By the sixth day, I had grown accustomed to my environment, and finally gotten over the feeling that everything was dirty. I mean, by American standards, everything
was dirty, but I finally began to see past it. The bathroom facilities are the worst part, I think. Most of them offer only a “Turkish toilet” and a bucket of water. And if you’re wondering, a Turkish toilet is basically a ceramic hole in the ground that you squat over. I have definitely not figured out how to use those muscle groupings simultaneously, and thankfully so far I have found something resembling a western toilet everywhere we have been.
The showers are simple. Just a nozzle in the bathroom, and a drain on the floor. You just have to be sure to put the toilet paper somewhere where it won’t get wet, and be really careful not to get any water in your mouth. In Chipole, there was a separate room to bathe in, but no running water for the shower. Ah, the trade-offs. However, sister Mkombelewa had the girls leave a bucket of hot water (Seriously. Boiling water. They boiled it. You hafta wait a while to use that) by the door to our water closet, along with a little cup for washing. Not fancy, but it would be the only hot water I would bathe in the country. Ironically, I was so delighted to have the hot water, that I was not at all put off by bathing out of a bucket.
Happily, I was feeling great, too, which could not be said for all of us. Admittedly, food was rocketing through my system in record time, but it tasted good going down, and as long as I wasn’t locked in a car for hours, it was ok.
On the morning of Wednesday 6/13, we took our ride to the orphanage, run by the Sisters of St. Agnus. If I haven’t yet made it clear, these bad-ass sisters run an orphanage, a primary school, a secondary school, a trade school (Benedictine’s are really into education), and a culinary and nutrition school, a butchery, a commercial bakery, a medical clinic (they call it a dispensary), and the hydroelectric dam. They also produce far more agriculture and livestock than they need to self-sustain. I assume they sell the rest. So if the term "bad-ass" seemed shocking when I used it above, I'm sorry, but there simply is no better descriptor. If George Thorogood had met these women, he would have written an opera about them. Yet somehow they were also the sweetest souls, full of honest emotion and empathy.
It was a short ride to the orphanage- maybe 15 minutes along a bumpy red road. Along side it was a set of two primary schools, which we went to as well, and the bakery and butchery, which we didn’t see. The orphanage was sad the way you’d expect, but the kids were in good health, and seemed happy, as kids go. The Sisters told stories about many of them, and how their parents were dead, or ill, or mentally ill, and about how some kids that were left for them in awful health, and they hadn’t expected them to survive. They didn’t say it, but I am assuming that there are some who don’t. I did see a graveyard on the premises. It was a very emotional place, and I missed my own kids. I was also made very aware of how well we are able to care for our kids, and actually was grateful for that maybe for the first time. I know parents who tell themselves they have somehow done a bad job as a parent, but they have infinitely more to give than do many parents here, and certainly more than the sisters can do with 72 orphans running about their ankles.
Although that place was very poor and sad to see, it helped to bring both us and the orphans a little cheer when we were able to give out toys and sweets. Although most of it had to be distributed by the Sisters because the little ones were petrified of the mzungu, as most had never seen a white person before. We still loved every second of it, and the boys lingered there for a few hours playing with the little ones and teaching them how to "pound it", and convincing them not to eat the play-dough.
The primary school kids were much happier and more animated, and those students were prepared with memorized English words for us. That was impressive, because they typically don’t begin learning English until secondary school, if at all. They were sweet and cute, and loved to get a high-five, even though they hadn’t heard of the concept before we got there. The teacher I met was equally awesome. A kindly old guy in his seventies who had already retired from another school but wanted to help the Sisters. I think his name was Eric. They all have curiously non-African sounding names, probably resulting from the German occupation. We dispensed the remainder of the candy we had for this school, and the kids went berserk. They ran and screamed and giggled uncontrollably, and showed each other their treasures. The immediacy of that almost made it more rewarding than the knowledge of the money we shared with them, though the Sisters made a great show of their gratitude for that too.
After we had visited with the children all we could, we toured the remaining facilities, and were told with fervor about some additional projects that they needed help with. One that stood out to me was the laundry room. The flu for the wood heated basin that they used to wash the clothes in had broken, and the room filled with smoke whenever they used it, so they were washing by hand with cold water. Another one was the computer room. They have five working computers (and tons of old crappy miscellaneous parts), but only one power outlet, so they can’t use them at the same time. We finished the tour late, as usual, and headed back for lunch. The sisters and lay-teachers always dined with us, and the girls filled the role of servants. They served us and cleaned up after us, and took their own food outside to eat. It made me a little uncomfortable, but they seemed ok with it, and I wasn’t about to cause a cultural incident by complaining. They were determined to be good hosts, and I was determined to let them.
The only thing we did in the afternoon was play soccer. Tanzanians, like apparently everyone in the dang world except me, love soccer. They love it. No really. Love it. So we had a match. The Delbarton boys vs. the St. Agnus teachers (who were all male), and a few of the girls. Oh, and our kickass bus drivers, who split up, one per team. It was a fun game, though I was the only male who chose not to participate, and everyone kept asking what was wrong that I didn’t want to play. I think the only logical assumption to them was that I was injured.
The St. Agnus Teachers were very good, and very passionate. In the end, Delbarton actually won 4-2, but it’s worth noting that half of the Tanzanian team were wearing either no shoes at all, or else flip-flops, or fancy Italian dress shoes. –Everyone wears cheapie flip flops here. Whoever the salesman is for cheap, second-hand flip-flops is making a killing. And most men seem to prefer to wear a suit all the time. It was very odd for me to see men walking around in this environment in a suit and fancy shoes, but I never saw any of the men associated with the school wear anything else. Only the most rural of men, or boys wore anything other than a suit, no matter how badly tattered. Even some of the men we would pass along the side of the road, digging around for God-knows-what in the dirt, wore a suit. or at least a jacket. Barney Stintson would be proud.
While at the soccer field, there was a moment when the game was interrupted by shouting from one of the sisters who was watching from the sidelines. She was waving her arms and yelling something, and every Tanzanian male on the field ran over to her. Then they were all pointing at something on the ground and yelling, louder now. The women began to back up, and as I got closer I saw that there was a four-foot snake on the ground, slithering towards the field. Alan the bus driver to the rescue! He crabbed a massive stick from the brush and smashed the bejesus out of its head. A couple times. Then they flung it into the weeds and went back to playing.
Team Tanzania was not pleased at all with losing the football match, but they were still very congenial. In the end, they expressed their admiration by calling the boys Team Mzungu Tanzania. That got a huge laugh from the sisters for some reason.
I left the game a bit early with Brian and a couple Sisters to get a tour of the area where they lived, and the culinary school. I learned pretty early on in my stay in Chipole, that these tours were 50% hospitality, and 50% idea fodder for future assistance from us. I also learned that they know they are poor, and they have seen TV, and to some extent know how Americans live. As a result, they are not shy about asking for help. Its not panhandling or begging, it’s humility, and an awareness of our intent. They are humble and pragmatic, and extremely appreciative of whatever help they do get, and they make every effort to show it by treating us as though we were royalty at every single opportunity. I actually hated that. It made me squirm a little.
Obviously, the Sisters of St. Agnus are a religious order, and one of the religious things they are doing is to attempt to canonize a former member. Sister Bernadette died in the sixties, but apparently she did a lot of good while she was here, and people still come to the Sisters to tell them stories about how she had helped them. They also would visit her grave site and put some dirt from her grave in their pocket or rub it on a wound they had, believing that Sister Bernadette would heal them. Indeed, the sisters contend that medical miracles occurred. Particularly if the issue was related to pregnancy or inability to become pregnant.
So they scraped together the money to fly a couple cardinals in from Rome and began the beatification process. They exhumed her remains with great ceremony, and put them in a box. Actually, they put them into two boxes. Some were sent to Rome, and some kept here in Chipole. Now, they need three miracles to occur to validate her candidacy. In the meantime, they are asking for widespread prayer and awareness of their efforts, for a reason I didn’t quite understand. But they felt somehow that it would help her to be canonized. Fascinating stuff.
Ok, so after that we had some free time, during which there were loud and animated card games featuring plenty of cheating, and then dinner. This was our last dinner in Chipole, and it was full of songs and dancing, and speeches, and gift bestowment. Then there was another cake, and a lot of honoring each other. It was beautiful, and I’m really glad to have been part of that. It all ended with an awkward silence, which the boys themselves broke by getting up and thanking the girls one by one. I had been proud of how they handled themselves all week, but this was exceptional, and it seemed to make an impact. We all took some photos together, and went to our rooms while the kids all stayed up and played games.
As I walked back to my room, my favorite student from St. Agnus, a bright-eyed and energetic girl named Grace (the same girl who scarred me with the millipede), sidled up next to me and asked if I would remember her when I went home. This particular girl was the kindest, sweetest, most outgoing one of the bunch, and I really liked her. I told her that I liked her very much, and that I could never possibly forget her, and that I hoped someday she might come to visit us at Delbarton. I also reminded her that I had many photos of her and the girls and Sisters, and that would also help me to remember all the fun we’d had together.
She was quiet for a minute as we walked, and then said that she could never come to America because she was poor. Jeez, what do you say to that? My heart broke, and when I had said goodbye and went to my room I couldn't help but cry (yeah, i'm a big sissy that way). Not really for her- she was happy. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she’d like to be rich, but she lived better than most in Tanzania, with plenty of food and clean safe drinking water, and a community where she belonged. I think I cried because despite that, it was still somehow sad
to me. I don’t exactly know why, but I don’t have better words for it than that yet.
An hour after I had gone to my room, there was a bang on my door, and when I opened it there was Justin, one of the Delbarton boys bleeding profusely from his face, and looking very frightened. Brian had the medical supplies, so I took Justin into his room and Brian cleaned him up. The poor kid was freaked out from the blood (there was a lot of blood on his hands), coming from a fair sized cut on his eyebrow, but he was ok. The cause, apparently was that he was playing “keep away” with the other students, and failed to keep one of the girls’ teeth away from his face. after Brian patched Justin up, I tracked down the girl to make sure she was ok. She had some pain as well, but I think she mostly felt terrible for breaking Justin. Brian bandaged him up and he was fine, though he was really embarrassed, and he’ll likely have a scar over his left eye. He'll have a good story about it though...
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