Which Doctor? The Witch Doctor!

Official new name of the blog: The Man who Lives in Mafinga. This comes from “The Muppets’ Treasure Island” (classic cinema. Marooned pig, tourist rats, Zanzibarbarians, and one of the all-time movie quotes when Gonzo is talking about Long John Silver, he of the peg-leg: “look at his legs Jim. Count ‘em: One!”). Fozzie Bear, playing Squire Trelawney (he has great range for a bear. Was also outstanding as Fezziwig. One day he’ll do Lear) claims to get all his good ideas from Mister Bimbo, the man who lives in his finger. He has been to the moon. Excuse me. Twice.

And that is where my blog gets it’s name. Karibu!

About 7 or 8 months ago, I was reading about the history of Tanzania, and there was this whole thing about villagization, back in the 70’s. Basically, in an effort to consolidate basic services, and thereby bring more people the glorious benefits of unasked-for socialism (tricky thing, socialism. More another day), the government moved all the people off their farms and into a group, or village. I absolutely get the point. The problem being that lots of the basic services don’t work, and now the people get to walk an hour or two to get to their farms, and walking back with a 20 kilo bag of taters is not anyone’s idea of a good time. Good idea, in theory. But the reality of it is looking at people, deciding you know better than they do how they should live their lives, and changing their lives to fit your paradigm. Which brings me to Jay Bilas.

Same day I was reading history o’ TZ, it was college basketball season, and I was listening to Jay Bilas and others talk about the one-and-done rule. For those who don’t know already, this is a rule that resulted from the NBA imposing a restriction on players coming straight out of high school, on the theory that these guys are maybe not ready to be handed a bank vault in which to swim. Again, I get the idea. However, what you have now is John Wall, who attended class for one semester, took something like 8 credits, didn’t have to attend class in the spring semester, was drafted into the NBA, and is gone.

I know nothing about John Wall the person. Probably a real good guy, everything I’ve ever read about him has been positive. But I think it’s clear that John Wall’s experience of with higher education was not significantly improved, or improved at all, by the NBA’s mandate. In a similar vein, ARNIE DUNCAN, who I believe is still the Secretary of Education, was proposing a change in NCAA regulations that would prohibit schools with low player graduation-rates from participating in the NCAA tournament. Jay Bilas was asked about the proposed rule change, and he said something to the effect of “you change that rule, and oh yeah, they’ll graduate.”

It seemed to me that these things were somehow connected (enforced villagization and imposing penalties for graduation rates). Couldn’t really figure out how to express it. So I talked to Yoda. By which I mean Mom. And she agreed there was a problem. I think she put it like this: “At the real hearts and minds level, you haven’t convinced anybody.” So in effect all you’re doing is making the dolphins jump through hoops before you give them their minnows.

The reason I’m saying this is that I visited a village a couple days ago, and met with some teachers, and got shown the lay of the land. Now this village had a bunch of volunteers from Peace Corps, until the volunteer before me decided that my current village might benefit more from a volunteer (by which I mean she thought they worked a lot harder in my village). I’m inclined to agree. I saw wells that had stopped working years ago, a building for boiling water that is sitting unused...and I’m not sure how to say this...a school library that contained books, in English, by authors such as Tom Robbins and Plato. Authors, you might say, that some native speakers of the English tongue have a difficult time working through. You get my drift. I certainly do not want to be critical of the dedicated and passionate people that came before me, and I am certainly not critical of the people who live here, who are just trying to make ends meet. But I’m not here to make people build hoops, then make them jump through them. And until I’ve learned what they truly want, and what they’re truly willing to donate, or sacrifice (money, time, sweat), anything I start just becomes monkey see/monkey do. Thanks, Jay Bilas. And Mom.

Went to visit a couple of Volunteers from SPW (Student Partnership Worldwide), in this self-same village. Had a hard time navigating the language with them, because they alternated very officious-sounding English (“to empower the disenfranchised is the goal of every prosperous endeavor...” and stuff like that. It was kind of like listening to a pamphlet. Weird stuff.) with rapid-fire Kiswahili. So it took me a few minutes to understand, when they were talking about testing for HIV, that “robo tatu” had tested positive. Robo means quarter. Tatu means three. Ergo, robo tatu is three quarters. At which point...everything else kind of becomes academic....don’t it? There are literally no other issues on the table. Except, of course, there are.

Now this is a statistic coming through two languages and at least 3 degrees of separation. That being said, I’ve heard reports from other villages of over 50% pre-valency, and my neighbor certainly thinks inawezekana (it is possible). Robo tatu. Three quarters. 75%. I remember reading once that the point where a society begins to break down is around 25%. But this society isn’t breaking down. And they’ve asked for help. Then they got me.

But I’m new here. And rather white. I stand out a tad. More than a tad...cuz I’m like eight feet tall. I’m the Manute Bol of Idetelo. And they think I’m made of candy glass. I remember one time Damon, Me, Andy, Marc, and I think Lauren were going to Dorney. And Marc, I think, knowing full well what he was doing, said something like “really Waldo? You can’t go any faster than this?”. We did just about double the speed limit from there on out. It’s pretty easy to get me to do something. Just say I can’t. Which is what happened. I go down to the brick pit the other day. Brick pit: a pit where we make bricks. Bricks for what? For the new dispensary, new classrooms, houses for teachers, houses for doctors. All these buildings need bricks. And bricks are free...money-wise. They are hella bad to make. So I’m standing knee-deep in a mud pit, throwin mud into the brick-mold, and talking to this one guy. I was pretty sure we were putting in a four hour day. Cept’ the guy I’m working with says he stays till jioni (early evening, 4-6pm, say). And I say I’ll stay with him. And he says, “Hapana, huwezi.” (No, you can’t (or you are not able)) It was almost as if the bastard knew. So I stayed. Made bricks for 7 hours. Wouldn’t have been the worst work I’ve done...cept we had to do it without shoes (else you will quickly lose them in aforementioned mud. Though I gotta say, barefeet in mud is a pretty swell feeling). Why is that the deal-breaker? I feel like I could do any kind of work, for any amount of time...just let me wear shoes. But no shoes. Just lots of bricks. And mud. And people telling me every 5 minutes to pumzika (rest). But I can’t. Cuz the guy said “huwezi”.

Got to thinking about work. I’ve worked hard in my life. Saturday doubles in a busy New York restaurant are crazy hard work, don’t believe otherwise. I’ve worked from 7:45am in a park until 2am at a restaurant, riding my bike all over the city. But I’d be lying if I said that I plan on laying brick all my life. So it was really cool for me to walk home today, dirtier than I have ever been in my life, wearing my mud-puddle of honor. Cuz that’s what I think of dirt at the end of the day; it’s a symbol of hard work, of fearlessness. Tanzanians think I’m crazy. And maybe I am. My father works as hard as any human I’ve ever met. He doesn’t strap on boots and a machete (which I’m getting, by the way). Lots of people don’t. So what is the benchmark? This is clearly a dilettante writing. But who knows? Maybe a few more bricks, and I’ll have me a profession. My feet hurt. Think they’d think I’m weird if I just went some days to stand in the mud?

What else we got? Built a well with a bunch o’ dudes, really fun. My neighbor got his generator working, so I’ve been watching the news a lot. I baked really good banana bread!!! Met a mganga. Could be translated as healer, traditional doctor, or...witch doctor. Guess which translation I prefer. This guy is the only person here as tall as me, outweighs me by about a hundred pounds, and the first time we met was at an all-village meeting, when he walked into the middle of the stage and gave me a bear hug (maybe the first hug I’ve received from a Tanzanian). His name is Benito. He’s a character. He also knows a ton about local herbal remedies. And owns a motorcycle. And a ton of houses. Showed me around. We met lots of his aunts, and lots of his patients. In Tanzania there’s no real problem with talking about a patient’s problems right in front of them. Ok. Freaks me a lil, but ok. But then we go into this one room.

There’s a guy sitting on the ground, leaning against a wall. He waves greeting, and looks sad. One of the women says “haongei” (he isn’t talking). I realize why he’s looking sad, when Benito comes in a picks the blanket off this man. He’s chained to the wall. Actually chained to a tree on the other side of the wall. But yeah. Chained. Benito explains that sometimes he does this if people are too strong to be restrained, or if they might try to hurt themselves (actually, I think he says hang themselves). In a way, yes, I get it. I’m not sure there are psych wards here, and I’m not sure I’d want a friend of mine sent there if they do exist. But this man is chained to a freaking wall, sitting in front of me, and he can’t talk. And there are a lot of moments when I think that development is a hole that people dig themselves, expecting to strike gold. But there are moments when I realize that people have a natural-born-right to...better. Better than this.

Stealing this last part from a letter I wrote to Kelsey. I think she’ll forgive me. She better. But I got a cat the other day. I named it Kelsey. It might be a boy. If so, it’ll be Kelsey like Kelsey Grammar, without the substance abuse problems (we’ll see). And I had a moment, like many others I’ve had the last few months. It’s that moment of looking at someone new, and knowing that before long, they are going to be family. And it’s a great feeling…except it’s also horrifying. Because for that connection to mean anything…you have to give something, a part of you. And you can’t know what this person, or this cat, will do with that part of you. We choose ever so carefully to let these people into our weird little worlds, and sometimes they break stuff. And sometimes they change stuff. And I suppose that, my dear friends, is life. I take some solace from the fact that all of you are guests in my private little universe, and I still adore each and every one of you.

Tanzania, Out.