folks and faces ...

let me tell you about my favorite people in kwakiliga… about babu mzungu.  now, i spend hours and hours trying to deflect the word “mzungu” (white person) from the kwakiligan vocabulary, even though its often accompanied by “shikamoo” (“i hold your feet”), which is a sign of respect which I also say to your elder.  but babu’s skin is so light that people use this term as his nickname … an ironic term of endearment.  and endearing he most certainly is.  most of his front teeth missing, his walking stature is hunched forward, and he generally wears a cloth replica of a fedora.  we have an ongoing joke which started a few months back when I walked past his front door holding a cup of coffee, a coveted and generally unseen commodity in these parts.  normally i wouldn’t flaunt such a nicety, but i happened to be in a hurry before beginning a day of fence building and hoped that it might be mistaken for a cup of tea.  but, when babu figured out my scheme, i offered to share a wee bit and since then it’s been our “thing”.  our sunday morning routine.  he recently came down with a horrendous case of malaria, which is reputed to be bad this year, and even despite his headache and tired state he cracked the joke that a cup of coffee would bring the life back to him … help him heal quickly.  i followed through with my delivery, and he followed through with a clean bill of health.  

sunday and monday were easter celebrations (see photo for easter meat slaughter) and the entire community of kwakiliga seems to be under the assumption that with it would come the rains.  not one, not two, but three people told me that since so many people have been praying for it, it would surely be delivered on april 8^th so color me suprised when there was a brief downpour in the middle of the afternoon (though brief doesn't cut it).  i can’t count the number of hours that i’ve spent thinking: “are those storm clouds?”  “is that rain drops or wind on the roof?”  to feel so helpless when it comes to delivering much needed water to a community with none is almost more than one can bear.  and the repercussions are severe: starvation for some, hunger for others.  so here i sit, writing this blog, armed with 15 bags of sunflower seeds, a computer desktop full of fertilizer information, a rough plan for an intercropping experiment, and nothing to do.  

and things are about to shift in my day to day here.  sarah is leaving on our prearranged departure flight, april 27^th, but in light of the project having been well planned but not yet executed, we thought it was important for one of us to stay on the ground and see it through.  i must admit that i’m excited to stay longer in the community, though the 1.5 months will be the most solitary of my life without any other english speakers in kwakiliga.  one of my selfish motivations for staying is to really, TRULY, feel as though I know swahili … and thus far, people are far too forgiving of my “broken” speech.  this extension affords me several nights over a bantu stove (goodbye kerosene camp stoves) practicing my speech.  and to work up the callouses on my hands from hand hoe usage.  and to finally carry a bucket of water on my head.  but i must admit that though many "things" keep me very invested in my life here, the people are amongst the most important.  here are some highlights:

mama mwaka is one of my favorite community members and remarkable “survivor” with no husband, grown kids, a bad back, sore legs, muscles the size of my thighs, and a high pitched laugh to counteract her manly strength.  she is soft spoken, makes the most delicious coconut beans in town, and recently gave me a sambaa name: makiheo.  the sambaa are a tribe of people found in the tanga region, though i’ve failed to adopt any more than greetings in their dialect … much to her dismay.

my best friend in town, a 25 year old diva named mama zai with a dangerously handsome husband named keah, has always insisted that her two daughters refer to me as dada andrea, or sister andrea, but recently i was promoted to aunt, or “shangazi”.  whenever they greet me, they come at a full gait and jump into my arms yelling “shikamoo, shangazi”.

the bus conductors have become our spokespeople of sorts.  they wave hello when passing through, send greetings via passengers traveling to kwakiliga, listen to american hip hop on our headphones during long journeys, and even explain our work to interested passengers … even though we’re standing RIGHT there.  it never ceases to amuse me that people look shocked when we disembark in, what any other person would consider to be, the middle of nowhere. 

and mzee mcharo, patriarch of my tanzanian family , an exceptionally innovative farmer, and a smart man who picked up playing sudoku at the drop of a hat, recently exchanged the following, heartwarming words:

me: i’m exhausted.

mzee mcharo: why?  you have done work?

me: no, but listening to and speaking swahili tires me.  thought i have become accustomed to your swahili, it no longer tires me.

mzee mcharo: and i too have become accustomed, to you.  and when there is not food or money to share, i will share my love.

need i say more as to the charms of kwakiliga?

january was my everest ...

january was my everest!  between project woes and tiring of “dealing” with things (such as rats dying in my water tank), the start of 2012 tested my perseverance and proved that i’m resilient and optimistic in the face of an, at times, elusive end.  and thank goodness, because for a village where not much happens … things sure can change overnight.

the sad truth is that i can’t shake the feeling that i am continually one month late in everything i’ve done. for this i blame the noncommittal weather, a project duration (9 months) that thwarts volunteers from observing the weather patterns of a calendar year, and me for not knowing better.  upon arriving in kwakiliga, it took one month to secure the profitability data necessary to comfortably pursue planting sunflower … and one month was the precise time it took to miss the rains, thus the window for planting passed.  it took another month to conduct the research necessary to start teaching permaculture … and one month was the precise time it took for the community to shift gears to the current planting season, thus the window for implementing permaculture passed.  again i say, for a village where not much happens … things sure can change overnight.

our obstacles did not stop there, that is merely the table of contents.  here is the meat of the matter.  at times i am convinced that we, in kwakiliga, sit at the cusp of global warming. remember the data that shows how the least populous areas on the globe, the ones that emit the least emissions, are the first to suffer at the hand of climate change because their locations are the most extreme?  

after sitting through the heat of the tanzanian plains, as well as conversation after conversation in which my neighbors inquire when the rains will come (as if i am a meteorologist), i can attest to this.  for the second year running, the rains are absent.  and unlike home, the repercussion isn’t letting your lawn wilt, it is a) pulling your children from school to save money, b) hiring yourself out as labor to haul coal or cultivate land, c) going hungry.  for me to have so much education in agriculture and zero rain in which to utilize it makes me feel helpless amongst those who look to me for help.    

were the rains themselves not problematic enough, rallying a community behind an idea they understand only in theory weighs down the process further.  when we postponed the sunflower project until the longer, more dependable rains of 2012, we held a kikundi meeting in which we formally proposed permaculture as a second project initiative.  this agricultural approach focuses upon conserving water and other seemingly finite resources in the harsh terrain that is kwakiliga.  the sad reality is rains are becoming increasingly irregular, and we need to shift our farming approach to compensate for drought becoming the “norm”. the members of kwakiliga’s farmer’s group were seemingly on board, with one man in particular orating his support and the need to “try”.  thus color me surprised when not one month later, the same man asked why we were doing permaculture when we should be focusing on planting sunflower. but that’s okay.  that’s informative.  a change of focus or priorities amongst our group members suggests the presence of motives that we need to assess in gauging the longevity of our project.  i think it’s immeasurably more productive to work with a handful of eager and experimental farmers interested in achieving a communal goal … rather than proceed with a group of wishy-washy participants who want a band-aid for “now” rather than a prescription for “tomorrow”.  so the approach i take is this: if i’m asking them to alter the ways that they (and their families before them) have approached agriculture, i must be patient and sacrifice my own concept of time … foregoing frustration … because, i quote again, for a village where not much happens, things really do change overnight. 

what we need now is a “win”, one that reinvigorates the hope and momentum in a community that is surprisingly abundant in both, despite the daily hardships it faces relative to villages a mere 15 kilometers away where rain and food are plentiful.  i need that too … and if january was my everest, february was my ascent!  for every test of patience and devotion endured last month, february equaled or even exceeded them in progress, momentum, enthusiasm, and a rebirth of my hope that, upon my departure, kwakiliga and its residents will be better off than where they started.

speaking of morale, it’s ridiculous how inconsequential occurrences can generate a “good day” … earned at the drop of a hat.  for instance, a recent trip to korogwe started off on a good note, when the bus conductor (now a friend) quite literally refused to take my money for the bus fare.  generally people try to charge us MORE in light of being wealthy westerners, so the fact that everyone else on the bus, with far less money than me, was expected to pay when i got a nod … that was something.  and then, when i dismounted said bus to the swarm of men normally wanting to sell me bus tickets to arusha or tanga or dar es salaam, none hassled me but instead one pulled me aside quite literally to greet me hello. 

  

its glorious days like those that made the decision to extend my stay in tanzania an easy one.  some of you knew this was a possibility, for the purpose of seeing the sunflower project through to completion.  the selfish side of me wants to leave a tangible imprint on kwakiliga’s trajectory or income security … a calculable improvement … and that requires extending.  the sad reality is the project’s milestones, hindered both by weather patterns and my limited stay, may not be realized beyond “theoretical” success in nine months here.  and that too is ok.  because sustainable development work (emphasis on “sustainable”) doesn’t occur on in a single year.  one of the most important roles i can play is foundation builder … groundwork doer … project generator … community assessor … observation maker.  not necessarily glamorous, but if in august of 2011 i had the information i now have in january of 2012, i would have been able to design a project whose implementation would utilize the periods in which work is sparse and free time plentiful rather than work against the tide of time, as it were.  thus i am doing what others weren’t able to do for me: paving the road for continued improvements … and making sure said road is as smooth a possible over my 1.5 month extension (departure june 20^th).

other things that happened in january and february:

• puppy mcharo died
• attended my first tanzanian “harusi” or wedding reception
• discussed the problems we’re facing in kwakiliga with the kikundi leadership
• successfully completed “white january” in which no alcohol is consumed
• started hearing folks say “tumekuzoea”, or ”we have become accustomed to you”
• ate baada, ugali made from cassava
• made my first real friend, a 25 year old “diva” and mother of two named mama zai
• met my new bibi and babu, or grandma and grandpa (have been known to share coffee with the latter)
• built a fence with a local “fundi”, or builder, using pangas (machetes) and jembes (hand hoes)
• discovered that google translate is a great asset to lesson planning on permaculture
• got the world’s best care packages (thanks lexi, justin, and jeff)
• traveled by long boat to a white sandbar in the middle of the indian ocean
• stymied an impending marriage proposal from a tangan chef named wilson 
• failed to stymy three other marriage proposals
• learned how to make a cigarette, including all the steps from growing tobacco to curing it
• traveled from kwakiliga to diani beach (kenya) to arusha (tanzania) in two days: five buses and 18 hours
• was in the “eye” of my first tornado, which started in a kwakiligan maize field

the town "crazy" strikes ...

there’s nothing quite like audible screams and the sound of sharp metal to make you (i.e. me) feel uneasy on an otherwise nondescript day.  this past weekend, while alone in my house built for two (or twelve by tanzanian standards), i was cleaning up after a dinner of bread and soup when i started to hear loud voices coming from next door, specifically the mtindaji’s (village leader) house.  after a half hour of listening, i came to the conclusion that the scuffle had less to do with the monthly water payment day (which is generally accompanied by audible frustration) and more to do with an actual problem.  thus, i ventured outside to inquire as to its catalyst …  and it was then that I noticed the entire town of kwakiliga looking anxious and angry, with the mtindaji himself yelling “ngoja!  ngoja!  basi kilele” or “wait!  wait!  stop the noise”.  wanting to investigate, but ever so aware of my presence as the token white person in the community, i opted not to involve myself in something that clearly seemed like a village affair … and instead awkwardly stood a good 20 feet away and eavesdropped.  two ladies were standing at a distance and i asked for the lo-down. here’s what they explained: earlier that evening, the town “crazy” (i hadn’t realized we had one) was involved in a skirmish over a jackfruit with a small child.  it ended badly … the kid suffered a severe cut on the forearm inflicted by “crazy’s” machete.  they sent the child promptly to the hospital, but the townspeople continued to argue over the best way to handle to problem at hand, a discussion that continued through the next morning. the women were extremely agitated and highly vocal (which is saying something in light of their already well exercised vocal chords).  the men were calm, collected, and seemingly in charge (though indoors, out of view of the women and in the company of the mtindaji).  

it was a few hours later that i started first hearing laughter, then screaming, and then metal clanking noises emanating from next door.  peering out of my bedroom window, my jaw dropped when i saw “crazy” waving a machete in the air and slowly backing away from the house, hitting the ground with the machete to stop people from approaching.  some people stood at the periphery and laughed, mothers grabbed their children and ran screaming, but one woman named shida looked “crazy” straight in the eye and didn’t so much as waver when he threatened her with the knife.  after braving several swipes like a west side story knife fight, she finally motioned for him to stab her through the heart, which made him hesitate for just long enough to tackle him like a linebacker … straight to the ground.  a bunch of onlookers joined the dog pile and eventually removed the machete from his hand … all of which i watched with mouth agape.  

apparently friction was in the air, because it wasn’t more than 40 feet away that i noticed another skirmish in which several townspeople were following a teenage masai herder with seemingly angered intent.  they began to slap him with open hands, then punch more aggressively, at which point he bolted from the center of the group and ran away with 20 people hot on his heels … his masai plaid fabric left behind.  i later learned that his cattle had knocked over the town’s only motorcycle and they wanted retribution for the damage, or perhaps acknowledgment of the event.  apparently words weren’t enough to absolve the argument.  

i hope in writing this you see it as i do: shocking yet comedy.  culture operates differently here.  people see threats to their livelihoods, their safe little enclave, their family’s well-being, and they take matters into their own hands … often collectively.  it happens with theft (i.e. never yell “thief” to a crowd or you risk feeling responsible for said villain’s pummel … or worse).  and yes, from a western perspective this is vicious and callous, but remember that is a western perspective.  can you fault a cultural response mechanism if a group of people doesn’t know any other way to respond?  consider this: when i spoke to shida the following day and commented that she was fearless when it came to battling “crazy” and his machete, she literally said “they teach you that in school”.  i can’t say with any certainty if this is true … but i can attest, first hand, to the fact that she handled him with more ease than any westerner I know would’ve.  and THAT makes me sleep soundly.

kesho leo, which means "tomorrow today" ...

this post was started in the middle of december, but a busy schedule and long list of "to do's" has dominated my attention ... so it's tardy.

color me happy ... december 18th marked not only the halfway point for my work in Tanzania but also the first time i left the village for a reason other than a) renewing my visa or b) attending biweekly meetings in Korogwe.  the impetus was to observe a permaculture site called "kesho leo", installed by an Australian organization called Food, Water, Shelter to serve as a fully sustainable living environment for orphans and childless "mamas" to care for them.  the primary goal of our visit was to ensure that we've thought of all of the possible approaches to water conservation and soil improvement before breaking ground on our permaculture project in Kwakiliga.  there is no better way to do so than bounce ideas off of others with similar agricultural experience.  and ... its wonderfully convenient that this research took me to Arusha, a lush and beautiful city serving as a conveniently relaxing home base for a few days.  DARN. upon arriving in Arusha after a long bus journey, sarah and i walked into the lounge of l'oasis hotel and immediately started beaming.  wonderfully over-sized chairs were my throne for an unknown (perhaps shameful) period of time.  scalding hot, high-pressured shower heads prompted me to bathe unnecessarily frequently.   two australian travelers who summited Mt Kilimanjaro, simon and kevin, entertained us with good conversation and drinks for the better part of our stay (and generously offered an enormous donation upon their departure).  and, in the end, i was simultaneously shocked at the niceties surrounding me and how quickly i found comfort in them.

kesho leo was "something else".  to get there, it involved taking a dala dala, which is a minivan used for short transport and which packs people in numbers reminiscent to a clown car.  we rode it until the end of the line, then walked along a dirt road flanked by farmland until spying what can only be described as the quintessential "farmer joe", a white dude in a jam-band t-shirt and  straw hat (i.e. hard to miss).  it is hard to express the scale of Food, Water, Shelter's permaculture endeavor because it encompasses all aspects of daily life: passive solar home building with sustainable wood, rainwater collection, methane cooking gas, composting toilets, and the garden itself (shown at left).  the flip side is that the project is extremely well funded and extensively planned, but only 20 mothers and children are being supported.  thinking of it in terms of comparison ... we are throwing very little money into our production system and plan to (eventually) help hundreds.  let's hope our theory works!  to resume the narrative of kesho leo, the permaculture plot itself is easily replicable: it uses indigenous plant varieties for food, African marigolds for insect diversion, banana trees for shade, and animal manure for plant nutrition.  most useful of all, the farm manager was in the midst of digging swales into a larger plot, the purpose being to more evenly distribute water amongst unlevel farm plots and thus prevent water logging or loss.   this is a concept we're currently incorporating into a lesson plan for Kikundi, in the hopes that it can be used both in the permaculture plot and eventually in larger farms with steeper aspects.

we managed to return to Kwakiliga just in time for christmas, which was my first spent away from family ... and only the second without mom.  it was tough, in every sense of the word, because i'm quickly learning of my association with sweaters and the holidays, pine trees and christmas morning, impatience and the knee-jerk response of releasing dogs into my sister's room to wake her for opening gifts.  though different this year, it was no less memorable.  i awoke at 6:00 a.m. to fix the punctures in our bike tires in preparation of a 9:00 a.m. ride to Komsala which is a few kilometers away.  i didn't realize that these plans also involved me carting mama mcharo, my Tanzanian mother, to church on the back of my bike ... precious cargo is an understatement.  the church was constructed of bare logs and a thatched roof, providing an open air view of the passing Masai herders and their cattle.  it also housed a congregation that sang Silent Night in swahili when we approached ... this was the strongest sensation of "christmas" i felt all day, however if i REALLY reach for comparisons to western christmas cliches, here are a few: sarah and i felt like gleeful kids whose bikes, this being the first time they were ridden, were gifted that morning, the town was swarming with jovial drunks and annoying uncles, and i stuffed myself with starchy foods in such abundance i needed to be rolled home in the figurative mcharo family wheelbarrow.  considering i was unable to be with my own family for the holidays, i find myself endlessly thankful that i could spend it with the mcharos, who are as close to a surrogate as one could hope.

milk or cottage cheese, its hard to tell ...

this post is destined to be less anecdotal in light of the obstacles facing our project ... fasten your seat belts (as if they have those in tanzania).  november has thrown us a bucket of lemons.  between my malaria (which returned with a vengeance only a week after completing my first round of medication) and the headway we had already made researching sunflower oil production and profit margins, we were indescribably frustrated when the expected "vuli", or short rains, continued to elude us.  rightfully so, the farmers in kikundi resisted our request that they continue cultivating their land for sunflower planting, saying that the sun was simply drying out the soil and there was little hope of precipitation in sight; however, we saw a need to prepare the land in advance of said rains, should the come.  so we began a waiting game ... it was too early to give up on the idea of sunflower, yet all signs were pointing toward this need.  as of december, we decided that even if the rains arrive, january and february will be so hot (ugh) that it will stunt the plant's growth and therefore "haribiko", or destroy, the crop.  and thus, our project idea was suffering the same fate as the maize currently wilting in the fields. 

but one invaluable piece of information derived from the month of november was our observation as to the shift in work amongst the farmers in kwakiliga.  we had become accustomed to a large group of men sitting underneath the community tree at the center of town during the heat of the day, in between their morning and evening "shifts" in the field ... and to women and children selling beautiful produce from baskets at dusk ... and to men eating at the hotelini for breakfast in anticipation of the hard labor they were about to endure ... and to the kikundi members showing up in a timely fashion to our weekly meetings.  yet the heat put an end to these habits.  the produce being sold is small and tired ... and the need to weed or plant is suspended with the change in weather ... and men are opting to sit in the shade of their homes rather than in hotelinis or under the community tree ... and the kikundi members are becoming "no shows" one by one.  we have therefore identified an imperative need to shift the community's mindset, as heat and crop failure needn't be correlative.  we are currently working with kikundi to pivot the group's momentum in a new direction which unifies the ideas of "homesteading" and "permaculture" through the use of household waste water ... abdicating their dependence upon rainfall.  we are in the midst of planning the installation of said plots, and i shall discuss the idea at greater length once the planning "curtain" has been dropped.

to offer something comedic in this post ... we have developed a horrid rat problem which is somewhat of an inevitability given the gaps in our corrugated metal roof.  they've eaten the hot peppers in the kitchen.,chewed through the rope i use to hang cards in my room, and even used my mosquito bednet as a play area.  when rolling over in bed a few weeks ago, i accidentally punched one only a few inches from my face and twice now they have run directly between my feet.  yes, i shrieked.  but a smarter person than myself would have realized that a rat infestation equates to a second and larger problem ... hold your breath!  last week, while i was in korogwe buying rat proofing supplies, sarah called me in a bit of a panic.  she was in the middle of writing a letter to hey boyfriend when she heard a rustling and looked down to see a large, gray, four foot snake slithering between her feet and, in one fell swoop, ran out the front door yelling "Saidi! Njoo! Nyoka! Kubwa!" which translates to "Help! Come! Snake! Big" and the group of men constructing a house next door started running at full speed towards the house with sticks and knives.  they searched for fifteen minutes before finding it in the guest room, astonished as to its size and speed and frantically beating it.  after the head had been severed and the men stood out back smoking cigarettes and congratulating each other, one approached sarah and said "nyoke, mbaya.  mbaya SANA" meaning "snake, bad.  VERY bad."  the experience, however, has given me great appreciation as to the seriousness with which the kwakiligan community values our safety.  lets hope snakes don't travel in twos!

to lighten the seriousness of those sorts of shenanigans, we have adopted a new game we like to call "things you can't explain to a tanzanian", which is proving to be rather hilarious.  um, votives?  sporks?  skydiving?  life is full of practicalities here, so the superfluousness of Western possessions is comedic even to me.  for instance, two days ago i spent the afternoon eating ugali and greens with a woman named joes keah (joes is their spelling for joyce) who kindly offered me milk at the end of my meal.  i accepted, assuming she meant in conjunction with tea as per usual, but instead watched her pour what appeared to be large curds of cottage cheese into a plastic cup ... fat.  in light of this, i think it is safe to add "non-fat milk" to the game's list.  to her, it is a source of energy and sustenance, but to me it is a texture i had to force down despite my gag reflect and, later, apologize to my body for having subjected it to something unpalatable.  stomach of steel!

here's what malaria is like...

its actually not as bad as you might think.  but i might be saying this as one of the lucky ones that avoided strong waves of nausea, which is the PITS!  after six days of being away from Kwakiliga, i was feeling rather guilty at my malaise and time spent indoors until it dawned on me i was tired. really tired.  first, my lymph nodes started swelling and i had an outrageously sore throat (no amount of drinking, eating, or speaking was done without pain).  second, i started waking up later than normal, but still climbing back into bed around 9:00 a.m. after being up for only an hour or two.  third, i had numb headaches and annoying body aches (mostly below the waist).  fourth, i developed a fever that rose 0.1 degrees every 10 minutes or so until i finally reached 101.9 and knew it was time to visit the doctor. 

and that was when i fell in love with kwakiliga all over again.  sarah ran through town asking people if they had rice and beans we could purchase so i would have food in my belly and, since news travels quickly, the town was already well aware of my condition and need for sustenance.  so they practically led her from hotelini to hotelini, duka to duka, until one man in our farmer's group named Yuberi (who LOVES saying "andrea na sarah") took her to a duka and explained "andrea is sick!  she needs food!"  which resulted in a plate of food in an otherwise sparse town.  and in my final few minutes of gathering my belongings before departing, i was approached by both hordes of little kids who were concerned as to my health and also Mzee Adamu (the  sweet farmer who didn't know how many days were in a week), who not long ago offered Sarah some of his land so that she and her "husband" might stay indefinitely, and just yesterday offered to take me in and care for me.  in fact, he seemed surprised i hadn't requested it already. 

the "hospital" was at the former mission and consisted of several rooms, each of which you made a visit to without really knowing the purpose.  reception?  prognosis?  diagnosis?  i came armed with my own sterile needles just in case a blood test was necessary, but luckily the joint was generally quite clean.  and the lab technician, though standing in a random hallway to draw blood samples, wore snazzy shoes ... which is a silly thing to reflect upon but a reliable means of gauging one's professionalism.  ten minutes later, with a piece of paper written in scribbles none of us could understand (despite understanding the language) i reported back to room number two and was diagnosed with malaria ... and told not to look so happy when reporting to the doctor.  smiles are not okay.  its now been 18 hours since my first dose of medication and my fever went from 102.1 last night to 98.5 today ... and my biggest obstacle now is continuing to rest which, to anyone who knows me, is a challenge. 

swim at midnight, sunrise at dawn...

oh, how the mighty blogger has fallen!  sincere apologies for the delay in posting, we've been in the thick of project development and i've resorted to letter writing as opposed to blog writing for my literary outlet.  what else can one do by candle light?  shame on me, you might say ... except if you're amongst the lucky ones to have received said letters in which case thanks for being my comedic (or emotional) outlet.

where to start.  lets just let the picture to the right permeate the forthcoming entry of this blog, which has the following emphasis:  R.E.L.A.X.A.T.I.O.N. 

one of the benefits of a three month Tanzanian visa is the need to cross the Kenyan border in order to renew it.  and what better excuse than this to spend a few days away from the rough and ready lifestyle of Kwakiliga ... 36 hours with little more than a bikini, bottomless tropical fruit smoothies, and turquoise waters.  the current tumultuous political climate seems to have people at home more concerned that the westerners currently residing in Kenya (or at least those living in Mombasa which is perhaps too far south to suffer an attack from Somalia) and i, personally, felt little more than stress leaving my muscles.  it was an eight hour journey (including a border crossing in which we must disembark the bus, check-out of Tanzania and then walk 100 yards into Kenya where we must check-in.  the whole time i was picturing one of those films about refugees who are making their final walk into the country of safe harbor.  except in my version you can buy fresh coconuts on the sidelines from people who speak english).  the beach was splendid, though equatorial sun is rather intense and i now have a bow-shaped mark on my back from my bikini tie.  awkward.  on our final night we managed to dance on the beach until 2:00 a.m., take a dip in the Indian Ocean on the walk home (imagine black water fading into black skies, with fog blurring the horizon line and little more than strong starlight and fishing boats providing light), and awake for a striking sunrise at dawn.  and i ate a lot of cheese. 

and now ... the sunflower saga.  ages ago (really less than a month ago) we finally persuaded a few of the members of the farmer’s group to travel to Handeni with their bags of sunflower seeds to a machine that processes seeds into crude oil, the purpose being to collect the numbers necessary to calculate the profitability of the endeavor ... before structuring a loan to the farmers for the coming season (as many are unable to buy seeds).  to get there, we awoke at 4:30 in the morning and waited at the bus stand (bear in mind this is just a small tree with rocks beneath it) for a passing car to haul us and our loot.  ironically, sitting atop bags of dried fish and onions in the back of a lorrie with a bunch of young Tanzanian men wasn’t an awful way to spend a wednesday morning … better than the jam-packed bus ride i endeavored this morning which was smelly, sweaty, and full of masai herders who insisted upon asking questions and laughing at my expense (until the conductor told them to shut their pie holes because they were hurting his ears).  the information we gathered was this:

• lorries are more expensive for white people than native Africans
• it costs 150 shillings per kilo to clean your sunflower seeds prior to crushing, or 50 shillings for the crushing itself (this seemed illogical until we opted to do the cleaning ourselves and, four hours later, were covered in dust and suffered the same soreness felt after you’ve completed a maddening round of those little arm circles they make you do in gym class)
• each bag of seeds weighs roughly 50 kilos and, once crushed, produces 25% oil (i.e. a 50 kilo bag yields 12.5 liters of oil)
• people in Tanzania don’t necessarily plan for journeys such as these. one farmer neither cleaned her seeds before coming nor helped clean her seeds once in Handeni nor recalled that it was necessary to bring buckets to haul her oil … thus she purchased two and depleted her meager profit
• if you don’t sell your crude oil on the spot, the machine operator won’t offer a second sale since he’s unsure if the oil’s been tampered with
• if you opt to refine your oil further with a second machine, it costs 2,000 shillings a bucket and a second trip to Handeni (which defeats the purpose as you’ve paid for double the journey and must wait 3 days for the dirt to settle on the bottom of the bucket before refining … yet the dirt is redistributed throughout the oil after the rather bumpy second journey to Handeni) 

with the information we gathered, we determined the likelihood of profitability in good and worse conditions and, because we are offering a “group” as opposed to “individual” loan, calculated that even if a small percentage of farmers do well (i.e. 5 out of 16), they are able to cover the loan costs of the entire group and still have a small profit margin.  thus, we drafted a two page document outlining every possible scenario which might affect the sunflower crop or the group’s ability to pay back our loan  and  ... you know what's hard? TRANSLATING LEGAL JARGON ON THE FLY IN SWAHILI TO A GROUP OF GENERALLY UNEDUCATED FARMERS.  baby steps, as bob wylie might say.  

but at the end of the day, its faces like those in the photograph at left that make us thrilled.  that's zuberi ibrahimu,  treasurer of the farmers group and the clint eastwood to our kwakiliga.  upon completing his field cultivation and receiving his seeds, he said "give me one week and return here, i will have my seeds planted".  now that's a good sport.  speaking of good sports ... one last anecdote before signing off.  in an attempt to both better understand the lives of the farmers in Kwakiliga and prove our dedication to improving them, we bought jembays (hand hoes) which were fashioned by a 200 year old man named saki dahi (picture at right) and have been taking to the fields on a daily basis (don't believe me? ask for a picture of my callouses).  on one fateful day, i took a swing with the hoe and heard a faint chirp, only to see a tiny, featherless, newborn bird lying on the ground with one wing distorted and beak open from stress.  what does one do in this situation?  CRY.  CRY LIKE A LITTLE GIRL.  i very seriously considered taking it home with me, as though my actions had earned me the responsibility of keeping the sweet thing alive ... that is, until the farmer whose land i was working said "why are you crying?  that bird will grow up and eat my sunflowers!"  can't argue that point.