigation and has now officially declared an emergency, opening up the country to international donations. On Tuesday this week, the US government took the lead with a US$650,000 contribution. And Namibia’s bright autumnal sun has started to dry up the flooded oshanas (shallow pans fed by underground river flows), which is gradually easing access to hospitals and schools.

$10 for all:

Meanwhile, another Namibian news story has emerged, and we’re pretty certain you didn’t know about this one, either. Namibia is currently undertaking a socialist experiment in income redistribution, making sure that in at least one village, the poorest of the poor get at least a few dollars every month to ease their daily lives.

A year ago, the Otjivero settlement, 75 miles outside the capital of Windhoek, was little more than an agglomeration of corrugated iron shacks*. Hardly anyone lived there before 1992. The community grew as more and more people, evicted from the nearby white-owned farms, settled in the village.

Located near the two-lane Trans-Kalahari highway, Otjivero was a dead-end street. There was no industry, no work, high crime and disastrous levels of alcoholism. The term “dirt poor” could have been invented here. In a sense, Otjivero represented everything that was wrong with Namibia.

That was until a collation of non-governmental organizations started a project to distribute small cash grants to villagers in January 2008. Everyone under 60 years of age receives US$10 a month, regardless of his or her position or income. (Those over 60 are eligible for government social security, worth about US$40 a month. But given the national life-expectancy of 42, very few poor people live that long.)

This universal $10 grant is the only one of its kind in the world – at this point, a privately funded experiment to determine its impact on village life. Reverend Claudia Haarman, project director from the Namibian Lutheran churches, explains:

“Although cash grants have become an accepted way to alleviate poverty, (in other countries) they are always either means-tested or conditional. Often, this excludes the really poor. It also means very high administrative costs to test everyone and administer the grants. We are convinced that you don’t need pre-requisites to change behavior.”

Residents had to register with the Basic Income Grant (BIG) coalition to qualify for the grant. That was all. Disbursements are made automatically through a savings account with the post office. The coalition uses fingerprint verification to eliminate fraud, and to include illiterate residents the same as everyone else.

“Of course people are happy; they think manna is falling from heaven, “ Otjivero community leader Steven Aigowab told a local reporter. “But that does not mean they will squander their money.”

An interim evaluation by the BIG coalition confirmed this: Child malnutrition is down from 42% to 17%. Employment rose from 36% to 48%, and payments of school fees have doubled. The income at the local health clinic increased five-fold as villagers could afford the transport expenses and requisite co-pay, and consequently increased their use of clinic services. Village crime reduced by 60%. There is no evidence that alcoholism reduced, but contrary to many fears (my own included) it has also not gotten any worse.

Amazing!

Data from a second evaluation will be released officially this month, but according to the coalition, the positive trends are continuing.

Skepticism remains, however -- mostly among government leaders who say that without an additional tax, a national grant is unaffordable. (And this is an election year, after all – so who wants to raise taxes?) And even if a tax were imposed, you would have the peculiar notion of that the rich would also be eligible – and why should they get benefit?, people argue. (Of course, when it comes to Social Security and other old-age pensions, the system is similar…) Finally, some fear it will create a “give-me, give-me” dependency on the state and reward people who (according to popular interpretation) just don’t want to work. Yet at US$10 a month, the opposite has been proven: people are starting small businesses or traveling into town to look for work – and thus, employment has actually increased! By contrast, adding pre-requisites also adds administrative expenses – potentially costing more than the grants themselves.

“There is a school of thinking that you shouldn’t dish out money to people. That is is better spent on a project or something,” Reverend Haarmann said. “But show me one project that improves the living standards across the board for 930 people at a cost of about US$11,000 a month.”

The genius of BIG is that there are almost no staffing costs, no complex infrastructure, no bureaucratic delays. Significantly, too, the actual amount of money is minimal – just enough to keep people a little healthier, better-fed, in school, and able to find jobs or create their own. Thus, BIG provides an incentive to build from this money to earn more -- and to some degree that is what is happening.

Here and there, however, government support is building. “Empirical evidence indicates that as long as the poor cannot meet their basic needs, we cannot empower them, “the head of the National Planning Commission, Dr. Peter Katjavivi, told an international conference in Germany. “In this respect, BIG programs could be in the front of economic development.”

It’s not the stuff of G-20 economic summits, at least not yet – but let’s hope the time will come.

Now for the sun-worshippers.

This next story comes from the fact that I love hokey holidays – Jewish or otherwise. So you can imagine how intrigued I was to learn that the sunrise on April 8th would give Jews the opportunity to bless the sun’s creation via a special ceremony that occurs only once every 28 years. This is because, according to the Talmud (Berachot 59b), once every 28 years the sun returns to the exact same place in relation to the earth that it allegedly had on the very first Wednesday morning when God created the world. And, while most modern Jews no longer practice this ancient ritual, Orthodox Jews (and a few other hokey-types) take on the aura of sun-worshippers by rising before dawn and holding special outdoor sun-ceremonies along the beachfront or in beautiful natural settings. This year, some people also turned the event into an opportunity to advocate for solar energy.

Our celebration in Namibia was probably smaller and simpler than most, but with the arrival of two Lubavitch students for the Passover holidays, we awoke well before dawn, gathered outside to face east, and first learned all the rules: For example, “If it is cloudy but the outline of the sun can still be seen through the clouds, we can go ahead with a full blessing. But if the cloud cover is so thick that the sun cannot be seen through the clouds, then we should wait up to mid-day for the clouds to disperse before proceeding. And if at that time, the thick clouds still persist, then the rabbis would grant us the permission to nevertheless say the blessing, but without mentioning God’s name.” (Was that meant to punish God for bad weather, I wonder?)

Fortunately, with the passage of the rainy season, Namibia probably won’t see another serious cloud until October at the earliest. So we could go ahead with the full blessing and get on with the day’s work (and the evening’s Passover meal). We did add a final prayer at the end, however – one that I really appreciated: that we would all be around the next time that Birchat HaChamah (The Blessing for the Sun) occurs --- in 28 more years!

As for Passover itself, it went smoothly: we imported Matzoh from the USA and South Africa, and had 14 guests for the Seder-meal from 6 language groups and a wide variety of political perspectives -- including, but not limited to that of Andimba Toivo ya Toivo, Namibia’s most famous liberation-leader who was once imprisoned with Nelson Mandela in Robbin Island. As has become our custom, Andimba fittingly acted the role of Moses when we played a drama of our historic escape from slavery to freedom. The photos you see are of Andimba with Sofiana (one of the students who lives with us) and myself; also of me ransoming the afikomen (traditional dessert) with Andimba’s daughters for a decorative key-chain and chocolate.

One last holiday note that would surely make Barack Obama jealous: Today (Easter morning), Bernd and took our three dogs for an early morning walk in Swakopmund along the coast, only to be met by a small entourage heading the other way. There, in full view, was Namibia’s President Hifikepunya Pohamba, enjoying the beachfront alongside his granddaughter. Such public exposure couldn’t happen in many countries, I thought. It’s good to live in peace.

(We didn’t have the camera with us to photograph the President, but here are our three dogs.)

__
*Drawn in part from IPS news, Servass van der Bosch reporting.

225: Too much of a good thing

2009-03-25T18:40:00.000-07:00

Remember how we always used to say that Namibia is a desert country, or at least highly arid?

We lied.

Northern Namibia is currently having the worst floods since weather records began in this part of the country (1961), and that comes after people thought that last year was the worst. By contrast in the center of the country – in Windhoek where we live -- everything is green and quite lush, with beautiful flowers and very tall grasses. We have had a few problems during February’s heavy rains (like half our appliances shorting and a huge mess in the yard), but we are definitely among the lucky ones.

International climatologists said that global warming would make this country even more of a desert than now, but so far we’ve seen the opposite.
The worst of the flooding has been in the north, along the Angolan and Zambian borders. As of yesterday, the Zambezi River rose by three centimeters to reach an alarming height of 7,82 meters (about 24 feet) at the far northeastern town of Katima Mulilo – the second highest level in 40 years. The town is virtually under water. And the river is still rising.

In the north-central part of the country, which is the most densely populated, last weekend found over 5,000 people in temporary reception centers. To date, 218 schools have been closed, 85 percent of all gravel roads have been damaged and are no longer passable, 45 clinics became inaccessible, and sanitation remains in a deplorable state due to overflowing sewerage systems and ponds. Over 85 percent of businesses, especially small and medium enterprises are affected. The Namibian army has been mobilized and is assisting with relocation from cut-off areas. Health professionals are being flown to affected areas to provide medical services. But resources are scant – for example, the last I heard was that this country’s entire air force consisted of two planes.

In addition to disruption of day-to-day life, the urgent need for relocation and relief, and destruction of and damage to infrastructure, more than 2,000 new malaria infections have been reported and 92 people have been reported drowned. Most people think the figure is much higher, though. (Almost no one can swim in this country, as the usual arid environment doesn’t give children the opportunity to learn.) One of the worst consequences is that people who need their anti-retroviral medications (against the HIV virus) can’t get to the hospitals to pick up their monthly refills -- and stopping the medications, even temporarily, is potentially life-threatening.

Predictions are that the situation in the north-central and north-eastern regions of Namibia may grow even worse. Although the heavy rains have subsided, water is flowing in from neighboring countries, and water levels are rising. This is an interesting ecological point: Most of the water in the area comes from alluvial rivers (that was a new word for me, too), which means that the rains fall in Angola and sink into the ground, but then form underground rivers that flow southward into Namibia and pop up through small depressions called oshanas. In a normal year, these oshanas fill up in the rainy season and supply a lot of fish and drinking water for the animals, and then they dry up later in the year. But now these oshanas have spilled over to the surrounding land, where people live, farm, go to school, and so on. And because of the soil composition and lack of “normal” rivers, there is no place for the water to flow any more.

To complicate matters, this is an election year, and those of us who remember New Orleans know what that means. Last week, President Hifikepunye Pohamba declared a state of emergency, and a Flood Emergency Management Office was established early this week in the country’s northern city of Oshakati to coordinate emergency relief efforts. It all sounds good, but nobody seems to have any clear idea of what that really means. The country’s Red Cross Society is pulling out all stops to provide emergency food, but supplies are scarce and transport is almost non-existent. I guess we’ll all get more information when the next wave of flooding arrives, as expected, in the coming weeks.

That said, the impact of the flooding will be felt well beyond the point where the waters subside. In addition to disastrous crop losses that have a direct impact particularly on orphans and vulnerable children, as well as the elderly, the entire area’s infrastructure has been damaged and will need to be repaired, and waterborne diseases, such as malaria that is already being felt, can be expected to make a resurgence.

It’s a mess – and a tragedy. We count our blessings.

(photos by One-Africa, 2009)

224: Travel Season

2009-03-04T22:00:00.000-08:00

Travel season has begun again – every month a different country or two for Lucy, all for Family Health International. Meanwhile, Elsita is rapidly catching up in the travel sphere, and has recorded many adventures of her own (see below) and Sergio – from what we hear – is fine but bored in Japan. Bernd began teaching again and stays in Windhoek, accompanied by Lucas and Sofiana, both of whom are immersed in their studies. We’ve had unprecedented rain that permeated almost every modern convenience we rely on: last month our old cars didn’t start, our electric stove went on permanent strike, the alarm-system outside started bleating, the city’s drinking water had to be turned off for fear it would get infected with sewage, and our clothes (which we usually hang outside) haven’t dried in weeks. There isn’t much we can do except respond as other Namibians might: simply wait patiently until the sun re-emerges in this normally arid land.

From Lucy – In the land of Injera and Sheroh (Ethiopian bread with beans)

In Ethiopia last week I trained 21 local staff and led a planning effort on how to better serve child-headed households. A decade ago, the term child-headed household was virtually unknown, but today it has actually become an official census category in some countries, including Namibia. Due to Ethiopia’s tragic history of war, famine and AIDS, that country has more child-headed households than anywhere else in Africa (after Zimbabwe) – about 77,000 of them in 2005 and growing rapidly.

On the surface, this seems like a hopeless situation; yet with the addition of community-based supports – for example, regular home visits by trained volunteers plus some material assistance and access to education and health care -- many children from child-headed households can become productive, self-sufficient adults. (By way of success, we need only mention three of the students we are sponsoring in Namibia, all of whom come from a child-headed household. Now one is studying social work, another is in medical school and just delivered his first baby, and the third just graduated University and is working as an accountant.)

The next challenge in Ethiopia will be to get funding for a support-program focusing on Child Headed Households, based on the structures that already exist through local organizations. Fortunately, we have already identified some expressions-of-interest. No doubt this is important and exciting work, but after ten intensive days I decided to take a break. Then a local friend and I headed to Wonchi for a fantastic day of hiking and horseback riding at a magnificent crater lake, all at an altitude of 12,000 feet.

Hundreds of monkeys lived in the woods at the lodge where stayed overnight – both vervets (the little gray ones) and colobus, with their silky sleek fur. Some got very close and made for easy photography.

We ended our day at Wonchi with a traditional coffee ceremony and a vegetarian meal of Injera and Sheroh (my favorite) – all in sharp contrast to Elsita’s diet last week, about which you can read.

From Elsita: The Rough Guide to Research

For those of you who have been wondering how my work has been going since I started about a month ago at Integrated Environmental Consultants Namibia (IECN), I have many stories to share…

I have mainly focused on the evaluation of a coastal awareness campaign, by undertaking a survey in all of the coastal regions of Namibia. Basically, my coworkers and I have gone around and interviewed approximately 250 local citizens and members of affiliated institutions -- such as the provincial Councils and environmental Conservancies -- to assess the impact of the campaign since its commencement a year and a half ago. As the entire western border of Namibia is the ocean, you can imagine the incredible distances that we had to cover in order to carry out the survey. In one week we went south to the small German-style port of Lüderitz, stopping at various sites along the way for the interviews. Then last week we headed out into the unbelievably remote Kunene Region with the IECN land cruiser packed full with jerry cans, food, camping equipment, 2 spare tires, a toolbox and more.

We experienced bad roads like never before. At times sandy; at times stony; at times wet, steep and muddy (or some unbelievably messy combination thereof). It seemed like our car had seen it all when we drove straight down a dry riverbed composed solely of boulders, racing to catch up with our translator-guide who enjoyed driving his Government-owned truck as fast as he possibly could. (I’m talking 75mph on gravel roads.) And this was just the first day. That night found us camped next to the beautiful Hoanib riverbed. We were up late because we had decided to blend in with local culture and slaughter a goat for dinner. By dinner I mean that we ate the meat for the next 3 days straight. We were unable to buy purified water anywhere, but beer was available everywhere so we drank that for 3 days straight too.

The food and drink put us in high spirits even after we discovered that our car battery had died when we left the lights on in the dark and we had no jumper cables. The next morning we found ourselves stranded in practically every way you can think of. Our translator-guide had woken up early in the morning, drove across the riverbed and gone to the nearest small settlement called Purros to find jumper cables. When he did not return we suspected the worst – if not dead or maimed then drunk and gone forever. But soon we realized that the dry river to Purros had flooded overnight so he couldn’t have returned even if he wanted. It is the flash-flood season in Namibia -- a country with no permanent rivers within its borders -- so in the rainy season dry riverbeds in the desert can suddenly fill with water from rainfall miles away.

Certainly, the Hoanib was no calm stream that morning! It had become a raging torrent about 100 feet across with rapids, rocks, unreliable sandbars – altogether impassable by any sort of vehicle. So that was how we found ourselves trapped on the wrong side of the river from where we had to go next: Our car battery was dead, the car petrol (gas) was low; there was no cell-phone service and we had no food as our goat-meat and pots were in the back of the truck that our guide drove, and he had gone awol.

Somehow, we made it out of there. With the help of some tourists also stranded at the campsite, we jump-started our car. A nice British lady fed us breakfast and directed us to a nearby lodge where we could buy petrol. And then there was nothing to do but wait for the water level to drop. Around 3pm we heard honking across the river and looked up to see our guide on the other side. He gestured wildly and somehow managed to communicate to us that we should go to another spot further downriver. We felt we had no choice but to attempt the crossing before any new afternoon rains could catch up with us. We put the Land Cruiser into 4-wheel drive and ventured forward. Churning that car through thigh-deep water was certainly a sight to behold: The roar of the engine clashed with the sound of rushing water, as she swayed perilously from side to side. Somehow she finally made it across and we were able to continue on our way towards the coast.

I’m pleased to report that we ultimately survived the trip. We had a nice few days at Swakopmund on the coast and we’re now back inWindhoek where I’m writing up a final report. Next week I head to the United States for 14 days to participate in a follow-up retreat with the American Jewish World Service, based on my past year in El Salvador, and I’ll add a few days to visit friends.

My last big BIG news is that I have been offered a new 6-month job at Gobabeb Training and Research Centre in the Namib Desert, where I interned for a summer a few years ago. This exciting opportunity is funded by none other than NASA, and concerns research on a unique form of life called hypolithic cyanobacteria. They sound like a mouthful, but these little guys can survive the desert’s harshest hot-and-cold conditions by living underneath rocks. Moreover, NASA “astrobiologists” believe that studying these hardy organisms can inform their search for life beyond earth. You got it – this background research is a possible precursor to future studies of life on Mars and even beyond! I will begin working at Gobabeb by the end of this month, so look out for more good adventure stories in the future.

Yours truly,
Lucy and Elsita (and Bernd etc)

223: Sofiana’s rollercoaster

2009-02-13T09:11:00.000-08:00

Since our last e-mail, the son of my oldest friend died tragically and as my heart grieves, I am again reminded that the hardest thing about living in Africa is being so far away from friends and family. On a brighter note, Bernd starts teaching this week (senior students in Information Technology at the Polytechnic) and I finally sent off a 250 page manuscript for review, hopefully to be published by Family Health International in July. (It’s a global guide for program managers who work with orphans and other vulnerable children.) Also, Sergio is doing well and Elsita got three job offers in Namibia within a week of sending out her resume. She currently works for a local environmental consulting firm called IECN (Integrated Environmental Consultants Namibia - www.iecn-namibia.com), initially on a project to test different methods of measuring desertification. Starting next week, she’ll be traveling up and down Namibia’s coast to evaluate the impact of a large environmental awareness program.

Namibia and its neighbor

Overall, we still feel very fortunate to live in this beautiful and politically stable country – especially in contrast to our Zimbabwean neighbors. As Zimbabwe’s politicians talk of a coalition government starting soon, the National Bank of the Zimbabwean government recently authorized foreign currency for local trading. But as our friends explain, this poses its own problems: Had you translated a doctor’s pay at a government hospital in January from Zim dollars back to U.S. money, he (or she) would have earned only 32 cents for the month. (For evidence on how worthless the Zimbabwe dollar really is, see the attached photo sent by an Israeli visitor to that country.) So it’s anybody’s guess how much Zimbabweans will get paid at the end of February – that is, if they get paid at all.

Back home, our main news concerns the students we’re sponsoring. One recent graduate (an accountant) got a wonderful job while another (a geologist) recently lost his, a consequence of Namibia’s plummeting mining industry. At the same time, a new pre-med student joined the group, explaining that she wants to help find a cure for the AIDS virus that killed her parents. Also, two weeks ago our other new student arrived from Namibia’s refugee camp. You may recall Sofiana from our last e-mail – she was born in Angola but has lived in the refugee camp (a truly dreadful place) since she was three. In our short time together, we have grown very fond of Sofiana – but she has taken us on quite a rollercoaster ride.

Sofiana arrives in Windhoek

Although Windhoek has only 350,000 people, it is Namibia’s largest city – and to a poor girl from a refugee camp, everything feels new and scary. It’s not just the multi-story buildings, the traffic, and the fast pace of activity. Initially, Sofiana was frightened of our dogs, scared of heights from our back-veranda, jumpy at the unfamiliar noises, and bewildered by a shower that runs hot water straight from the tap. As the sun set in the evening she didn’t turn on a reading light because, as she admitted later, it didn’t occur to her that electric light was available.

Happily, we could introduce Sofiana to two other Saving Remnant students who shared their own stories about first coming to Windhoek from a rural setting, and soon the house rocked with laughter. The three young people quickly became friends and within two days they were exploring the city together, visiting museums (I insisted: “No museum visits, no dinner”), and securing the administrative paper work needed to start their studies later this month.

As we got to know each other, we also discovered that Sofiana suffered from a history of serious stomachaches that included numerous hospitalizations, but Namibia’s State-employed doctors had never diagnosed the cause. She said that she didn’t get sick when she stayed in a government hostel (i.e. the school dormitory, while attending high school) but the pain always came back when she returned to the refugee camp. “So what was different in her diet between the two settings?” I asked. Unbelievably, none of the hospital staff had ever asked about her food-intake. By contrast, I learned that at the refugee camp they often drink un-pasteurized cows’ milk, while the government hostels rarely provided any dairy products at all. A few minutes on the Internet confirmed what I immediately suspected, that Sofiana has a serious milk allergy. So now she is on a milk-free diet and so far, she’s feeling terrific. (Of course, I’m fuming that this had never been uncovered before.)

The doors shut tight

The days passed quickly, as we looked forward to registration at the University of Namibia this week. Meanwhile, Sofiana even got to like our dogs. She also started reading some of our books, shared with the cooking, volunteered her hairdressing skills on the other students (literally sewing on the hair extensions with needle and thread), and generally adjusted well.

Then Thursday came (ten days ago) and the final results of the grade 12 exams were published in the newspaper. This is part of a crazy system in Namibia where students are tentatively accepted at the University based on their preliminary exam results (sort of like the PSATs in America), but the final exam results are released only 48 hours before the University actually starts. Even before I got the newspaper at a local shop, Sofiana came wailing to me — her sister called at 6:30 am and told her that she missed qualifying by three points (about 12%). What a shock! But there was nothing to be done — no University. Moreover, the system does not allow for second chances, except to possibly try again next year.

Sofiana’s family was furious, as they had pinned hopes for their own future on hers. And she – Sofiana – was terrified. Suddenly, everything went black before her eyes, and she saw herself living a beggar’s life – at risk of pregnancy and AIDS, like so many of the other young girls at the camp. Bernd and I quickly conferred and decided that we could not let her go back to her family empty-handed, so we needed think creatively. Then we put Lucas (the other student who lives with us) on “watch” that Sofiana wouldn’t cause herself physical harm, which turned out to be the right premonition.

Shortly after Bernd and I left for work that same morning, Sofiana asked Lucas for pills and said she would rather die than face this failure. Immediately Lucas took out his Bible and started reading to her about Job and Moses, and told her that what happened to her was a test to prepare her for life’s inevitable disappointments in the future. He tried every way he could to encourage her, insisting that she would eventually find a way to succeed. And for the next two days, for every moment that she was awake, Lucas wouldn’t let Sofiana out of his sight. (The remarkable thing about Lucas’ response is that he spoke at all, given his terrible speech impediment. Two years ago, when we first met Lucas, he would barely open his mouth. So as you can imagine, we’re very proud of him now.)

Another door opens

Meanwhile, Bernd and I investigated a range of options. Since Sofiana said she wanted to study computers (not that she knew anything about them), we looked for a vocational course that could give her a head start in this field. We found one and enrolled her, and that will last for two months. We also identified a correspondence course which will allow her to repeat some of her subject-exams next October and – as the best news – we found the only school in the country that will enroll her for a Portuguese language-exam that, as a native speaker, we’re convince she’ll “Ace.” All of this should greatly strengthen her chance for higher grades for 2010, when she’ll try for the University once again.

So that’s where we are. I guess Lucas was right – eventually Sofiana will make it and she’ll be stronger for the experience. Now Bernd and I look forward to calmer times ahead, but we’re happy with how things have progressed. And, as my friend Diane cheerfully signs off on all of her own newsy letters, we add joyfully: “Obama is STILL president!”

222: Two Weddings and a Funeral

2008-12-29T13:48:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends,
Below is a summary of the last five incredible days: It’s a long e-mail (spanning 3400 km/2500 miles of traveling) but we hope you will agree it’s worth reading.

TUESDAY, 23 December

It all began last Tuesday night, when Elsita arrived in Namibia with three loads of laundry that hadn’t seen the inside of a functional washing machine since she left for El Salvador, almost a year ago. Our second-generation spinner in Namibia didn’t offer much relief, but we tried our best. Her visit back home made for a wonderful Hannukah.

WEDNESDAY, 24 December

The next morning we packed our Four-Wheel-Drive and headed north, stopping to overnight in the small mining town of Tsumeb, a couple hours from the Angolan boarder. Here, unbelievably enough, dinner on the hotel veranda brought back many childhood memories for Bernd -- complete with a German-language menu, imported German foods, German-language TV, and a track of German Christmas carols wafting in the background. Only Namibia can still pull this off, we figure (especially at US$6 a meal) -- where the casual visitor can be forgiven for thinking that this is still is a German colony even though the history books tell us that Germany officially lost its colonial grip over 90 years ago.

THURSDAY, 25 December

For Christmas day, we planned a 24-hour detour within Etosha National Park, before moving even father north to a traditional Owambo wedding (our main reason for the trip). Etosha looked different than during all our previous visits: The early summer rains turned the fields bright green with millions of yellow flowers and many standing pools of shallow water. Although the scenery looked beautiful, we expected it to be much more difficult to see the animals who could now forage at the far corners of the park, away from the usual watering holes that the tourists visit.

Wow, were we ever wrong!

The first thing that struck us was the intensity of the bird-life, with a new species almost every time we turned our heads. Most exciting to us was the endangered Blue Crane (we saw three) that are endemic to only this part of the country.

Zebra, wildebeest, impala, springbok, and giraffe abounded to the point that we didn’t even stop the car for them any more, and then felt guilty about how quickly we had become blasé. Elsita also got to see her favorite jackals, and we counted seven different antelope species, from the miniature dik-dik that twitches its nose from left-to-right, to the near-giant kuku with its majestic corkscrew horns. To crown the day, we saw two lions, their bellies swollen from an earlier kill.

FRIDAY, 26 December

Only elephants were missing. Although I wore my elephant earrings for good-luck, I really didn’t think we would see any. The next day, we drove on a road in the park that we had never taken before that ends in the newly opened Northern gate. After scores of more zebra, wildebeest and giraffe, I suddenly spotted a huge moving rock far ahead to the right of the road: Could it be? Sure enough!

But we didn’t see just one or two elephants. By the time the morning was through Elsita counted more than fifty pachyderms in six groupings, including several very tiny babies and three rather agitated matriarchs who started to charge our car when they thought we had come too close for comfort. (Fortunately, they didn’t do it all at once.) All of a sudden our Four-Wheel-Drive seemed very small indeed, in comparison to these huge beasts. We took over a hundred photos, but almost lost our presence of mind in focusing the cameras on the largest of the protective moms who came so close to our windshield (see below) that all I could do was whisper hoarsely was “Roll up the windows!!!” while Bernd jerked the car into Reverse.

All’s well that ends well, especially when it comes to wild animal encounters. Thirty minutes later we crossed into the communal farmlands of the north. Via another pre-arrangement, we stopped at a local after-school center for a Christmas party with 350 orphans that we had sponsored, thanks to some unexpected earnings earlier in the year. The children entertained each other with drama and song, received multiple small gifts, and had a huge meal with goodies to take home – an occasion that neither they nor we would easily forget.

SATURDAY, 27 December

Traditional Owambo weddings usually take place on Saturdays, preferably in December when most relatives return home for the festive season. The wedding of Lydia Hasheela and Pandu Amutenya aimed to be letter-perfect: They had known each other since High School and had been planning this occasion for almost a year. As the oldest of our “Saving Remnant students,” Lydia has now graduated and works in the field of communications, while Pandu -- the son of a headman -- teaches high school. Given our special relationship with Lydia, Bernd and I got to take on the role of Auntie and Uncle – complete with specially designed African outfits -- while Elsita joined as the unofficial photographer.

Several days of celebration were planned. The day before we arrived, friends and relatives gathered for a night of singing. On the actual wedding day, the invitations announced a church service, followed by a reception at the home of Lydia’s father. The next day a second reception would take place at Pandu’s family–home about 100 kilometers (67 miles) away. A week ago, we were told, the traditional spear-throwing ritual already occurred, where men from the extended family gathered around the bride-to-be and threw spears at her feet – each one representing a cow that she would be given for her marriage. Lydia ended up with thirteen new cows but agreed to sacrifice four for the wedding, as the entire village would be showing up at the receptions and everyone expected to bring home a basket of fresh meat to enjoy.

Early on this day, we first drove to pick up Helvi Shilongo, one of our more recent Saving Remnant members, to join the celebrations. Helvi has been raised by her grandmother (now 86 years old) in a very rural homestead, 30 minutes’ drive across sandy tracks to the nearest road. She showed us how each of the traditional round-huts in the homestead has a different purpose, with old wooden stockades serving as walls and fencing. The grandmother greeted us warmly with some ground millet and spinach-sauce, showed us their recently plowed field (the work of Helvi, a cousin, and the family donkeys), and proudly tossed away her cane to pose for a photograph. Helvi provided the translation as the grandmother – who has never traveled more than 90 kilometers (60 miles) from her home -- promised to visit Windhoek ("God-willing") in order to witness Helvi’s anticipated graduation from the Polytechnic of Namibia in two years’ time.

With Helvi and Elsita now in the back-seat, we drove to the wedding itself. The church service was meant to start at 10 in the morning, and we arrived just minutes before – only to realize that the church was already crowded with people singing hymns. Helvi and Elsita rushed inside to find seats and then Helvi – who suddenly grasped what was going on – turned to Elsita and whispered, “Are we supposed to be at a funeral?” Elsita looked askance and whispered back, “No, I don’t think so!!” Realizing that it would be rude to leave, they decided to stay through to the end. Meanwhile Bernd and I learned that the wedding had been postponed some hours to accommodate this unanticipated event, but since there hadn’t been time to inform the out-of-towners we were told to wait outside under a shade-tree.

Hurry up and wait, my mother always said.

Soon a new crowd appeared, and a very pregnant bride emerged from a car. A second wedding – obviously one that could not wait! The organizers eventually decided that each party would occupy one side of the church – to the left and right of the central aisle – and the two couples would get married in the same ceremony. Two hours later, Lydia and Pandu extended the service with a visiting choir and a series of small speeches just for them (Bernd and me included) and then we proceeded -- largely on foot -- to the home of Lydia’s father. To protect them from the unrelenting summer sun, the newly wedded couple had parasol-bearers – but progress was slow as they stopped every few minutes to make sure that everyone in the neighborhood knew they were invited to join the wedding feast.

Just outside the father’s house, the couple had to stand patiently for almost a full hour as family members and village elders sang and danced, alerting Lydia that this would be the last time she would enter the house as her father’s daughter, rather than as her husband’s wife.

More ceremonies continued as a long row of female gift-bearers offered traditional straw- baskets and small denominations of money. Then the couple – who had not eaten since morning – had to sample the father’s traditional (home-made) beer. Unfortunately, by this time it was approaching six o’clock in the evening and we still intended to drive Helvi back home before it got dark. Three other Saving Remnant students recognized our dilemma and gave us each a plate of salads and grilled beef that they had prepared for the evening feast. After the food, we quietly voiced our good-byes. Everyone else’s serious eating and drinking would only begin after sunset, we were told, and the next day pretty much the same was planned with Pandu’s family, except there wouldn’t be a second church-service. After witnessing the day’s events, Helvi quipped that she would rather elope or not marry at all.

SUNDAY, 28 September

Again we rose early, with one last side-trip planned before returning to Windhoek. As some of you know, in 2009 we plan to sponsor an additional student at the University of Namibia – a young woman living at the Osire Refugee Camp amidst 6500 other refugees from Angola and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Today we got to meet the student along with her mother, grandmother, pastor, and volunteer-coordinator of the Osire Boys’ and Girls’ clubs, who had nominated her as the recent high-school graduate “most likely to succeed.”

Angolan-born Sofiana Silva, age 18, has lived in the Osire Refugee Camp since she was two years old. Her family of 12 occupies three small windowless rooms made of mud-bricks with dirt floors and a bare-tin roof, surrounded by a vegetable garden that Sofiana tries to maintain as much as possible. Cooking is done outside and there is one pit toilet two houses down, which several families share. As part of our tour, I asked to see where Sofiana sleeps: She is designated a corner of one bare room (without a light or candle) where there is a narrow cot that she shares with her sister (they sleep one head at each end of the bed, with a shared blanket).

It's hard to believe that such a completely devastating place could produce such an outgoing and accomplished young woman! Two years ago, Sofiana won a U.N. High Commission for Refugees’ scholarship to finish her high school education through grades 11 and 12. (In the refugee camp, schooling stops at Grade 10.) Unfortunately, many fellow-students shunned her as a refugee and accused her of taking up a space in the school that could otherwise go to a Namibian. Eventually, however, she found two friends. What kept her going? Sofiana clearly clings to her faith as a source of strength, but she also explained that every opportunity she receives comes with the responsibility to do her best and then help others -- her family and beyond – as much as she can.

Sofiana's academic interests lie with computer technology, which she hopes to combine with Media Studies. She told us how, in September, her best friend had persuaded her to use her last dollars for an application to the University of Namibia, even though she thought she had no hope of being able to attend. By contrast, now everyone in the family was singing praises - they see this as truly heaven-sent.

So do we. It will be a great privilege to help a young woman like Sofiana. With thanks for your support – emotional and otherwise -- we wish you the best for 2009.

221: Sand, Sun & Serious Work

2008-12-05T16:28:00.000-08:00

After almost 12 years in Namibia, I still can’t get used to the fact that it’s cold in June and July and boiling hot when the festive season rolls around in December. Fortunately, this year we have been blessed by some early summer rains, so the dry spell that began last April has finally broken with new grass and scattered flowers growing in the fields.

At least the farmers are happy. By contrast, the Namibian news is filled with horror stories about the failed neighboring-state of Zimbabwe (some of our Zimbabwean friends have relatives who were beaten up by the Mugabe forces), and about the teetering Namibian economy that -- even under the best of circumstances – wobbles dangerously on the triple legs of tourism, mining, and a diminishing fishing industry. But over the last six months, to no-one’s surprise, tourist bookings are down; uranium prices have fallen; and the diamond companies are saying, quite bluntly, that no one is buying. Already one third of Namibians are living on less than US$1 a day.

GOOD NEWS WE’RE GLAD TO SHARE:

Among the good news we can share is that all twelve of our local tertiary students that we help sponsor did well this year. By way of example, Lucas (who lives with us) scored amongst the best in his class for Mechanical Engineering, and we have two seniors who are about to graduate with good jobs awaiting them in geology and accounting.

Ten days ago Bernd finished teaching and I returned from 2 weeks in Ethiopia, so last weekend we took all the students to the coast for a massive camp-out and Braii (traditional Namibian barbecue). On Saturday morning, we booked a sand-boarding adventure that is a lot like tobogganing except that it takes place on huge sand dunes.

True to its eco-tourism identity, there is only a cheap piece of bendable pressboard between yourself and the hot sand, onto which you literally have to hold on for dear life. Bernd and I joined the adventure and clocked 68 and 60 kilometers per hour respectively going down the step slopes (45 and 40 mph). The students overcame a lot of their own fears in doing this, which felt very empowering -- and all of us had a blast. (Sorry that our photos could only be “before” and “afterwards.” In between there was too much blowing sand that could have ruined the camera.)

Speaking of students, this past year Bernd and I also took on a double-orphan who is studying economics, and we’re hoping to add at least one more for the coming year. To make that possible, we’re willing to match all donations that come in from friends, dollar-for-dollar, up to US$2000 (meaning that we would provide an additional US$2000, for a total of US$4000). We know this is a tough time for everyone, but if you are stumped for a holiday gift for someone, why not consider a contribution in that person’s name, instead? Any amount will be gratefully accepted.*

Our own holiday plans this year are simple. Bernd and I will return to the Coast for some writing, reading, craft-making and long walks on the beach: Bernd indulged me with a third dog so that will definitely keep us running! Elsita arrives on December 23rd after her year in El Salvador; thereafter we head north for a traditional wedding (I promise to write about that in my next Namibia Diary) and finally we return to the coast for New Year’s. Come January Elsita will have to decide whether she wants to try to find work in the USA (where most of her friends live) or stay here a little longer (where, despite the economic woes, her job prospects are probably better). Meanwhile, Sergio will spend his holidays with the U.S. Marines in Okinawa, Japan – he says he is bored there but we are thrilled that he is safe.

AN ETHIOPIAN REVOLUTION, ONE NEIGHBORHOOD AT A TIME:

My own international travels are over for 2008, although the Family Health International (FHI) office in Ethiopia will definitely require me to return soon after the New Year. The work is fascinating: FHI has helped transform traditional Ethiopian burial societies (called “Iddrs”) into mutual-aid organizations that focus on living people rather than only on the dead. It’s one of those silver-linings to the AIDS pandemic that always makes me stop and think about what else we might be missing, underneath the mounds of tragedy that generally accompanies this disease.

By way of background, traditional Iddrs span the entire county as local voluntary associations for every 3,000 - 5,000 people. Based on a Government mandate, Iddrs have historically collected a small payment every month from all households in their catchment area, in order to provide financial and logistical support for burial expenses when someone dies. But with the start of the AIDS pandemic, some local Iddr leaders realized that their priorities were all wrong: So many people were dying, often for lack of medicine and healthy food. So they said, “Why not take a portion of the money allocated to each person for funeral costs and allocate it for medicine and food while the person is still alive?” If the person still dies, they argued, this amount can be deducted from the death-benefit; but if the person lives, then the amount provided can be paid back once the person starts earning money again.

Brilliant, isn’t it? From this starting point, several local Iddrs underwent a complete sea change: they asked to have local volunteers trained in home based care, and then in orphan-care (which is where I come in), and finally in resource-development, service-co-ordination, and even in monitoring-and-evaluation. One challenge will be scaling this model out to cover more and more neighborhoods, but the potential is obvious. It also amazes me that all Iddrs members are volunteers; moreover they span all religious groups (Christian and Muslim) with the mandate that each family’s own religious customs must be respected.

The world needs more of this, that’s for sure. With Obamania flying high around the world, we know that the possibilities for positive change are endless. Meanwhile we wish you and yours all the best for a safe and happy holiday season. We appreciate your friendship, your support, and your correspondence.

*Money can be sent directly to the Saving Remnant Program at Catholic AIDS Action (tax deductible) at: Maryknoll Fathers and Brothers; Controller's Office; PO BOX 302; Maryknoll, NY 10545-0302… Please state that this donation is for the MISSION ACCOUNT of Fr. Richard W. Bauer, Namibia and for the SAVING REMNANT program. If you need a receipt, they can provide that for you, and if you don't want to be put on the Maryknoll mailing list, please also state that in your letter (otherwise you’ll get a lot of Catholic-related mail). The alternative is to make a bank deposit into our account in the USA or in Namibia or send a check to our power-of-attorney – let us know what you prefer and we’ll send you details.

220: Election Day in Western Kenya

2008-11-03T17:27:00.000-08:00

This US election is the biggest story to hit Kenya in decades. I’m in Western Kenya doing Stephen Lewis Foundation work, but everyone else, it seems, has only the US election on the brain. One cameraman said this morning, “All the TV crews are here from Nairobi. What happens if there is a bomb in the capital? No one will be there to report it.” Obamania is how the newspaper headlines called this over the weekend.

For the last several days, you could not find a vacant hotel room in Kisumu (the main town in Western Kenya), for either love or money. As a frequent customer, two weeks ago I had to beg for a room. Eventually I got bumped up to a deluxe-suite as the only option left, albeit at a discounted rate. The breakfast room each morning buzzes with reporters from Canada, China, Japan, Israel, South Africa, Mauritania (!), the USA, and various European countries, as well as nearby Nairobi. I got to talk with quite a few of them. In some parts of the city, one can almost count as many Obama tee-shirts and caps here as on an American college campus.

Beginning a few weeks ago, the Obama extended family started gathering at their ancestral homestead in Kogelo, about 90 minutes from Kisumu. The police are only letting certified media reporters into the area. I heard that relatives erected a wall around the compound creating a kind of garrison village. One local resident characterized it as Barrack’s barracks – all in keeping with the country’s favorite son. As it happens, I visited Kogelo village about a year ago. Even at that time, every other shop and school had been renamed for the American senator. As one would expect, relatives have been saying that they are confident that Barrack Obama will win the US election. But no one wants to take the chance: Local soothsayers are doing a good business, sending spiritual messages to underscore more traditional religious prayers. (Hey – I support whatever will help!)

The main pre-election event, one reporter said, is that most of the family is just hanging around getting drunk. Malik Abong’o Obama, Barrack’s half-brother, has returned from the USA to take charge at the family compound and gives a daily press conference. He made it clear that the media can’t report on the alcohol consumption or else he won’t grant any more interviews. But he did say that the fact that the Kenyan government had moved to grade the dirt road leading to the village was an indication of better things to come.

On Saturday, the family held an Obama Cup – a series of soccer matches for TV and local sponsorships. Apparently, they had the family widows playing against the cousins; the grandmother’s side of the family against the grandfather’s, and so on. One reporter said, “The people love it but the soccer has been truly awful. The ball was always in the air, going in all directions.” No matter: After the games, one local newspaper reported that the family enjoyed a “bull roast.” By contrast to the rest of the family, however, the grandmother and great grandmother have gone into retreat – apparently exhausted by all the fuss and they don’t want to talk with anyone.

Also over the weekend, eleven huge billboards with Obama’s portrait and campaign slogan suddenly appeared all over the town of Kisumu. Nobody is saying who paid for them but many local people suspect Raila Odinga, Kenya’s Prime Minister from the opposition party. Odinga claims to be Obama’s cousin – though I couldn’t find out what the connection really is. “It’s like all Kenyans are Obama’s cousin,” said one reporter. This is not all innocent fun, however: Rumors are also circulating that, to further his own political goals, Prime Minister Odinga has said that with his being an ethnic Luo and Obama being ethnic Luo, he’ll now have an “in” to the White House over his political rival, President Kibaki.

What about the story that one of Barrack Obama’s aunts – his father’s half-sister – has been living illegally in the US for years? “A conspiracy dug up by Obama’s detractors,” one person said. “No comment,” said another. What’s interesting is that, seemingly, no one is saying that Barrack should interfere on his aunt’s behalf, although that would likely be the Kenyan way of doing things – one relative helping another. Instinctively, they realize that such an approach runs counter to the way a real democracy works, and that is not the American way.

219: The impact of Cash Transfers

2008-10-05T18:30:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago, I met with 70 ancient grandmothers under some trees outside the Ethiopian capital of Addis Ababa. All the grandmothers wore white cotton shawls and sat on the ground or on some cement blocks because there weren’t any chairs. I greeted each one formally with the few words of Amharic that I learned. In turn, the women proffered blessings onto the Stephen Lewis Foundation (www.stephenlewisfoundation.org) that provided for their sustenance and made my visit possible. All of these women were widows, desperately poor, who were nevertheless saddled with the care of grandchildren following the illness and death of their own children primarily due to war or HIV/AIDS.

This is not an unusual situation. Between 40 and 60% of all orphans in sub-Saharan Africa live with their grandparents – almost always with their grandmothers. These grandparents represent the last shred in the family safety net. If the grandparents also die, their grandchildren end up on the street or as Child-Headed Households – a new “category of family” that has tragically become part of Africa’s everyday language. By 2010, Ethiopia alone anticipates 225,000 Child-Headed Households! Obviously, it should be in everyone’s interest to keep the grandmother’s alive as long as possible in order to provide some modicum of stability, continuity, and support for these children. But very few countries in Africa have any form of state pension for the elderly, and once again, it is the poorest of the poor who suffer most.

Through the Destitute Elder’s Welfare and Development Association – the Ethiopian NGO I visited -- 1266 very-poor and very-old people receive the equivalent of $8 a month (less than 27 cents a day), one new set of clothes each year, and access to free nurse-assessments: literally drawing the line between life and death. In its first year of assistance to this organization, the Stephen Lewis Foundation paid for 100 of these grandmothers and added extra for their orphans -- including basic school supplies and a school-uniform. The reason for my assessment was to see how well the money was spent and to make a recommendation for a follow-up grant, hopefully of a larger size.

As is usually the case, I was asked to make a small speech to the beneficiaries (with translation). Knowing a bit about their background, I expressed appreciation for the grandmothers’ hard work and dedication. What these old women appreciated hearing the most, however, was how the money came to them through groups of older women in Canada who gather together regularly to hold fund-raisers, bake-sales, and craft fairs to help their counterparts in Africa – grandmothers to grandmothers. “Now we know we are not forgotten,” one beneficiary commented to me later. “Even far away, someone has heard our cry for help.”

Over and over I heard that the support given through the Destitute Elders’ Association has become an absolute lifesaver, “If it weren’t for this organization, I would be dead by now and my grandchildren would be living on the street. Eight dollars a day (75 Ethiopian Birr) comes to just one meal a day, but it keeps us alive.” one grandmother said bluntly. The others nodded in agreement. “What additional assistance do you want?” I asked. I was told that last year the organization had experimented with an income-generating project involving goats and chickens, but there was a drought so the animal feed had to be purchased from far away and this cost too much. Despite the grandmothers’ efforts, all the animals died. Those elderly women who are still able to work said that next year they would prefer to receive small loans for petty trading (for example, the buying and selling of vegetables or some cloth), the spinning of cotton, and the preparation of injera, the Ethiopian staple pancake.

On our way back to the organization’s small office, we stopped at two homes – hovels – headed by grandmothers. In the first, I met a very-elderly and partly blind widow who lives with her 7-year-old grandson. Some years ago, she also cared for an older grandson, as well, but he ran away and lost touch. “Now,” she explained, “The younger boy is my entire reason for living.” With the support she gets from the Destitute Elders’ Association, she ekes out the rent of her 1-room mud hut, in which she and her grandson sleep on the same single cot with just one blanket between them. Each month, the grandmother is able to buy a little salt, coffee, oil, kerosene (for cooking) and 5 kilograms (11 lbs) of tef (the traditional Ethiopian grain) and 5 kilograms of wheat-flour. The household meals never contain vegetables or protein – just the flour mixed with a bit of oil and salt. The grandmother said that she eats only once a day in order to give two meals per day to the boy so that he can concentrate at school and get good grades. Still, by mid-month they generally run out of food. The grandmother explained that food prices have nearly doubled since last year, so for these past few months they had to borrow from friends. Now they have a “guest” sleeping on a mat on the floor of the house – a younger woman with an infant – and this woman pays a few cents per month, too.

After we spoke for a while, the boy came into the house – his clothes threadbare and torn, but proudly carrying a small back-pack with this school materials. His face shone as he explained how much he loves school and that he has made many friends. “What did you learn today?” I asked through the translator. “I learned an English word,” the boy said proudly, pointing to his face. “Nose.” He smiled broadly and we did too, and I felt that a connection had been made. Then I decided to show him how to make his face look like a fish and other silly things. Soon he started giggling and the grandmother joined in, and then the two staff who had accompanied me started making silly faces and soon the whole room shook with raucous laughter. Seeing my camera, the boy asked to have their picture taken, and I promised to send a copy back, via the organization’s office.

Two weeks have passed since I visited this home, and I can’t get this grandmother and her grandson out of my thoughts. Amidst their hunger and material deprivation, they evoked incredible dignity, care, and even joy. Those of us facing our own tighter economic times and financial insecurity due to the Wall Street debacle can learn a lot from this tiny family. And we must also remember that they, and others like them, need our help more than ever.

The second home we visited included a 3-year old girl (see photo with Lucy) who was born with HIV. She currently receives free medicines from the government, through American foreign assistance (PEPFAR). Her mother is alive but still sickly, although she also started on treatment a couple months ago. One problem is that the medications don’t come with the extra nutrition that is needed for the pills to really work. And so, once again, that is where the Stephen Lewis Foundation steps in.

Before arriving here, the director of the Destitute Elders’ Association had told me that, if he had to choose a favorite child among all the orphan-beneficiaries, he would select this little girl. “She is all sunshine,” he explained, “even when she is not feeling well.”

To get to the family’s shack in the slum, we had to squeeze through some very narrow passageways that smelled of sewage and were slippery from the recent rains. The little girl caught sight of us and, recognizing the staff, came over to be hugged. But as we entered the one-room shack, we noticed that the grandmother wasn’t around. “Where is she?” the director asked. “She died very suddenly, just four days ago,” the mother whispered hoarsely. “We are now in mourning.” So our routine home-visit suddenly became something of a “shiva” call (the custom in Ethiopia is similar). After a while the mother spoke, “My mother’s welfare - pension from the Destitute Elders’ Association was all that we had to live on. I am young but ill, and can’t work. I worry now, how will we will survive?”

Whew!

This family, too, has been in my thoughts frequently, since we met. I know that “welfare checks” are not considered a progressive development policy because they create dependency, and they are not a quick fix. Most donors prefer to give one-time assistance, like a few goats or chickens, and then have families rely on themselves. But as we know, that doesn’t always work either. Sometimes there are situations where only direct, ongoing assistance will really make the difference. Without better nutrition and rent-money, this mother and child won’t make it. But if they are assisted, then eventually Mom may get better on the drugs and could start working again.

So why do we maintain a double standard and balk at giving cash or vouchers to the poor? In the industrialized world old people and folks with disabilities get their pensions or Social Security, and low-income children get assistance without having to earn it, so why shouldn’t the same system apply in Africa where the need is even greater? A recent study of cash transfers in Malawi, Zimbabwe and South Africa concluded that, in countries with a high HIV/AIDS prevalence, social cash transfer programs – whether paid by government or through outside donors – reduce death and have a substantial AIDS mitigation impact. They also found that, with rare exceptions, the money is spent to benefit the whole family, and isn’t wasted on alcohol or other excesses. Clearly, social transfers – that is, vouchers or cash-sustenance for basic needs plus access to free education and health care – make as much sense for the poorest of the poor in the developing world as it does in London or New York or Mississippi.

Yours truly,

Lucy

P.S. #1: Belated good wishes to our Jewish friends for a Shanah Tovah u’Metukah – a sweet and happy new year. Our own new year started off great: we heard from Sergio this week that he will be shipped to Japan (Okinawa) in a month, and we figure that any country that doesn’t start with a vowel is definitely good news! The rest of us are also doing well and send regards.

P.S. #2: Bernd became a member of the worldwide Rotary Club in Windhoek (Auas Chapter - receiving his membership pin in the photo).

P.S. #3: Finally, here are two other photos of typical Ethiopian street scenes – I especially fell in love with the Ethiopian donkeys that are much smaller than the ones we have in Namibia (and much harder working, too).

218: Namibia’s Matterhorn

2008-09-14T17:59:00.000-07:00

I was recently asked to name my favorite place to relax and clear my head. In the old days before we moved to Africa, I would have answered immediately, “West Virginia.” But now, there are so many places to choose from. Eventually, I selected just one and it is Spitzkoppe, the Matterhorn of Namibia.

I’ll start by telling you a little about the geology and feel of the place and then you can understand more easily why we like it so much. Bernd and I went camping there this weekend (with the dogs) so we also have some recent photos to share.

The landmass of Southern Africa is very old and particularly rich in mineral resources. About 300 million years ago the region that is today known as Namibia was much closer to the South Pole and was covered by huge glaciers. Tectonic movement of plates within the earth’s crust caused it to move further away from Pole about 250 million years ago and then the ice melted, leaving behind glacial debris in valleys and depressions. The climate continued to change from cold and wet to hot and dry, and eventually a desert spread over large parts of the area known as Gondwanaland. Although the greater part of Namibia became covered by sand, outflows of lava emerged when Gondwanaland broke apart. Over time, heavy wind and water erosion sculpted enormous granite domes, twisted towers, and fissured outcrops all over the area, most dramatically along the rocks of Spitzkoppe (1728 meters or 5857 feet high).

Getting to Spitzkoppe requires a good car and a lot of patience, but it’s worth it every time. For miles you feel like you are in the middle of nowhere, until a huge rocky mountain range appears suddenly before your eyes. Almost tree-less, it looks like the entire mountain has been carved from one giant rock. It looks stark, forbidding, and inviting at the same time. A hotel is planned for the area, but right now the only way to stay overnight is to camp. The cost for camping is combined with an entrance fee that you must pay to the local community that manages the site as part of their communal lands. This concept of locally-run tourism aims to bring people into harmony with nature, by creating an incentive for the local population – otherwise very poor and largely unemployed – to make a small profit while preserving the land from overgrazing and hunting.

Our family comes here annually (previously with our children and now by ourselves or with friends). The equivalent of US$12 buys you the privilege of a clean campsite far away from anybody else, great hiking and one of the best views on earth. The harsh environment contains a unique biodiversity, so you must always be on the lookout for small mammals, birds, lizards and snakes – but you’re allowed to take your dogs with you, so for us this makes for a special treat.

The trick when finding a good campsite at Spitzkoppe is to locate one with shade. We’ve camped at about a dozen places around the area by now, and have several favorites. But ever since the Hollywood filming of 10,000BC at Spitzkoppe about a year ago, when the filming crew introduced several herds of zebra and springbok into the area (and consequently fenced off the mountains’ central valley), some of the campsites have been restricted. So this weekend we had to find a new site and eventually did, though the angle of the rock over Bernd’s head made us think that it could fall over any minute.

We arrived in the mid-day heat, so after unpacking we made ourselves comfortable with a stash of Stuart Kaminsky detective novels that I found in a second-hand bookstore in South Africa. (These make for great reads, intertwined juicy tidbits about the ironic contradictions of life in cold-war Russia.) When it cooled down around 4pm we hiked up the backside of Spitzkoppe, our 12 year old shepherd trailing somewhat behind due to his weak hips. We made it about a third of the way to the top (anything further would have required ropes and a climbing guide), and the view was breathtaking. Looking down, our car looks like a tiny speck of white dust.

Although it almost never rains at Spitzkoppe, we found ourselves greeted around sundown by a cold wind and a wave of fog that rolled in from the coast, 100 kilometers (61 miles) away. Whereas we were practically roasting at mid-day, by nightfall we had donned every article of clothing we brought with us – and still we were freezing. Yet, this coastal moisture is what keeps the Namibian desert alive, though it is rare to be seen so far inland. Desert plants and animals survive by absorbing the cloud-like droplets that land on rocks and waxy leaves, coveting every last molecule as the precious life-source that it is.

We crawled early into our tent, but around midnight nature called and I awoke to find a clear sky and full moon. Night-time under a full-moon is my favorite time at Spitzkoppe, so the dogs and I took a stroll in the moonlight, marveling at the mysterious rock-silhouettes, the height of skyscrapers, which surrounded the narrow dirt road. Bernd got up a few hours later for the same reason, but unfortunately for him the fog had returned.

Allow a short digression: Like many small countries, Namibia makes gorgeous postage stamps and sells them to collectors world-wide as a much-coveted source of foreign income. Elsita started our Namibian collection, and Bernd has continued it: we now have every stamp and every first-day cover that this country has ever issued. (That sounds bigger than it sounds but remember, Namibia is only 18 years old.) At any rate, to mark the Millennium, Namibia issued a dual-set -- sunset and sunrise over the Spitzkoppe. What was a great choice!! Usually we are able to see both of these when we camp, but this morning, all we had left was a cool haze. We took a second hike and returned for a late breakfast. Then we had to leave in order to get home in time to cook for fifteen: tonight is our monthly gathering for the Saving Remnant students. We have a guest speaker – a refugee from Rwanda’s 1994 genocide – who will speak about how to keep hope alive in the face of unspeakable terrors.

Other updates: Many of you have asked about Sergio’s new mailing address. Although we know he is getting trained for the Transport Corps someplace in Missouri, we have no address for him at the moment. Nor does he seem to have frequent access to e-mail. Elsita spent a wonderful holiday in Copan, Honduras (see http://moremotion.blogspot.com) and plans to extend her time in Central America by an additional 4-6 months (through May 2009) in order to get in another growing season for the native corn on which she is experimenting. Bernd and I doing well -- juggling our work, my travel and a busy home-life. (We have also started gathering our old diaries onto a blog: check out http://namibiadiaries.blogspot.com. All of our friends and acquaintances in Africa feel totally convinced that Obama will win (I even saw Obama buttons and bumper stickers in Cape Town); we only hope that they are right.

Work-wise, Bernd is teaching four courses at the Polytechnic and has developed quite a following of students who specifically seek out his classes. I recently co-authored a small book with two Namibian memes (traditional women from the north) that teaches orphans living without adults what they need to know about caring for their property, saving and spending money, accessing local services, and parenting younger siblings. It’s a dreadful sign-of-our-times that our assistance to “child-headed households” has come down to a manual (even one that will be translated into the local languages). But soon the memes will begin leading workshops with the young people on these issues, and hopefully they can be linked – at a minimum – to caring neighbors and volunteers for additional support.

This week, too, Catholic AIDS Action (www.caa.org.na) celebrates its tenth anniversary. Who could have imagined a decade ago, when Sr. Dr. Raphaela Händler and I teamed up together, that this organization would become Namibia’s largest non-governmental provider of HIV-related services? But as an indication of just how distorted local thinking has become as a consequence of our donor-driven focus on HIV, a research study was recently launched in Namibia’s far north-eastern region after it was discovered that some local women in their fifties thought they had HIV, when in reality their complaints (heat-flashes, etc) were all menopause-related. HIV was the only disease they were being educated about, so naturally that’s what they thought their symptoms revealed!

Obviously, there is still a lot of work to be done. We wish you well, Lucy and Bernd

217: Namibia’s New Diamonds

2008-08-17T17:20:00.000-07:00

Uranium takes over: Namibia currently produces 10% of the world’s uranium – more than any other country in Africa except Niger. Soon, however, Namibia’s production will grow tenfold, with the effect of positioning this country as a major player in the global energy and political playing fields.

The irony is that three years ago, Namibia’s major uranium producer – Rössing Mines – practically shut its doors due to the falling market. But that was before the prices shot up in a year’s time from $16 per kilogram of yellow-cake (uranium that is partially refined) to $140, thanks to the world’s voracious appetite for alternative energy sources, nuclear included.

Who is buying most of this stuff? China, as you might guess, followed by Japan, India, and Europe. Soon uranium will likely outstrip diamonds as this country’s biggest income-producer and will create at least 10,000 new jobs (no minor consideration in a country with a 35% unemployment rate). But it will also irrevocably change Namibia’s pristine coastal and desert landscapes.

Uranium concentrates in the Namib desert (the oldest desert in the world), between 20 and 40 miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean. Extraction requires open-pit mining, in some cases very deep (with less damage to the environment), or else broad surface-mining over land that has never before been disturbed in history. For example, the next site to be opened, about an hour’s drive from our beloved town of Swakopmund, will span 80 square miles, to say nothing of the multiple roads and support structures to be built. It will also have its own desalination plant – Africa’s first – to supply the 12 million gallons of water that it needs per day to spray down the radioactive dust and clean the uranium before it is shipped overseas.

I got excited about the desalination plant when I first heard about it, because Namibia’s coastal towns are already using more water than comes in every year through underground rivers to refill the coastal aquifers. But at a lecture we heard earlier this week, it turns out that this desalination plant will be constructed to serve the mine first, and only the “left-over water” – if there is any – will be available for people. (This, despite the fact that Swakopmund may well double in size due to these new mines.) Moreover, the desalination process will likely absorb and then spit-out so much chlorine that much of the ocean wildlife (seals, dolphins and fish) could be negatively affected.

The impact of these mines on the coast’s human residents is an even bigger unknown, especially when Namibia’s famous East-Winds churn up huge quantities of desert sand towards the ocean, layering everything with a fine carpet of dust-particles (our lungs, included). To prove our concerns, we heard that a state-of-the art private hospital will be built soon, entirely focusing on radiation issues, largely funded by the mine-workers’ health-insurance.

What do we conclude? It seems that Namibia’s government woke up too late in terms of the secondary and tertiary impacts these mines will have. Initially, they saw only the benefits of jobs and taxes and consequently, issued ten additional mining licenses to overseas investors before engaging an environmental impact study. (From what we can gather, corruption has not been a major factor, but rather the innocence of government planners who felt pressured to act quickly.) But by the time the environmental impact study will be completed in about two years’ time, much of the damage may already be done.

Namibians tend not to hold mass rallies or demonstrations against the government; they prefer quite negotiation in the style of an old-time Elders’ Council. Moreover, given the fact that the average lifespan in this country has already dropped from 61 (when we arrived 11 years ago) to 42 (mostly due to HIV & AIDS), long-term public health concerns take a backseat to poverty alleviation and other, more immediate issues. Realistically, you can’t blame the Namibian government for grabbing the opportunity for massive foreign investment and jobs; yet one can’t help but wish that the planning had been better or, more to the point, that there had been any planning at all.

Diamonds in the Rough: One immediate benefit is that two of the orphaned students we help sponsor at the University of Namibia will benefit enormously. Both are studying geology and the older one has already got three job-offers by the mines, with a brighter future than he could have ever imagined.

Both students are part of the Saving Remnant Program, which is an initiative I started in 2001 as National Coordinator of Catholic AIDS Action (www.caa.org.na). The concept is Biblical and draws from an analogy with a large piece of patterned cloth. The idea is that, if you can’t save an entire society then at least you must save a large enough remnant from which the pattern – that is, the structures, culture and leadership -- of the society can be rebuilt, even better and stronger, in the future.

At Catholic AIDS Action, we first provided secondary school scholarships for the best-and-brightest students we could identify among the 18,000 orphans and vulnerable children that we supported every year. The cost per child averages US$350, and often includes hostel-living (for children in rural areas who can’t commute to high school), in addition to the requisite books, school fees, uniform, and exam fees that the government doesn’t pay. But soon a new challenge arose: what to do with those Saving Remnant high school graduates who beat the odds and meet the entrance requirements for the University of Namibia or the Polytechnic? Now the cost shoots up to between US$1800 and US$5000 per year, depending on the course of study and whether the student can get a government loan (which requires their putting up collateral -- something that, by definition, most of our students can’t do).

So by hook and by crook the Saving Remnant extended its reach to 10 tertiary-level students, for whom Bernd and I serve as volunteer “Uncle and Auntie.” To that end, we personally assist some of the students financially, while the others benefit from the generous donation of friends and three local businesses. More to the point, these students have become part of our family. We learned the hard way through a first-year student who failed that most need a lot of personal guidance and emotional support to successfully pass their courses. So, four years ago we started inviting these students to a monthly dinner at our home; then we added special study-sessions, assistance with computer-access, and periodic support in-between. We encourage peer-mentoring: student to student. When Sergio moved out of the house almost two years ago, we invited one of the students to move in.

This student is Lucas Mahoni, who is now a third year Mechanical Engineering student at the Polytechnic of Namibia, where Bernd also works. Lucas hails from Namibia’s rural north-eastern region. His father died when he was six and his mother when he was nine; then he was forced out of school for one year by an uncle who wanted him to become a goat-herder. When he insisted on returning to school, an aunt let him stay with her but without any financial support. So, while still in primary school, Lucas attended school in the morning and begged for food and school fees in the afternoon at a local petrol station (where he also washed cars and helped the gas-attendants). Finally, his maternal grandmother in another province heard about his plight and invited him to stay with her, but she lived 60 kilometers from the closest school that Lucas could attend. That meant that room-and-board also had to be paid-for. That’s when Lucas heard about Catholic AIDS Action’s Saving Remnant Program, and he graduated top-of-his class.

Lucas believes that God has a special purpose for his life. How else can he explain his difficult childhood and terrible stutter (which is the worst we have ever heard – despite a year of speech therapy that we arranged in Windhoek)? When Lucas’ grandmother died last year he felt he had no one left anymore, but slowly he has drawn closer to us – as we have to him. Now he has a girlfriend (a lovely young woman), and some weeks ago he made the decision to start talking up in class no matter how much the other students laughed at his speech impediment. In telling us this, he repeated the phrase we often use with him, that what he says is worth the extra time it takes to say it. He is also feeling positive about his academics: By contrast to the majority of the students who failed or dropped out during their first two years of the Engineering program, he is a survivor.

Lucas gives us great inspiration. So does Helvi, our latest addition, who studies Economics and spends every vacation in the north helping her grandmother farm their meager fields. Or Mirjam, who grew up with two cousins in what became a child-headed household when Mirjam turned 17. Amazingly, all three youngsters made it to University: Mirjam is getting top-honors as an accounting student and will graduate later this year (also with several job-offers in hand); her cousin Simon is studying social work, and the youngest of the three – Jason – got into Stellenbosch University in South Africa to study medicine (this being the Africa’s top medical school!). But where does the money come from for all that? In Jason’s case, a physician-couple we know from Baltimore are single-handedly paying for all his expenses, with the single condition that Jason stays in Africa and doesn’t join the brain-drain to the West. (No worries: Jason loves Namibia tremendously.) And then there is Kenneth, who became vice president of Namibia’s Young Accountants’ Society, and Lydia who graduated last year in Communications and gets married in December (we’ll be part of the wedding, as it turns out), plus several others. We’re so proud of these youngsters, and so full of admiration for what they have accomplished already, despite incredible challenges. These are Namibia’s true diamonds of the future, more precious than any mineral or any stone will ever be.

PS #1: Unfortunately, Keitometsi Abu Basuto, our “second daughter,” is moving back to Zimbabwe next week. Her visa runs out and she doesn’t want to risk staying in Namibia illegally. We’ll miss her and wish her all the best, and hope for her return one day.

PS #2: On a brighter note, we reveling in the visit from our dear friends Karen and Aron Primack, with whom we often stay when visiting the Washington area. Aron says that Namibia is so beautiful that you can’t even absorb it all. We’re delighted they are enjoying it so much and hope they will encourage others to visit, as well. (Here we are on a boat with Spotty the seal.)

216: Lucy’s Annual Elephant Fix

2008-07-28T18:06:00.000-07:00

Every year I feel a desperate craving to head north and look for elephants. Usually that means going to Etosha National Park, Namibia’s largest (the size of Belgium), for the weekend. It is best to go between June and October after the rains have ended but before the summer heat sets in, as this means you can sit comfortably in your car by the watering holes where the animals gather to drink. It’s still hit or miss in terms of what you will see, but chances are that in two days, you’ll see a lot.

Bernd wanted to see giraffe, hyenas, and owls (his favorite bird), and Keitometsi, our Zimbabwean “second daughter” who has been living with us for the past few months, was hankering for lions and vultures. The latter comes from last year when Keito and Elsita lived together to do vulture-research at Namibia’s Rare and Endangered Species Trust (which is how Keito came to join the family). We decided to camp just outside the park to save money, and took off from work on Friday and Monday in order to make the most of the weekend. Bernd was in charge of the camping gear, I took responsibility for the food, and we told Keito that she was responsible for everything else.

When we left Windhoek on Friday morning, we were already feeling great. Sergio had flown into Namibia earlier in the week for a three day visit – he is now a full-fledged Marine, private first-class -- and looks great. As much as military life scares us, Boot Camp made Sergio into a man, brimming with knowledge and self-confidence. Every minute with him was precious, and we are swelling with parental pride. Sergio has two more bouts of training before he gets shipped overseas, so we are determined not to start worrying yet. We shall keep you posted as soon as we get his new address, as well as other information. (Above is a photo of Sergio - taken by Elsita, who was able to attend his graduation from Boot Camp.)

Driving from Windhoek to Etosha takes 5 to 6 hours, depending on which entrance you use. We arrived mid-afternoon, still in time for our first self-drive visit into the park. Our highlights were about 30 giraffe, seven species of antelope, lots of zebra and wildebeest, and a field of 200 banded mongoose -- but no elephants. The next morning it was the same and Keito started getting nervous. We teased her that, being responsible for everything else meant that she had to produce elephants or else we wouldn’t guarantee dinner. Finally, by mid-afternoon two lone bulls came forward and Keito breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that she wouldn’t have to starve. We counted two more elephant bulls by the late afternoon but had stopped counting giraffe by then – we had surpassed sixty. Then came some bonus animals: two hyenas, a close encounter with a lilac-breasted roller, and a white-headed vulture that is quite rare in Namibia and never before seen by Keito. Unlike most vultures, this one is beautiful, with a slim red and blue bill and pink face and legs.

Shortly after our outdoor dinner Keito went to sleep, but Bernd and I checked out the lamp-lit water-hole at the far side of our camp. My eyes caught a large fluttering in a distant tree. I hoped it would be an owl, and sure enough – suddenly it lifted off in our direction and landed just to the right of the watering hole. Eleven species of owls occur in Namibia, and this was the biggest (almost two feet in height): the giant eagle owl, B. Lateus, a large gray bird with distinctive pink eyelids and dark brown eyes and ear tufts, not always raised. The male voice consists of a series of grunts while the females and young make a long, drawn out whistle that sometimes can be heard all night. Their favorite prey is hedgehog, which is eaten after peeling off and discarding the skin. Much as we hoped to witness the excitement of an owl-kill, we thought that something a little less gruesome would be preferable. But anyway, we sat and waited.

In the wildlife films you see on TV, the cameramen make you think that high-drama occurs every few minutes or so. In real life, we can attest that this is not so. After an hour, I became convinced we were watching a still life. Nothing moved – not the owl, not us, and not anything else. Then suddenly, in complete silence, the owl swooped down to the grass and started picking at something by its feet. Had it caught a mouse? A giant frog? We couldn’t tell, but in 30 seconds the meal was clearly over, and the still life returned.
We went to bed satisfied, only to be woken at 3 a.m. by a cacophony of deep-throated roars. If the owners of the campsite hadn’t told us that a protective fence surrounded us, I would have been convinced that the lions’ roars were just outside our tent. Sleep became illusive, so we just lay in our sleeping bags and enjoyed the concert. By sunrise the quiet returned, and we set off once again for the watering holes in Etosha Park. What would we find on this day?

Last week I wrote you about the rock-dassies in our backyard. Although these are the elephants’ closest living relatives, it is a distant relationship – as the evolution of both went separate ways about 6 million years ago. What ties the two animals together is that both animals do not ruminate (chew the curd). The organ they use to digest the huge amount of plant material they eat is not a true stomach, but part of the large intestine, namely the caecum (in humans, the appendix). One consequence of this system is that they are very inefficient eaters and must feed up to 16 hours a day to extract sufficient nutrients. This places a tremendous burden or their teeth, but in the case of elephants each molar-tooth is only expected to last a few years. As the teeth wear out and flake off, they are replaced from behind by a next set. The new teeth are always larger, so tooth size keeps pace with the expanding jaw. (I don’t know if this works the same way with dassies, but they don’t live as long, either.)

The evolution of elephants goes back more than 70 million years ago. It belongs to the order Proboscidea, of which just one family – the Elephantidae – is extant today. Etosha’s elephants are among the largest in Africa, the tallest measuring up to 4 meters (12 and a half feet) at the shoulder. Adult bulls have a mass of between 5500 and 6000 kg (12,100 – 13,200 pounds), while the cows measure about two-thirds that weight. Their tusks, on the other hand, are smaller than those of elephants elsewhere in Africa. This is probably due to breakages resulting from mineral deficiencies in their diet and genetic defects. The fact that Etosha’s elephants have smaller tusks is a distinct advantage, insofar as they are less likely to fall prey to ivory poachers.

Where a supply of clean, sweet water is normally an essential habitat requirement for elephants, in Etosha they have adapted to the water with its high salt content, the salinity of which sometimes exceeds that of seawater. Elephants are both browsers and grazers. During the rainy season, Etosha’s elephants will vacate the park and head into other areas of the country, causing much damage to fences and crops. Namibia’s wildlife service has developed a policy of compensating local farmers to the north and east of the park for damage these roaming pachyderms leave in their wake, which is how the government keeps the local farmers from killing these national treasures. By contrast, the elephants that head west for the desert during the rainy season earn back this money for the government in tourist dollars, as Namibia is the only place in the world where you can see elephants amidst sand dunes.*

So, off we went: The first water-hole we visited was dead as a doornail.
The second water-hole was the same, save for a Marshal Eagle and an assortment of wildebeest, springbok and black-faced impala in the distance. The third water-hole, once again, was empty. Just as we started back to the campsite, however, a beautiful oryx crossed our path, and then we hit a zebra crossing – literally: forty of these animals walking single file across the road, with babies in between, heading for the watering hole behind us. I looked back to watch them go. Omigod: A large gray hump was moving, as well. And then another and another: Elephants! Lots of them!

As if by magic, now the water-hole suddenly boasted about a hundred animals. They came from all sides: a herd of thirty female elephants with babies, about forty antelope of various kinds and finally, all the zebra whose fortuitous encounter caused us to hang a U-turn to see this teeming display of African wildlife. We stayed about an hour and a half, soaking it all in. Later in the day we came across another twenty elephants bathing in a deep pool of water and having a glorious time.

Our lives have been blessed in so many ways. Thirty years ago, this week, Bernd and I met each other while on a camping trip to Iceland. This weekend felt like a most fitting celebration.

* Reference: Notes on Nature by Amy SchoemanMacmillan (Windhoek Namibia, Gamsberg Macmillan, 2002)

215: Survival in African Context

2008-07-15T09:00:00.000-07:00

Here are three tales of survival – techno-logical, human and animal. The first is frustrating, the second is complex, and the third one will make you smile.

I. Survival in the age of Technology: Please forgive my lack of communication over the last few weeks. In late June my laptop crashed in Kenya, along with all the data I needed for that trip. Awful as that was, I wasn’t too worried about losing all my other data because I had dutifully backed up most of my hard-drive on the so-called “Master Server” at work. Unfortunately, just as I returned to Namibia my very-pregnant colleague placed the first draft of a manual we had been writing onto this same “Master Server” --- and the day afterwards a huge power-outage caused that computer system to crash, as well.

Now what are the odds of THAT happening? (As luck would have it, Bernd was out-of-town that week at a Great Teachers’ workshop.) The overall stress was so great that my colleague went into premature labor, though fortunately her doctors could stabilize her condition. (She’s now on total bed-rest.) Needless to say, we’ve been in “recovery mode” ever since -- but slowly things are falling back into place, first draft included.

II. Survival over adversity in Kenya: Last month (for the Stephen Lewis Foundation) I discovered a most amazing project in Kenya’s rural southwest-province. It is an all-volunteer women’s group that began in 1990 when several grannies realized that they had lost opportunities in their lifetime because they never learned to read – and they decided to ensure that their daughters and granddaughters would not have to suffer a similar fate. As a result, they banded together to raise money to send their girl-children to school. To begin, they established a “food bank,” whereby they pool their meager earnings to buy bags of grain immediately after the harvest when they are cheap – and then store them in the “bank” (a secure, dry building) for sale later in the year when the prices go up. They share a portion of the food with the poorest households in the community, and over the years they have further invested their profits to buy a hand-operated sunflower press (to produce oil), bee-hives (to produce honey), a chip-maker (to cut potatoes into strips for French-Fries), and a nut-grinder (to make and sell peanut butter). Now, eighteen years later, this community has educated so many girls that whenever the Ministry of Education seeks to recruit new teachers, they always come to this village first. Additional spin-offs over the years have included two local “self-help savings clubs,” a home-based-care project, and an after-school club for orphans and other vulnerable children. These women absolutely blew me away!

During this same trip to Kenya, I also spent time in Kibera, Nairobi’s largest and most notorious slum. Here nearly 2 million people live crammed together in tiny tin shacks amidst open sewage, rotting carcasses and overpowering filth. The first project I visited trains former Commercial Sex Workers in Home-Based Care and HIV-prevention, and provides micro-enterprise loans for HIV-positive women who want to run (or improve) their own small-scale business. I’m amazed by the degree to which this project instills hope, despite the desperate surroundings.

The first time I assessed this project was with Elsita in 2004 and we met a woman named Joyce – bedridden, thin, and seemingly with just a few days to live. Even back then, however, Joyce whispered to us that she still had dreams: she wanted to open a small shop and sell exotic dress-material, and possibly go back to school for a course in fashion design. Soon after we left Joyce, I heard that she began taking ARVs (the anti-retroviral medications to treat HIV/AIDS), and when I visited the project again in 2006 I saw that Joyce had improved greatly. She was still thin and weak, to be sure, but able to care for herself and participate in various community activities. Now two more years have passed, and once again I saw Joyce. We hugged each other warmly. Wow! Joyce looks great, and she told me about the training she recently received in preparation for a small loan she would get later that week, with which to buy cloth to sell. “It isn’t much,” she said, “but it is a start.” The rules of the program are clear: One loan per person. Joyce would have to pay this loan back over six months, and then she could get a second, larger loan to grow her business even more.

Ten days later, I returned to Kibera once more to visit another organization’s project. They had also started to give out micro-enterprise loans for economic empowerment and wanted me to meet one of their clients. So once again, we walk through the narrow, sewage-filled alleyways of Kibera, past market stalls and one-room hovels. Eventually we entered one small passageway, and then another, and finally we stepped down a few steps. Upon entering the one room shack where the client lived, my jaw dropped. Here was Joyce, once again – now a client from this second project -- obviously breaking the rules and benefiting from at least two different organizations simultaneously.

Out of nearly two million people in Kibera, what are the chances that a visitor like me from the outside would have discovered her deception? I asked Joyce some questions and eventually she explained: “One loan is not enough,” she said, “not for the dreams I have waited so long to fulfil.”

At first I felt angry: with all the needy people in this community, why should one person benefit twice and others not at all? And then I thought to myself: Who am I to judge Joyce under such circumstances? Mightn’t I be doing the same? In this dog-eat-dog world you have to put yourself in the other person’s shoes. Perhaps this is how survival works: Joyce is certainly not the first to invent this kind of manipulation, nor will she be the last…

III. Survival in our Back Yard:

Southern Africa boasts three species of dassies or hyraxes: two live in rocky areas (such as the back yard of our house) and one in trees. Dassies are sometimes called rock rabbits because of their size, but they are not even distantly related to rabbits and can easily be distinguished from them by their short, rounded ears. In fact, their closest relatives are the elephants (!!!), but obviously this relationship is very distant. A territorial male controls a colony of 3-17 females and their young, but males without territories are solitary. Gestation lasts 230 days, which is very long for an animal this size. Dassies eat a wide variety of vegetation, even consuming plants that are poisonous to domestic stock.

Until this year, we mostly had just a solitary male living in our back yard, but now we have acquired a large harem. Their piped squeaks can be heard all day long. This drives our dogs crazy, but dassies can hide where dogs can’t reach, so they have gradually learned to co-exist. On the other hand, the plants on our veranda have suffered immensely. In the dry season (like now) the little dassies gravitate to anything green and have discovered the treasure-trove of our carefully tended succulents. One by one, our plants are being stripped of their leaves – but these animals are so cute, we let them have their fill. The photos below show how “survival of the fittest” truly works. And if we can’t have elephants in our back yard, their long-lost cousins will have to do!

Kind regards, Lucy

P.S. Speaking of survival, we’re proud to tell you that this Friday (July 18) Sergio graduates Boot Camp to become a full-fledged Marine! He wrote that the cards and

letters he received from well-wishers really helped him get through the rough-spots. (Thanks so much!) His training will continue over the next few months. We still have a little breathing time before he gets shipped overseas…

214: A Perfect Visit Where You Least Expect It

2008-06-11T16:46:00.000-07:00

My wish for all parents is that they can share five days with their son or daughter with the same bliss, pride, and sheer fun as I recently had with Elsita in El Salvador*. (My only sorrow is that Bernd couldn’t be with us.)

That said, I also learned a lot: Before coming to this country (following a short trip in the USA for work and pleasure), my consciousness about El Salvador began and ended with their civil war (1980 – 1992). Thus, I was aware of the terrible deforestation, declining crop-cycles, grinding rural poverty, and devastating economic practices that are ruining what few natural resources this country has. But this was my chance to get beyond that – and so I did, beginning with Elsita’s wonderful NGO co-workers and seeing her interact gracefully with poor women-farmers in the field. [I also saw the first-draft of two practical manuals Elsita has written in Spanish on native corn-seed-regeneration and on composting, which she will soon test with the farmers -- each of which forms a vital part of her organization’s dedication to sustainable agriculture. Oh, what motherly joy!]

Because Elsita’s office is based in San Salvador, the capital, this is where she lives – and where I also started my visit. San Salvador turns out to have many pleasant streets and the best public bus service I have ever encountered. (Buses come frequently and cost 25 cents or less.) San Salvador also houses a small Jewish community that is four times the size of Windhoek’s and holds an egalitarian Sabbath service that truly feels welcoming. Elsita and I also visited the national museums of art and anthropology (that are excellent), and sampled the local cuisine in various restaurants with Elista’s housemates and colleagues. (This was in addition to Elsita’s own cooking where I can now testify that she does make great tortillas and other typical dishes.)

The trip’s highlight, however, occurred over the weekend: Elsita and I left early on Saturday morning for Santa Ana, the country's second largest city about a ninety-minute bus ride away. Some weeks ago Elsita had booked us a night at an indigenous back-packer's lodge that came straight out of the 19th century (except that it had electricity and a few other accoutrements). From the outside it looks like a boarded-up warehouse but the moment you open the door you step into a paradise of comfortable colonial furniture, artsy oil paintings, a beautiful garden, and a large selection of old photography books on local culture and crafts. Our host greeted us with fresh coffee in the cozy guest-kitchen, and then showed us to our room, with twin beds and a private bath. Best of all, however, the shower offered hot water –something that Elsita hadn’t experienced for the previous four months and called positively “orgasmic.” But if you feared we broke the bank for all this luxury, don't worry: the room cost us US$9 apiece, everything included. Dinner that night added only another US$4, per person.

Santa Ana's downtown area was about 30 minutes away on foot. I was struck that virtually all the residential buildings were just one story high and stood buttressed against one another as a protection against possible earthquake damage. Only the town’s main square boasted larger structures -- framed on four sides by the cathedral, municipal government building, city museum, and an old theater (now a school for the performing arts). Just to one side of the Cathedral an old man sold bags of pigeon-feed, and we watched a little girl dole out the grains one-by-one, as if the world’s future depended on her making sure that every pigeon got its fare share. (Too bad that Trafalgar Square now prohibits this custom – I think it truly constitutes one of the world’s great childhood pleasures.)

Soon we hopped another bus to El Salvador’s answer to Crater Lake – in this case a smaller but equally beautiful body of clear blue water known as Coatepeque that is surrounded by high volcanic mountains. The bus took an hour and a half and cost 48 cents apiece. Because there is only very limited public access at the lake we approached a hostel that allowed for day accommodation -- here we had the place to ourselves and lounged in hammocks, bought lunch, swam, played with some local kids, and paid a total of US$5 apiece of us for the privilege.

That evening, we met some interesting graduate students from Harvard University who were in the country to study micro-financing enterprises among local women-cooperatives. This forced us to once again confront some of El Salvador’s harsher facts of life. Sadly, much of the students’ project has been hampered by the presence of gangs that extract bribes from the women, ostensibly in exchange for protection - but that basically means protection from the very same gangs who offer their alleged "assistance." Our conversation reminded me of insights that Elsita's supervisor had offered while we were out in the field a few days before -- for example, that the government deliberately underestimates El Salvador's population in order to make the per-capita income seem higher than it is (thus, encouraging outside investment), while at the same time keeping the labor-pool large and very cheap. Currently, the country’s main source of income comes from remittances by Salvadorans living abroad (even now, about 500 Salvadorans leave the country daily). These remittances are free-money, as it were, because no one inside the country works for it. This leads to high consumer demand for cheap products and it keeps most people from protesting against the government. But it is a pernicious, arbitrary system where one neighbor benefits and another -- equally needy or even more so -- barely survives. To illustrate this viscous situation, the Harvard students explained that in El Salvador's poorest areas a household that receives remittances often averages US$6 per adult per day, whereas a family in the same area without this external income has to survive, on average, on just one dollar per adult per day. (Keep in mind that El Salvador continues to have one of the highest birthrates in the world, so that dollar gets spread very thin.)

By Sunday morning, however, Elsita and I left these politics behind and caught yet another bus for the Cerro Verde National Park. These public-bus journeys continued to amaze me: almost all are brightly colored American school buses that live out their retirement by working harder than they ever had to before. On some of the buses you get piped-in music or third-rate American films, but on the local-yokels all the entertainment comes from constant stream of bargain-sellers who alight at one stop and step off at the next, and meanwhile try to sell you sweets, fruits, drinks, french-fried potatoes, biscuits, herbal potions, home-made medicines, creams, condiments, and a wide variety of cheap plastic toys. Sometimes you also get a singer or two, or some evangelist, or else a blind clown, deaf-child, or some other unfortunate who aims to collect your extra change.

On this particular ride, however, we were left blissfully at-peace during the last twenty minutes or so, as the diesel engine choked its way up a one-lane road through a dense rainforest. Finally we reached the National Park entrance, paid our one-dollar entrance fee, and walked uphill for a couple hundred meters until the first viewpoint. "Omigod!," I could scarcely contain my awe. Before us stood a recently erupted giant volcano with its brown-black lava like chocolate-nut icing on a huge bitten-off cone. We were about eye-height to the top -- standing, as we were on an even larger volcano (but one that has been dormant for several hundred years). The view extended even more broadly, however -- to our right was a row of mountains and straight ahead a steep escarpment that ended some fifty miles away at the Pacific Ocean. The view was gorgeous, simply breathtaking, and in itself, worth the entire trip.

We gaped for about ten minutes or so, and then walked aimlessly until we met a young woman who offered to take us on a guided walk (guides are required in the Park’s cloud forest). This was also wonderful. Although we heard several owls we didn't see them; yet we took in some splendid views with shimmering butterflies and large iridescent blue-black birds. For a while we watched the clouds roll in and out of the mountains. Most of all, however, I feasted on the intense shades of green all around me, knowing that in a few days I would be returning to the Namibian desert and this would have to sustain me for a long time.

We hitched a lucky-ride back to the main road and took a series of buses back to Elsita’s house, and all the while I kept thinking: who would believe me that El Salvador could be such a beautiful and pleasant country to visit? Of course, I'm biased from having the most conversant and wonderful tour-leader imaginable. Truly, I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

P.S. Sergio writes that he is doing very well, and expects to graduate Boot Camp on July 18. Thanks for your support!

*Elsita is in El Salvador for ten months as part of a year-long fellowship with the American Jewish World Service. See Elsita’s web page More Motion and our Namibian Diary #213 for more information.

213: Turning into Corn

2008-05-18T11:31:00.000-07:00

Some of you have been asking for family updates. Here they are:

Sergio:
Sergio joined the U.S. Marines as a new recruit four weeks ago. Although this has been a near-lifelong dream for him, it's been tough going. Not surprisingly, he writes that the military-issue boots hurt his feet (by contrast, he only wore sneakers and sandals in Africa); that the heat and humidity have become a daily torture (quite a change from the dry weather back home, especially given the rigorous work-outs every day), and above all, his long and unpronoucable name is killing him... (Poor guy! Unlike Elsita who took up our offer a few years ago to legally change her name, Sergio chose to retain the hyphenated double-surname we mistakenly inflicted on our children. You can imagine - Much as we loved the egalitarian ideology of our approach at the time, now we feel very guilty for the hardship we caused!)

In general, Sergio reports having a lot of second-thoughts about the path he has chosen, but at the same time he is determined to make it through the process. Bravo to him! This would be no mean feat. Within the first three weeks of Boot Camp, his group of recruits already dropped from over 80 to 72 -- with three-quarters of the training still in front of them.

Elsita:
Meanwhile, what we hear from Elsita is absolute delightful. You can read her whole blog at Elsita's Blog, but we have excerpted a few paragraphs below (with her permission):

Corn, or “Maíz”, as it is called in Spanish, is the staple food of El Salvador... In fact, during the course of my time here in Central America, the presence of corn has been almost overwhelming in my day to day life (in a good way). As I may have mentioned before, my work placement is with a Salvadoran non-governmental organization in the field of sustainable agriculture and food security. From what I can tell, my work here basically involves becoming a corn farmer.

At the moment, in the rural communities with which my organization works, farmers buy hybrid corn seed to plant every year. Hybrid corn is nice because it is bred to give high yields, resistance to diseases and other desirable characteristics. Due to a biological phenomenon known as hybrid vigour, the crossing of two inbred corn lines results in the first hybrid generation showing the best of the parents´ most desirable characteristics. Breeders manipulate the pollination process of inbred lines in order to achieve this. However, in the second generation, mediocre characteristics of the grandparent corn resurface, so yield and disease resistance decrease. What this means is that seeds collected and replanted by farmers for the next year do not become particularly productive plants, so the farmers inevitably become dependent on purchasing the seed every agricultural cycle. In addition to this, they also must purchase fertilizers, insecticides and herbicides that go along with the hybrid seed, and as you might imagine, the costs add up quickly. Why do farmers buy hybrid seed? Apparently, seed companies operate intense propaganda schemes that lead to the notion that hybrid corn is intrinsically better than open pollinated varieties. Similarly, transgenic (genetically modified) corn is also on the rise. It is the most expensive seed available, and also thought to be better than other varieties. Transgenic corn also requires chemical inputs (fertilizers etc), and it is genetically engineered to not produce viable seed for replanting, so again, farmers depend on buying the seed every year.

The overarching goal of my job is to find sustainable alternatives to all of these practices. My main project is to figure out ways to productively breed Creole Corn (a non-hybrid variety), or to put it more specifically, to figure out how to select the best, strongest, healthiest seed for replanting next year. My first assignment at work was the reading of a 400 pg manual in Spanish entitled ``El Maíz en los Tropicos: Mejoramiento y Produccion´´ (Corn in the Tropics: Improvement and Production). Slow reading but fun stuff. Since then, I have done lots of online research, and put together a short manual with descriptions of possible techniques. In the upcoming months, I will be going into the field and testing out the theory. Hopefully the experiments will then be the basis for development of solid breeding methods that can be used by future farmers as an alternative to buying expensive hybrid seed and related inputs. My biggest worry aside from actually carrying out this project, is making sure that it can be sustainable after I leave, given that I´m here for only one harvest. Thus, I want to work very closely with the farmers who know a lot more about planting corn than I do, incorporate their normal cultivation methods in the Creole Corn experiments, and through that process hopefully generate a lot of interest in the results.

And in case you thought I would gloss over the most well-known symbol of Latin American cuisine you will not be disappointed as I further describe my food adventures. I refer of course to the tortilla – the staple, the bread, the unfaltering companion to all meals, the beginning and the end, the little yellow disc of warm toasted goodness. Between the tortillas, the pupusas, the elotes (corn on the cob), the atols (hot corn drink), the tamales (doughy corn dish) and other popular meals, I rapidly realized that not only am I turning into a corn farmer, but I am in fact, turning into corn myself.

But I digress… The tortilla! The tortilla is an unleavened circular corn-bread that is hand-flattened by women everywhere I have visited so far. Unlike the North American tortilla, it is slightly thicker and much smaller. Within my first week of cooking at home, I embarked on my very own food adventure: trial-and-error tortilla making. With disbelieving roommates in attendance, I started my first tortilla attempt by slowly adding water to “harina de maíz” - corn flour – to reach the consistency that I had admiringly observed at street stands all over. So far so good: I rolled the dough into balls, then flattened them into discs and fried them in oil. Very tasty, but wrong! In fact, there is no need for the oil frying. Locals place tortillas on “comals” - large sheets of metal, heated from below that permit tortilla-making by the dozens. Now I leave the tortilla dough on the pan at low heat, flip over a few times and then eat the tortillas hot with veggies, meat, and sauce. Practice makes perfect: My roommates have concluded that I am genetically predisposed to know how to cook tortillas.

Bernd, myself, and more:
We’re doing well. We found a beautiful camping spot last weekend and enjoyed some great vistas – also an onslaught of curious creatures known (of all things) as the Namibian Corn Cricket. Their six-legged coordination and bobbing antennae were amazing to witness, as you can see from the photo below.

Next week I'm off to New York, Washington and El Salvador for a 3-week combination of work and vacation (the latter being girly-girly and mother-daughter stuff – just fabulous!). This is Bernd's gift to me after his trip to Mongolia and Elsita's graduation last year -- but I'll miss him a lot.

Finally, I want to update you on a completely different matter: You may not believe it but our Kosher-meat rabbi from Israel is back in the country (you remember: the one who wanted to convert all the local abattoirs into producing kosher meat for export and then ran afoul of the political authorities). Now he decided to export long curlicue kudu-antelope horns to become shofarim (for blowing on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur in the synagogue) – apparently, with great initial success. Fortunately, he has given up his bid to become Chief Rabbi of Namibia, so this time everyone is happy. (Except maybe for the kudu, although he only takes the horns from those who already died.)

212: Four Weeks, Five Countries

2008-05-02T13:46:00.000-07:00

(1) Cote d’Ivoire
I spent last week in Cote d’Ivoire (Ivory Coast), helping the local Family Health International office plan their work with orphans and other vulnerable children. Between the extreme poverty, recent history of civil war, and ravages of HIV, this is really tough place. But like the hardy bougainvillea vines or the colorful wax-print fabric favored by the local women, I also witnessed hints of brightness that periodically burst forth and provide hope for a better tomorrow.

Here is a good Sergio-story: On my first day in Abidjan I hadn’t realized that my hosts scheduled lunch at the US embassy. Earlier that morning I had dutifully locked my passport and personal valuables in the hotel-safe, so I arrived at the embassy gates without any picture-ID. Under the circumstances, the US Marine on duty couldn’t let me inside. As I waited, I remembered the date was April 21st. “This may not help my situation, sir,” I said to officer, “But as it happens, today my son starts basic training as a Marine in Parris Island, South Carolina.” The young marine looked at me again and drawled. “Parris Island? I remember it well… Wish your son the best of luck from me.” Then he hesitated and added, “Now, let’s see if we can get the person you are supposed to meet from the embassy to come outside and vouch for you, and then you can proceed with your lunch.”

I worked hard during the week, so by the time Friday came around, I was ready for a break. A local University professor invited a colleague and me to his home for a traditional Ivorian meal (ground cassava, fish-soup and fried plantains), and afterwards we invited the professor and his wife to a concert by the singer Oumou Sangaré – “la diva de la musique malienne” – at the country’s largest outdoor performance arena. Sangaré is known for her songs against polygamy and female genital mutilation – and sure enough, the audience was mostly made of women: clearly, the well-to-do and professional elite of local society.

My colleague bought VIP tickets in order to ensure good seats. To enter the arena, we had to pass through 10 layers of security, but each time we passed by one guard, someone escorted us to the next, and so on. Although it was almost 10pm by the time we arrived, the music was just getting started. As I looked around, I could scarcely believe the display of gorgeous West African fashion: each woman looking more decked-out than the next, in tight-hipped dresses, huge cloth-headscarves, and flowing shawls. For the next two hours, my eyes feasted on the glittering sequins, satin appliqué, colorful lace, and mounds of bright colors. People stood on their seats, rocked with the music, and danced in the aisles. At times, there was more “show” going on in the audience than on stage. The music pulsated – I found myself clapping and swinging as well – and was interspersed with traditional African praise-singing, line-dancing, and hooplas of joy.

Throughout the performance, people from the audience flocked on stage and fawned adoration at the singer’s feet. Large-muscled lackeys had to literally carry off about half the divining women in order to keep a mild sense of order. But this was also a lucrative business: every woman who came on stage had to pay for the privilege, and the rest of us got to see the money flowing – literally hundreds of thousands of Ivorian-francs by the time the evening was through. The men were the most ostentatious, however. Although a minority, they would come on stage to impress their women-folk: each would take out a wallet of money, kiss the singer, and then lavishly throw out bills one by one – all of which the lackeys gathered as they fell on stage. Part of the display was that Sangaré was supposed ignore all the distractions – that is to say, the songs must go on – uninterrupted, undistracted, like the sun that rises above the storm. It was exhausting to watch – but also an experience I will never forget.

(2/3) Ghana and Nigeria
After leaving Cote d’Ivoire I flew to Ghana. Whereas I had spent the past week struggling in French, suddenly everyone now spoke in American-English: Downtown Accra is modern, glitzy and eager for the tourist-dollar. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay long – my next stop was Nigeria: the country I said three years ago would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I guess that just goes to show you can’t believe everything I write. Work forced me to come here again, not that I liked it any better the second time around. Nigeria is simply too intense and chaotic, worse than New York at rush hour 24 hours a day…

(4) Namibia’s South
What a contrast this was with two other recent trips: Four weeks ago, I traveled to the provincial capital of Keetmanshoop in the south of Namibia. I visit there about once a year and whenever I do, I make it my business to stop at the Keetmanshoop Jewish cemetery. Here it always feels like I am in the middle of nowhere -- the next town of any significance is three hours away by car. The cemetery contains just twenty gravestones, lined up in two rows. Although there aren’t any shade trees or decorative plants, it is fairly clean: Amazingly, the municipality still sends someone to sweep the place regularly and make sure that no damage is done.

No Jews have lived in Keetmanshoop for decades. The town’s most recent Jewish burial took place almost fifty years ago, and the majority of gravestones date back to the 1920s and 30s. With a single exception, all the gravestones contain different last-names. I always wonder at the transitory nature of this community, that almost no one stuck around long enough for there to be more than a single death in the family.

The one exception consists of two siblings, a boy and a girl, each dying in infancy less than two years apart from the other. Their headstones remain upright, but are now pocked-marked and dull after eight decades’ exposure to the relentless sun and blowing sand. Following the tradition, I always place three stones on each grave. As I do, I imagine the children’s poor mother, losing first one child and then another, and then seemingly moving on herself. Who was around to provide comfort her darkest hours? Was she more fortunate with child-rearing in the next place she lived? No one with this surname lives in Namibia any more, so I can’t trace how the story progressed. But I hope there is more to this family than what lies in this lonely and forsaken place.

(5) Uganda
I spent my next weekend in Eastern Uganda – a week before Passover – celebrating the Sabbath with the Abayudaya Jewish community (See

www.kulanu.org; then click on "Communities" and then "Abayudaya.") This was my fourth visit and I experienced a warm reunion. This community’s commitment, indigenous music and welcoming embrace never fail to inspire me. Contrary to most of what you see in Uganda, women are given an equal role in the synagogue and in communal life – although otherwise the style is quite Orthodox. Interesting times lie ahead, however: Come June this year, their rabbi will return after five years’ study at the Jewish Theological Seminary in Los Angeles – fully ordained and dreaming to start his own Rabbinical School for other African Jewish groups who also fall outside the mainstream, from Zimbabwe, Ghana, South Africa and elsewhere.

During my visit, the main buzz was about community development and expansion. The Abayudaya community has grown to 800 members and now boasts a guest-house, health-clinic, internet café, a fully-established secondary school, and a burgeoning primary school (still in need of assistance). Most recently, a former Seventh Day Adventist congregation about 20 kilometers down the road has given up its Christian practice and wants to become Abayudaya (i.e. Jewish). I was asked for my opinion: What should the Abayudaya do? Jews don’t proselytize, but this group approached the Abayudaya – not the other way around. Eventually, the Abayudaya leadership agreed that they must investigate more fully: Is this group attracted by the fact that the Abayudaya now have electricity, running water, and facilities that are unheard-of in most nearby villages? Or are they truly attracted by the faith-component: willing to be Jewish in the hard times, as well as they easy ones? At a minimum, they would recommend a two-year period of study and then the group could convert to Judaism, if they still want.
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All is Well Here

2008-03-10T22:36:00.000-07:00

Namibia is getting tons of rain at the moment (to the point of severe flooding in some parts) -- with the result that our desert-like surroundings have never before looked so green. Sergio reports he is well in the USA -- getting settled in the care of our good friends Denauvo and Jan Robinson, and still practicing for his entry exam to the military. And Elsita just posted her first blog: it's all about her trip to Guatemala before starting her World Fellows' internship with the American Jewish World Service. You can read the entry below (or see the photos that go with it at Elsita's Blog).

So here comes the first entry of many concerning my travels in Central America. A fitting beginning, I start my journey with 3 weeks travel in Guatemala. As many of you know, this means back to my country of origin, a place I had visited once since adoption at age 6 months. I’ve been working on an appropriate blog response ever since I left but the words haven’t been working for me. My brain has been very busy adapting to Central America in general, so simply recognizing the process has been important and often difficult. As you can imagine, throughout my Guatemalan journey all of the ‘what if’ questions and the ‘who am I’ questions were crowding my brain quite a lot. Sitting in a bus heading out of Guatemala City, it suddenly occurred to me that any given person I saw might possibly be a relative.

I really wanted this first entry to be a well-written piece of art, but I haven’t sorted out all of my questions from the answers yet so I’m not at the right place to write anything nearly that well-composed at the moment. My sincere apologies for not sending this out sooner. I do have some great stories though, so I hope you enjoy some favorites….

My trip was both epic and unplanned. I arrived with reservations for one night at a hostel in Guatemala city and 3 largely unscheduled goals: visit friends, take Spanish classes and travel. My favorite immediate observations were (1) that I was no longer short in height and on the contrary pretty average height for a woman. It was a happy shock, and despite my non-traditional clothing and touristy backpack I blended in extremely well. (2) The beautiful buses – known as chicken buses, part of an elaborate and cheap public transport system that converted old American yellow school buses by repainting and decorating them completely so that they are now brilliantly colored and generally sport a lot of Christian paraphernalia. (3) Phone technology. As in much of the rest of the world, cellphones have become more and more popular in Guatemala. This might not seem so strange except that even in the most remote areas that I visited where residents still don’t have piped water, I witnessed people talking on cellphones. A technological jump!

A small world story: Two American friends of mine, with whom I studied abroad in Ecuador in 2006 (see much earlier blog posts for details), are both now living in Guatemala as Peace Corps volunteers. Sarah and Lupe are both involved in the broad Peace Corps theme of “food security”, and it was my great fortune that both invited me to visit them at their sites and stay with their homestay families, a chance that also allowed me to get off the beaten gringo trail. To visit Lupe I traveled out into what felt like the middle of nowhere in the Guatemalan region of Jalapa. I found myself in a mountainous area of “el campo” - the rural areas. I shadowed Lupe in her everyday work – helping local women farmers “campesinas” to build compost heaps in their backyards, taking long walks along gravel roads to get to their farms, experimenting with collection of amaranth seeds for possible consumption and learning more about worm-agriculture eg using worms to make fertilizer from cow dung. I also enjoyed tortilla meals with her homestay family and showing the children pictures of Namibia from a tourist magazine I had brought with me. The African animal pictures were a big hit. The thing I was least prepared for was the cold at night, and this gave me the realization that the lack of central heating makes all the difference. Also, lack of running water 24 hours a day plus bucket showers only.

Sarah’s homestay family lives a short busride from Sololå, a bustling market town north of Lake Atitlan. In this area, live many indigenous Guatemalans – descendents of the Mayan Indians, that still wear beautiful hand-woven traditional clothing and speak 1 of 23 different indigenous languages. A fun fact: Guatemala has an indigenous population of about 60%, much higher than any other Central American country. Sarah is in the process of learning Cakchikel, a rather guttural language that I attempted (pitifully) to learn some words of during my visit. The night I stayed with her, Sarah and I made and cooked pizza and salad from scratch for her homestay family using their simple wood-burning stove, which turned out very tasty. Sarah’s homestay mother insisted on making tortillas to go along with it. It was a cultural experience, and also truly wonderful to be taken in so hospitably by both Sarah and Lupe’s families.

I spent a week in Antigua, a beautiful old colonial town in central Guatemala flanked by volcanoes, where I took Spanish classes in the afternoons while in the mornings, I volunteered for a coffee cooperative that produces fair-trade coffee. During my time there, I took a day trip to volcano Pacaya. It had erupted the night before I hiked to it (with guide and group), thereby stopping us from being able to climb all the way to the top, but on the bright side, we got to see a lot of lava. The stuff literally glows red-hot and it gives off a lot of heat, what luck! I do have to say a word or two about coffee production as well which fascinated me during my short volunteer time – making coffee is not as easy as it might seem. It is quite a detailed process involving harvesting the coffee fruit, separating the bean from outer fruit flesh and later an outer shell, fermenting and drying as well as the actual roasting which has to be timed perfectly. Don’t take Starbucks for granted!!!!!

My last paragraph is dedicated to two wonderful families that are part of my personal Guatemalan history. The first is that of Gladys – Sergio’s foster family mother prior to his adoption – with whom I was able to visit for a weekend in Guatemala City. I thank Galdys and her her daughter Fabiola for their generous hospitality and the royal food treatment – huge lunches! I also thank Ena and Ramon and family for a very special dinner together. They were the lawyers responsible for allowing me to be able to be adopted legally, and what a gift to still be in touch with them and meet their son and daughters. It is heartwarming to know that when I visit Guatemala again I’ll have family there.

So in the interest of not writing too too much, I’ll cut off this entry here. Feel free to comment on my blog anytime or just add a “hello there!” :-)

211: How Zimbabweans are Coping

2008-02-11T16:15:00.000-08:00

I just returned from another Stephen Lewis Foundation trip to Zimbabwe. Upon examining my American passport upon entry at the airport in Harare, the official stared at my hyphenated double-surname and croaked, “Are you German?” “No, my husband is,” I answered cautiously. The man broke into a broad smile. “Germans make very good husbands,” he asserted. “Go on through.”

Now, how the heck does HE know?

One thing that has always been true is that Zimbabweans love to play around with names. So on this trip I met a girl named Pardon, several men named Blessed, and a whole lot of Lovemores. But when I learned that my driver’s name was Cain and he had a twin brother named Abel, I knew I would be in for an unusual trip. Cain warned me the electricity averaged only two hours a day, that it had been raining for two weeks’ straight, and that there are potholes on virtually every road the size and depth of caves. I also had read that life expectancy had dropped to 33 in this country, that 3000 people a week were dying (mostly from HIV exacerbated by hunger), and that only one tenth of the people eligible for anti-retroviral treatments (the AIDS-drugs) were getting them.

Zimbabwe has, quite literally, the worst-performing economy in the world. Last year, the inflation rate hit 26,000% -- the world-record.

On the other hand, in Zimbabwe you can become a billionaire overnight. If you change money at the official rate of exchange, the rate is 30,000 Zim-dollars to one American dollar. But find someone who is willing to do it at the so-called Parallel rate that (also known as the informal or black market), and you could get 200 times that amount: 6 million Zim- dollars for one greenback. Unfortunately, the largest bill available (just printed) is “only” for 10 million Zim dollars – about US$1.65 and dropping fast – so you end up carrying bags full of cash wherever go you. I swear it looks like Monopoly money. Most of the bills are so worthless that you can see them lying around unprotected; the money is not even worth stealing any more.

To hedge oneself against inflation, bartering has become common. So has hoarding. Prices change every day. Those who can, spend their money on fuel-vouchers and then sell them when the cost of fuel increases: it's better than any bank around. But this contributes to the chronic fuel-shortage. One result is that Zimbabweans are fit: they don’t think twice about walking 9 or 10 miles in one direction and back again – to attend school, go to work, buy some eggs, or attend a meeting.

Many organizations these days try to pay their staff in US travelers’ checks. (If your business has a foreign exchange account, this is legal.) Then once a month every staff person must travel across the border -- Botswana is usually preferred because Zimbabweans don’t need a visa -- to buy up whatever they can there, and then cart it back home in bags or boxes. Whatever commodities you don’t use you can sell to friends and relatives, as most local store-shelves are virtually empty.

Every one asks, Why don’t Zimbabweans stand up and rebel? The answer is, because they are too resilient. They work harder than just about anybody else I know and each time another aspect of their society collapses, they simply take a deep breath and say, “Let’s make a new plan.” Also, Zimbabweans don’t look generally look to rich folks and say, “I wish I was like them,” but they look to people who are even worse off and say, “Shame: I’m glad I’m not as badly off as they are.” Remarkably, voluntarism continues to thrive: Neighbor continues to help neighbor, with the understanding that now it’s my turn but next time it may be yours.

There are a few contingencies. Many Zimbabweans have friends and relatives outside the country who send in remittances - even US$40 or $50 from overseas is more than most people earn in a month. Moreover, literally everyone in Zimbabwe has become an expert gardener. Every front lawn and back yard has been turned into a small farm-plot, where people typically grow sweet potatoes, cassava, maize, ground-nuts, tomatoes, peas, soy beans, and various green vegetables. It’s amazing! Across the street, if there is a half-empty church-yard, abandoned property, or a bit of soil in a median-strip, it’s the same thing: plant, plant, plant.

Because Western medicine has also become prohibitively expensive and difficult to find, many organizations have started teaching people how to use various herbs and medicinal trees for their health. By law, every government health clinic now has a model herb garden, with free lessons from a local herbalist.

How did things get this way? For many people, the main cause is Zimbabwe's land reform program. Most of the country's productive farmland remained in white hands after independence in 1980, and through the 1990s the government of President Robert Mugabe worked to shift ownership. But when these policies yielded little progress, the government unveiled plans to seize land without compensation. As hundreds of farms were taken over - sometimes by local people, more often by senior government officials - production and the export of grain and tobacco collapsed.

Government corruption and huge spending on the conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo also drained the public purse. But as far as President Mugabe and his ministers are concerned, these factors have nothing to do with the country's economic travails. They blame sabotage by the West in general (especially the UK, the former colonial power), as well as the sanctions imposed upon the country -- although these are aimed at leaders rather than at the economy as a whole.

On March 29th, Zimbabweans will go to the polls once more. Most people I spoke with believe that the election will be stolen again, but two weeks ago a new opposition candidate emerged for President, and as one friend put it, “Hope springs eternal.” Whenever change finally comes, I’m convinced that Zimbabweans will rise up like a phoenix from the ashes and become one of the strongest nations on earth. The good thing is that most of them have not lost their sense of humor, their warm smiles, or their belief in finding a peaceful solution to their problems. Strange as it may sound, the rest of the world has a lot to learn from Zimbabwe.