This blog is in memory of Anita Box. She taught me a lot, but mostly she taught me that being smart didn't mean you couldn't be exciting, and perhaps more important, excitable. Thank you teach. I'll miss you.
Was on my way into Dar one day last week, to see some very special people. Had to be there, left early to make sure I would be. Then, on the way, our bus hit a cow. Cow didn’t die. My timetable kind of did. We were udders-up for a while, but in the end I made it. It’s just always this stuff, the ridiculous and the unexpected, that gets me. I was in my friend Tala’s village making compost. And we had all the little kids out and gathering leaves. We thought we had enough leaves...until the little buggers started eating them. And you’re just never prepared for that. At no point when you are preparing yourself to leave your home and hearth, your country and your countrymen, in order to build a better world, do you think about what you’ll do when the kids start eating the compost leaves. It’s a gamechanger. And then the cow gets up and walks away. And you sort of think to yourself...”cow, you just made me late. I kind of want to eat you.” But then you remember, to err is human, to forgive bovine. (cue rimshot)
There’s a great example of the differences between our cultures, and I’ve been meaning to mention it forever. I was talking on Skype with my lovely lady one day, and she told me that I looked thinner. This very well might be the case, but either way, sweet of her to say. I came back to my village the next day, and all my villagers were very happy to see me. They said, “hongera! Umenenepa sana!” Which basically means, “Congratulations! You’ve swelled up like a balloon!”
See, in Tanzania, being fat is a symbol of prosperity, of wealth. In America, it is generally a symbol of laziness, I guess. But we are one of the first societies in history where the poor people are fatter than the rich people. And that’s actually pretty damn weird. Tanzanians think it’s crazy. They might be right. But they take the flattery to a bit of an extreme. I twisted my ankle one day playing frisbee. One of my villagers told me that I couldn’t walk because I had become admirably obese. Sweet lady. But the kicker was a few weeks ago. A village health worker told a friend of mine that she hadn’t recognize me, I was that fat. At which point a part of me just wants to go, “Really? Really? You really didn’t recognize me? You thought, perhaps, that another 6’2” white man, this one deliciously plump, had moved into the village, and everybody had forgotten to tell you? You thought that was what happened!?” This rant would then be followed by a swift flick to the very center of her forehead. But I do and say none of this. Why? Because I’m fat. And we are a jolly people.
Every time I walk into a classroom, the students are required to all stand up, and intone, (with varying levels of intensity, depending on the teacher, the temperature, and the time of day), “Elimu ni bahari, shikamoo mwalimu”. This means (as always, roughly), “education is the sea, we respect you teacher”. Each school has its own motto, most revolving around a central theme. I have seen all of the following: “elimu ni taa” (education is the light), “elimu ni unfunguo” (education is the key), “elimu ni kazi” (education is work), “elimu ni ukombozi” (education is salvation), and “elimu ni nanasi” (education is a pineapple). One of those is a lie. Well, actually, all of them might be lies. Which is my point.
Kiswahili has a ton of sayings like this. Not just about education. “Water is life”, “togetherness is strength”, “food is good” (made that last one up). Which, on one level, are true. And on another level, they are at best unnecessary and at worst plain stupid. I like writing. I like using similes and analogies and symbolism. If we all just said exactly what we mean...blogs would be shorter, I suppose...but subtlety and understanding would be in far shorter supply. The problem is that words are innocent little ragamuffins, and they can, against their will, be put to all sorts of daft, or even nefarious, purposes. Kwa mfano, for example, i.e., I really like this one baseball podcast. It’s smart, incisive, and often hilarious. But it is also sponsored by a company called RainEx, which makes wiper blades. The company’s tagline is “RainEx. It’s like weather never even happened.” Which is just a really stupid thing to hear somebody say out loud. As is “Travel should take you places” (Thank you, Hilton).
The ability to simplify is great, and necessary. The ability to oversimplify is dangerous. We see this in our candidates. Running our country is an immense task, incalculably complex. Infants are probably not up to the task. Yet that is the level of debate that we most often see. If the issues being debated are too complex for our understanding, why is that the fault of the debaters? Why would we want the person who is best at speaking Bumper Sticker? Education is learning, studying, expanding mental horizons, challenging your own prejudices, and a million other complex concepts. It isn’t the sea (that’s the big blue wet thing), a key (which opens stuff), or a pineapple (which tastes like sunshine).
October 29, 2008, I sent in my application to the US Peace Corps (the Phillies also won the World Series). October 29, 2011, I woke up before dawn in the middle of Tanzania. I packed my bag, walked 6 miles to the next village, and got on a bus to go get my family. There’s a Kiswahili song I love. It says, “milima haikutani, bali watu hukutana”. It means that mountains can’t meet with one another, but people can. In just a few hours, my two separate lives came together. Little bit like having your parents meet your girlfriend. Except that it’s really having your parents meet your entire other life. The mountains stayed where they’ve always been. But my father ate ugali with my best friend, my sister spoke to church leaders born 7,000 miles from her home, and my mother made Tanzanian children laugh, by pretending to be a lion. In a small village in East Africa, there’s a beautifully painted wall, with lions, and elephants, and a long-necked giraffe. And the next time a kid asks, “chui ni nini?” (what is a leopard?), the teacher will take him or her outside and show him the handsome cat lounging on a tree branch. And then they’ll know.
It’s easier than you might believe to be cynical here. We have so very far left to go. Yet if you climb the mountain and look at where we started...we have come so very far. Some steps are larger than others. Roads bring people closer to global markets, health clinics keep children alive. But the path that will unite us is long and unfinished, and not all the paving stones need be enormous. My mother can’t stop malaria, and she can’t draw water from stone. But she managed to paint a mural with three family members, a gifted, dedicated teacher, and 35 primary school students. Clinics don’t tell stories, and wells can’t make anybody laugh. We’re in the business of development. Not development of things, but of peoples. Making each other laugh, bringing color to a bare wall, bringing happiness, even for a moment, is not insignificant. Development is hard, slow going. But we’re a little closer today than we were the day before.
