I woke up this morning the way I wake up most mornings: someone opening my outdoor gate and yelling, “Hodi!” at the top of their lungs (“Hodi” is what you say when you want to be allowed in). My alarm was set to go off exactly one minute later. It was 6:29am. The sun had just come up, and apparently I was already late.
It was my good friend Fute, rousing me to help him with some brisk morning exercise: moving a bull. You see, good ol’ Uncle Louie (the bull we acquired with the dairy cows), had spent his first month in a cowshed with a cow who had already been bred. So he was just cooling his jets and chewing his cud. But no more! Our local veterinary officer had come the day before my rude awakening to check if our last two cows had bred back yet (that’s technical cow-speak for “gotten knocked up”. I’m trying to impress all of you. Has it worked?). How did he check for an impending bundle of joy? By reaching his right arm into each cow (go ahead and guess which end), up to the shoulder, and feeling around. Without a glove. He said he was out of gloves. Make of that what you will.
Anyway, the vet was not certain that either of the two remaining cows had bred back yet, and he told us to bring in the bull. Bring in Uncle Louie, to do his job as a male and make us some baby cows. We tried that very afternoon to transfer the beast, with a rope and a couple of sticks, but it got messy, and he was testy, and he charged me, so we postponed it until we could find some other cow buddies for him to run with. 6:30am, other cows had been found, of the local breeds, with the funky humps. We got him out of his shed, leaving his forlorn, and pregnant, female companion behind. And we started running, herding them towards Fute’s house, keeping them out of the road, and setting a pretty good pace. We managed to avoid having any of them hit by a car, and we made it to Fute’s house, where we picked up his cow (who is a vicious, monstrous female (as if there are any other kind (I regret that comment))), and proceeded to the last cowshed, where the bull will live quite happily for the next month with two new female companions. Of course, along the way the cows kept trying to skirt off into farms and chew on maize stalks, so me or my compatriots had to go running in, ducking sunflowers as big as your head, raising a ruckus, and get them back on track. But at the end of it we successfully introduced both Uncle Louie and his lady friend to their new home, and attempted to placate the female who had already been living there by feeding her some grass. I suppose we could have tried chocolates...but they are so very far away.
So to start my blog where it normally ends, I was walking back home, having worked up a good sweat, task completed. The sun had risen, though not far, and it looked like the beginning of a beautiful day (which it was). The dew was on the grass, the golden haze on the meadow was bright, and an elephant walked by, eye level with the corn. People looked at me and wondered why I was singing. I explained to them that I had a beautiful feeling that everything was going my way. They nodded in understanding. Everybody loves Oklahoma. It was just a wonderful way to start a day. That may be what I’ll miss most: unexpected adventures. I’m not sure I’m ready for things to go according to plan. Which they probably won’t. So good!
Plans are funny things here. I start most days with one, fully expecting it to be in tatters by about 11am. If it is absolutely crucial that something happens, I leave the entire day free for that one thing. There is no other way in a land where a meeting that starts two hours late is on time. Yet because I’m forced to budget so much time for things that shouldn’t need them (because you never know what random day every person will suddenly decide to be early, and then glare at me for being 15 minutes late), I end up with a lot of free time. And there is the temptation, which I sometimes give into, to curl up in my house with books or letters. But it is so unbelievably important that I get out of the house, for a few hours, at the end of the day. I call it “showing the flag”. I just walk around the village, maybe visit some people, maybe just camp out in a spot and beckon passerby over for a word. It is how I get everything done. And there seems to be some weird benevolent karma that comes to my aid when I leave the house. More often than I can ever believe, I turn a corner and find myself face-to-face with the exact person that I needed to see. I’m out of the house, and they are out of the house, because that is what you do in the jioni (evening): you walk around and say hi to people. Every evening here is strange, happy magic, and though it’s often hard to make myself get out of my house, I never regret it, and I have gained more from chance meetings at the end of the day then from the plans I scheme up at the start of it.
Then there are the times when I give into my laziness. For example: the selfsame Fute who woke me up this morning a few months ago lost his uncle, or some more distant male relative. I’d never met the departed, he lived in Dar Es Salaam. But as is custom, he was to be buried in the village from whence he came. So they shipped the body overnight, and a bunch of his friends from the city came along. It is village custom for the men to dig the grave and the women to prepare the food: I’ve been through the routine well over a dozen times. This particular day, I knew that this man had passed away, and knew that he was a relative of one of my best friends. But I didn’t know him, and I was in the middle of a good book, and if I dropped everything I was doing to go to every funeral of someone I had never met, I would get precious little accomplished. Or at least that’s what I told myself. Around noon my guilt started pricking. By one o’clock in the afternoon it was nudging. By two o’clock it was pushing me out the door, and so I went. I figured I would get to see my friend, and maybe they hadn’t buried the deceased yet. Sometimes the coffin has to be made the day of the funeral and the carpenters are late, so we just sit and stare at each other. Today was not one of those days. I started walking down the path towards my friend’s house, and I saw them coming: every single villager I’ve ever met, leaving the funeral, walking straight at me. There are few moments where the punishment perfectly fits the crime. This was one of them. Stretched out in twos and threes, I stopped and said g’day to each and all of my village friends. Some asked me where I’d been. Some just looked at me. It was excruciating. I kept walking. It was like running a gauntlet of Jewish mothers (may none take offense). Eventually I reached my friend, and he was happy to see me, and I paid my respects (that’s literal here: you’re expected to contribute to funeral costs), and they were received. Sometimes I’m a little thick in the skull; some lessons I need to be bludgeoned over the head with. Lesson learned.
I got a very special package in the mail last week. It was letters from home, but from new homeys! Mrs. Simons’ 7th grade students had written 34 letters to my 7th grade students here. They were wonderful to read; I was incredibly proud of them. They are curious, and empathetic, and thinking critically, and it made the heart glad. But it also broke it a little. I forget, almost all the time, how little my students have here. Not cars or electricity or velcro; those things you really can live without pretty damn easily. But having teachers who teach their periods. Having teachers who are trained in the subjects they are teaching. Having lunch at school, nutritious and varied food, available every day, for an affordable price. Not having to run 4 miles and back to school. And I don’t know if Mrs. Simons’ kids take that for granted. But I know I did. I was listening to a radio interview with Bill Courtney, who is the coach at the center of the Oscar-winning documentary “Undefeated”, which I have not seen. And he was asked whether or not kids like his (largely black and poor) have a chance without the presence of extraordinary coaches and educators. His answer was well-reasoned, apolitical, and too long for me to put here. But his last line stuck with me: “the playing field is not level”.
Which brings me to the interactive portion of the blog. I have an Environmental Club at my school, called “Kijani Milele” (“Evergreen”). They have done a bunch of projects with me: composting, permagardening, soil erosion, and helping to paint Mom’s mural. They live less than a 100 miles from some of the most amazing animals ever soon on the face of the earth: lions, elephants, giraffe, cheetahs, leopards, zebras, and more. And they’ve never seen them. The cost is too prohibitive, the expense is seen as too frivolous. They’ve never seen their own nation’s treasures, nor will they get a chance to see them in the foreseeable future...without your help.
I want to take 30 kids, and 5 adults, on a safari to Ruaha National Park in July. We will leave on a Saturday morning in a rented coaster (a small bus), arrive at Ruaha around 4pm, go for a quick evening safari, sleep over, then go for a morning safari before departing. These kids will get to see animals that they’ve only ever heard of, that live in their country, just out of reach. I have every confidence that it will be an unforgettable experience. Why do I need your help? I am nearing the end of my Peace Corps service, and can no longer apply for Peace Corps moneys. So if this is going to happen, it can only happen with private funds. I am in the process of finalizing the budget, but I need to raise at least $1,000, and probably closer to $1,500 (once I have the final numbers, I will post them). That covers the coaster rental, the lodging, the food, any possible clothing rental (gets cold here in July), and the park entry fees. I’m asking you, loyal blog readers, for donations. They can be sent to 1006 Towpath Road, Hawley, PA 18428. They will be deposited into my account here and I will withdraw them, and then document the whole crazy expedition. It isn’t curing cancer and there will be no lasting monument. But there will be a whole lot of joy. And I will take many pictures. I hope that’s reason enough...
...but if it’s not, there’s more!!! I’m having an auction! For something completely made-up and utterly without value! But it will be fun! Here’s the deal: as my last post detailed, we have recently brought a number of large, grass-chewing, milk-producing, fuzzy-headed mammals into the village. There is one bull, named Uncle Louie (take a bow sir), and four cows...who are as yet unnamed! Which is where you come in! I am auctioning off the naming rights to each of these cows. We are going to do it on facebook, in the album I created entitled “The Unnamed”. I will label photos “Cow #1”, “Cow #2”, and so on. You can post your bids in the comment thread of the photos, and I will close the bidding on April 22nd at 12:01am Eastern Standard Time, at which point the winners will get to submit their names, and I will personally install a plaque bearing said name on the outside of each cowshed. This is your chance to name a sacred cow in the middle of Africa. And for the losers, donations will still be incredibly welcome, in any and every denomination. All joking aside, this is one of those opportunities. This is a chance to make someone whom you’ve never met, who lives somewhere that you’ve never been, happy.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
Moo
One night in September of 2010, my best friend in Tanzania had a secret. I was over at his house for dinner, and he was being...well...insufferable. There was this big, important, game-changing thing that he wanted to tell me...but not tonight. Why not tonight? Because it’s late, and you’re tired, he said. I asked politely. He refused. I entreated. He denied. I threatened violence. He acquiesced. Turns out that in the village he originally comes from (about 30 miles north, not far from the booming metropolis of Mafinga, from whence comes the name of this blog), there are cows. Of the milking variety. The next week we went to look. The cows were real. They mooed at me.
This would be a good point to mention that there are hundreds of cows already in my village. They are a local, sturdier, hardier (read: uglier) breed of cows than the breeds we are accustomed to. They are Brahman cows, so at the base of their neck they each have a large hump, which wiggles and jiggles and giggles as they walk (I’m not sure it actually giggles. But it does look amused). Generally speaking they are used for plow duties, but they also make a tasty meal from time to time. They give out very little milk, when they give any. If you can get two liters a day from a local cow, she’s a gold mine.
The cows in my friend’s home village gave out considerably more than that: as much as 20 liters per day. For a quick idea of the economic boon that signifies, remember that the vast majority of Tanzanians live on less than $2 a day, and often much less. 20 liters of milk can be sold for about $10, and it can be sold every day, ten months out of the year. That’s not mentioning the other benefits: manure, biogas, and heifers to sell. Ah yes, heifers. These cows, you see, were part of a project funded by Heifer International. Some of you may have heard of it, but if you haven’t, it is an American organization that gives out livestock loans (and accompanying training) to impoverished villagers in developing countries. It generally works like this: you get a cow. That cow has a baby cow, and you give the baby cow to another villager. The second baby cow is yours, to keep and cuddle. The third baby cow goes back to Heifer International, and your loan has been repaid. It is an effective and brilliant system, and there are villages in Tanzania with Heifer International projects that have been running for 20 years and have spread to almost every household. A project like this can completely transform a village within a generation. We wanted one. We asked for one. We were denied.
When I say we, I’m no longer just talking about Nziku (my best friend here, and a frequent guest star in this blog) and myself. By the time we delivered our official request to Heifer International, my nearest Peace Corps neighbor had come on board, Miss Kenzie Payne. I’ll talk more about her near the end, but she’s from Wisconsin, she worked in a cheese shop, and she kicks ass. We decided to do this project as a team, requesting a Heifer project for each of our villages, combining meetings, sharing ideas, commiserating, and spending a lot of time together on cramped, unsafe buses. She brought with her an elderly sage, the leader of her cow group, named Mlonganile. He is one of the more amazing men I’ve ever met. He exudes wisdom from his pores, and without him none of this would have been possible.
Kenzie and I each formed a group of ready, willing farmers in our villages. Each group wrote up a constitution, elected officers, and filled out the Heifer applications. All of this took until the end of March, last year (so about six months). Finally, applications completed, villagers excited, we traveled to the Heifer regional offices, in Mbeya, a nearby city. We met with officials there. They told us to go to Iringa. We went to Iringa. They told us to go to Mbeya. Little did I know that I had entered into the most drawn-out rejection of my life that did not involve the Israeli army.
Here’s the thing about Tanzanians. They really, really, really strongly hate to disappoint people, especially guests. So when confronted with a sticky situation, they choose what is to them the most obvious route: tell me whatever it is that I want to hear. This is true of many things. In the bar the other night, before Liverpool played for the Carling Cup Final, a Tanzanian told me that there was an absolute certainty that The Reds would lift the cup. It wouldn’t even take 90 minutes to put the outcome beyond doubt. Well, the match went into extra time and penalties, and when Liverpool was down 2-1 in penalties I wanted to throttle him (we did win. Yay). Similarly, when I was working on the well project, people would tell me that wells were dug, that contributions had already been collected, that water was gushing out of the ground: clean, clear, and tasting of champagne. Nothing had actually been done yet, but they didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Or, finally, when I approached the road yesterday looking for a bus, and saw one coming, the guy next to me told me that this was a great bus that would absolutely stop and take us wherever we wanted to go. As the bus zoomed by, the driver signaling that it was overfilled, I just looked at the man next to me, and sighed.
Back to the cows. It took Kenzie and I until the end of July to realize that Heifer was never going to give us a project (it appears that the recession really did a number on their donations. That, or they thought I looked shifty). People were dropping out of each of our groups every other week. We had two choices: abandon the project, or try to fund it with Peace Corps money. Given that the first choice would have made a poor blog post, you can guess where that went. From that point on, we were in overdrive: visiting potential ranches, wrangling district support for our project, doing a cow-shed construction training, building 8 cowsheds, buying pasture seed, planting it, and finally planning a weeklong training on all things bovine (feed, care and treatment, milking, cow dips, yogurt-making, you name it).
Along the way we encountered the usual problems: meetings starting two hours late, people dropping out, people not building their cowsheds on time, and the chosen ranch informing us (after the grant was in) that they could not, in fact, sell us our cows (this particular problem prompted an emergency meeting wherein our district superiors very kindly reached through the phone lines and slapped the ranch manager upside his large, balding head). We cajoled, we yelled, we tried to make people laugh, we threw our weight around, and from time to time we lied through our teeth. We finally got a date: on February 29th we could get our cows. The anniversary may not be easy to celebrate, but what you gonna do?
Two weeks ago we conducted our training at a local convent. I always feel nervous when I set foot in the convent, as if the sisters know if I’ve been naughty or know if I’ve been nice. Once I got past my latent guilt, however, the training was a smashing success. We milked cows, made hay (hehe), washed cows with a spray pump, and spent hours in the classroom going through every conceivable scenario. Oh, and we were fed 5 times a day by the sisters. It got a bit excessive. Then, when night fell, Kenzie and I had to wrangle up some entertainment. We decided to show our villagers some movies on my laptop, movies that were not too talky and that they might conceivably enjoy. The ones we chose: The Adam West Batman Movie, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, The Lion King, and Ghostbusters. And our villagers loved them! But there was a problem: they had no idea what was going on. So after they told me this, I spent all of Lion King and Ghostbusters narrating. If you really want to get a good glimpse at the cultural divide, just try explaining the Stay Puft Marshmallow man to a group of African villagers. You begin to question things about your own society, things you once held dear. But we made it through that obstacle, and finished the training, with speeches and certificates for all. Only one step left.
On February 29th, Kenzie and I woke up in Mafinga. On big days I always wake up thinking the same thing: in 16 hours this is all going to be over, one way or another. Make what you can of it. And so we did. We showed up at the district office. We got into the truck we would be using, which the driver proudly told me had arrived, brand-spanking-new, in 1984. We made our way out to the ranch (we’d paid the day before. Imagine paying $3000 for cows, in $7 denominations. Good times). We forced the cows onto the truck, then flipped a coin for the bull. Kenzie won. My bull is black and white and adorable. He is named Uncle Louie (that's right. In Africa there is a cow named after Matt Nied) We got a ride back to Mafinga, then Kenzie and I got into the cow truck, and rode off into the sunset, at about 15 miles per hour. An hour and change later, we arrived in my village. Nziku was standing by the side of the road, waiting. When he saw us, a slow, sly grin spread across his face.
It’s a funny thing to get what you’ve wanted. I’m not sure what to do with it. Part of me wants to believe that this project is going to change everything, but I’ve lived here too long to believe that. Tanzanians, for all their sure and certain words, know as well as I do that there is no certainty in any of this. All of these cows could drop dead one day, and that day could be tomorrow. There are a million things that could go wrong with this project, and in five short months I won’t be around to handle any of them. I wish I was confident about the future. I wish I could tell you that this is a no-doubt home run. But I don’t like to lie to all of you.
In the end, this project, my service, and development in general are as much about the process as the results. They have to be. Because you can’t make people change. You can just give them the options, then you have to respect their right as self-determining adults: to succeed or fail, to change or stay the same. And as we pulled into my village, and Nziku started running ahead of the truck, that’s what I thought about: the days we built cowsheds, the nights spent at Nziku’s discussing every idea, the long busrides with Kenzie, stupid jokes and rice and beans. I used to think that the day the cows came, I would consider my service a success. But I was wrong. These two years can’t just be about the production of things; of pushing at the ocean. My service here is more than milk and money. It’s almost as if all of this, all of the projects and the proposals and the meetings, were just a façade, an excuse for the real work to happen: people. These are my friends and my family, and if I’ve helped them acquire something that they’ll treasure and use to improve their lives, then they’ve done the same for me a hundred-fold. As Nziku jogged his way in front of our slowly moving cow-mobile, leading us downhill, a grin began to spread across my face. For as we turned the corner and came to the loading spot, I saw everyone I cared about standing there, waiting. And the grin on my face was beaming back at me from two dozen friends who were once strangers, who I hadn’t let down. That’s the victory, I think. An affirmation of the faith that these few people had put in me, the crazy white man. Today they know that they weren’t wrong, and I know that two years in Africa weren’t spent in vain. Where we go from here, who knows? But I know that on February 29th, 2012, the cows came home.
Very, very soon, so will I.
This would be a good point to mention that there are hundreds of cows already in my village. They are a local, sturdier, hardier (read: uglier) breed of cows than the breeds we are accustomed to. They are Brahman cows, so at the base of their neck they each have a large hump, which wiggles and jiggles and giggles as they walk (I’m not sure it actually giggles. But it does look amused). Generally speaking they are used for plow duties, but they also make a tasty meal from time to time. They give out very little milk, when they give any. If you can get two liters a day from a local cow, she’s a gold mine.
The cows in my friend’s home village gave out considerably more than that: as much as 20 liters per day. For a quick idea of the economic boon that signifies, remember that the vast majority of Tanzanians live on less than $2 a day, and often much less. 20 liters of milk can be sold for about $10, and it can be sold every day, ten months out of the year. That’s not mentioning the other benefits: manure, biogas, and heifers to sell. Ah yes, heifers. These cows, you see, were part of a project funded by Heifer International. Some of you may have heard of it, but if you haven’t, it is an American organization that gives out livestock loans (and accompanying training) to impoverished villagers in developing countries. It generally works like this: you get a cow. That cow has a baby cow, and you give the baby cow to another villager. The second baby cow is yours, to keep and cuddle. The third baby cow goes back to Heifer International, and your loan has been repaid. It is an effective and brilliant system, and there are villages in Tanzania with Heifer International projects that have been running for 20 years and have spread to almost every household. A project like this can completely transform a village within a generation. We wanted one. We asked for one. We were denied.
When I say we, I’m no longer just talking about Nziku (my best friend here, and a frequent guest star in this blog) and myself. By the time we delivered our official request to Heifer International, my nearest Peace Corps neighbor had come on board, Miss Kenzie Payne. I’ll talk more about her near the end, but she’s from Wisconsin, she worked in a cheese shop, and she kicks ass. We decided to do this project as a team, requesting a Heifer project for each of our villages, combining meetings, sharing ideas, commiserating, and spending a lot of time together on cramped, unsafe buses. She brought with her an elderly sage, the leader of her cow group, named Mlonganile. He is one of the more amazing men I’ve ever met. He exudes wisdom from his pores, and without him none of this would have been possible.
Kenzie and I each formed a group of ready, willing farmers in our villages. Each group wrote up a constitution, elected officers, and filled out the Heifer applications. All of this took until the end of March, last year (so about six months). Finally, applications completed, villagers excited, we traveled to the Heifer regional offices, in Mbeya, a nearby city. We met with officials there. They told us to go to Iringa. We went to Iringa. They told us to go to Mbeya. Little did I know that I had entered into the most drawn-out rejection of my life that did not involve the Israeli army.
Here’s the thing about Tanzanians. They really, really, really strongly hate to disappoint people, especially guests. So when confronted with a sticky situation, they choose what is to them the most obvious route: tell me whatever it is that I want to hear. This is true of many things. In the bar the other night, before Liverpool played for the Carling Cup Final, a Tanzanian told me that there was an absolute certainty that The Reds would lift the cup. It wouldn’t even take 90 minutes to put the outcome beyond doubt. Well, the match went into extra time and penalties, and when Liverpool was down 2-1 in penalties I wanted to throttle him (we did win. Yay). Similarly, when I was working on the well project, people would tell me that wells were dug, that contributions had already been collected, that water was gushing out of the ground: clean, clear, and tasting of champagne. Nothing had actually been done yet, but they didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Or, finally, when I approached the road yesterday looking for a bus, and saw one coming, the guy next to me told me that this was a great bus that would absolutely stop and take us wherever we wanted to go. As the bus zoomed by, the driver signaling that it was overfilled, I just looked at the man next to me, and sighed.
Back to the cows. It took Kenzie and I until the end of July to realize that Heifer was never going to give us a project (it appears that the recession really did a number on their donations. That, or they thought I looked shifty). People were dropping out of each of our groups every other week. We had two choices: abandon the project, or try to fund it with Peace Corps money. Given that the first choice would have made a poor blog post, you can guess where that went. From that point on, we were in overdrive: visiting potential ranches, wrangling district support for our project, doing a cow-shed construction training, building 8 cowsheds, buying pasture seed, planting it, and finally planning a weeklong training on all things bovine (feed, care and treatment, milking, cow dips, yogurt-making, you name it).
Along the way we encountered the usual problems: meetings starting two hours late, people dropping out, people not building their cowsheds on time, and the chosen ranch informing us (after the grant was in) that they could not, in fact, sell us our cows (this particular problem prompted an emergency meeting wherein our district superiors very kindly reached through the phone lines and slapped the ranch manager upside his large, balding head). We cajoled, we yelled, we tried to make people laugh, we threw our weight around, and from time to time we lied through our teeth. We finally got a date: on February 29th we could get our cows. The anniversary may not be easy to celebrate, but what you gonna do?
Two weeks ago we conducted our training at a local convent. I always feel nervous when I set foot in the convent, as if the sisters know if I’ve been naughty or know if I’ve been nice. Once I got past my latent guilt, however, the training was a smashing success. We milked cows, made hay (hehe), washed cows with a spray pump, and spent hours in the classroom going through every conceivable scenario. Oh, and we were fed 5 times a day by the sisters. It got a bit excessive. Then, when night fell, Kenzie and I had to wrangle up some entertainment. We decided to show our villagers some movies on my laptop, movies that were not too talky and that they might conceivably enjoy. The ones we chose: The Adam West Batman Movie, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, The Lion King, and Ghostbusters. And our villagers loved them! But there was a problem: they had no idea what was going on. So after they told me this, I spent all of Lion King and Ghostbusters narrating. If you really want to get a good glimpse at the cultural divide, just try explaining the Stay Puft Marshmallow man to a group of African villagers. You begin to question things about your own society, things you once held dear. But we made it through that obstacle, and finished the training, with speeches and certificates for all. Only one step left.
On February 29th, Kenzie and I woke up in Mafinga. On big days I always wake up thinking the same thing: in 16 hours this is all going to be over, one way or another. Make what you can of it. And so we did. We showed up at the district office. We got into the truck we would be using, which the driver proudly told me had arrived, brand-spanking-new, in 1984. We made our way out to the ranch (we’d paid the day before. Imagine paying $3000 for cows, in $7 denominations. Good times). We forced the cows onto the truck, then flipped a coin for the bull. Kenzie won. My bull is black and white and adorable. He is named Uncle Louie (that's right. In Africa there is a cow named after Matt Nied) We got a ride back to Mafinga, then Kenzie and I got into the cow truck, and rode off into the sunset, at about 15 miles per hour. An hour and change later, we arrived in my village. Nziku was standing by the side of the road, waiting. When he saw us, a slow, sly grin spread across his face.
It’s a funny thing to get what you’ve wanted. I’m not sure what to do with it. Part of me wants to believe that this project is going to change everything, but I’ve lived here too long to believe that. Tanzanians, for all their sure and certain words, know as well as I do that there is no certainty in any of this. All of these cows could drop dead one day, and that day could be tomorrow. There are a million things that could go wrong with this project, and in five short months I won’t be around to handle any of them. I wish I was confident about the future. I wish I could tell you that this is a no-doubt home run. But I don’t like to lie to all of you.
In the end, this project, my service, and development in general are as much about the process as the results. They have to be. Because you can’t make people change. You can just give them the options, then you have to respect their right as self-determining adults: to succeed or fail, to change or stay the same. And as we pulled into my village, and Nziku started running ahead of the truck, that’s what I thought about: the days we built cowsheds, the nights spent at Nziku’s discussing every idea, the long busrides with Kenzie, stupid jokes and rice and beans. I used to think that the day the cows came, I would consider my service a success. But I was wrong. These two years can’t just be about the production of things; of pushing at the ocean. My service here is more than milk and money. It’s almost as if all of this, all of the projects and the proposals and the meetings, were just a façade, an excuse for the real work to happen: people. These are my friends and my family, and if I’ve helped them acquire something that they’ll treasure and use to improve their lives, then they’ve done the same for me a hundred-fold. As Nziku jogged his way in front of our slowly moving cow-mobile, leading us downhill, a grin began to spread across my face. For as we turned the corner and came to the loading spot, I saw everyone I cared about standing there, waiting. And the grin on my face was beaming back at me from two dozen friends who were once strangers, who I hadn’t let down. That’s the victory, I think. An affirmation of the faith that these few people had put in me, the crazy white man. Today they know that they weren’t wrong, and I know that two years in Africa weren’t spent in vain. Where we go from here, who knows? But I know that on February 29th, 2012, the cows came home.
Very, very soon, so will I.
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