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Gabriel is in Chad/Darfur, raising awareness about the genocide situation in the Darfur region of Sudan

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.April 6, 2007

Anna Callegari

Johannesburg to Swaziland

The sprawling tentacles of Johannesburg’s bustling suburbs disturb my sense of placement in the world… how did we depart from the mud huts of rural Mozambique and miraculously descent upon this urban jungle? By this, our third visit to the modern and mainstream Jo’berg airport, we are in relative psychological comfort, and are blessed to be met by our friend Jobsi, who unblinkingly offers her home and hospitality for the second time this trip. Harry and Jobsi represent the new South Africa in my naïve and likely misguided perspective. They were raised in poverty, in two of the government’s enforced settlements, Tembesa and Sharpeville, and have risen far above adversity to now be one of the wealthy black families dotting the once segregated, and still strangulated, porcelain neighborhoods. The neighborhoods where barbed wire decorates every impenetrable fence, Dobermans and Rotweilers pant purposely at the gates, and ubuntu has been replaced by anxiety. As trusting Salt Spring Islanders who often leave their doors open, we are disturbed by this reality, and shocked by the daily reports of horror that define the Soweto Times and Daily News.

Jobsi invites us to a funeral, a weekly commitment on her part these days, and we are honored to attend. This time it is “Happy” a 44 year old man, separated from his family, who, overwhelmed by his problems, took his life. We gather under the colorful marquee tents that overtake the front yard of the little matchbox home in Tembesa, the largest township in South Africa. The typical hymns and harmonies are interspersed with sermon, and despite the absence of any other white people, we feel inconspicuous and welcome in the community. The segregation of white and black is still very apparent, at least in this ceremony, despite the fact that this man worked for South Africa Airways, and surely had many white colleagues. We travel to the cemetery in a serpentine procession of cars, lights flashing, and the local women’s group, started during the anti-apartheid movement, line our path and offer consistent support in their bright pink blouses and black skirts. These women gather weekly now, to offer each other friendship and understanding, and contribute regularly to a community fund to bury family members and friends.

The burial itself is surreal, we are but one of many grieving masses gathered to witness the shovelfuls of red dirt covering the simple coffin. Funerals have become big business in South Africa, and the colorful tarps, red carpets, and elaborate wooden boxes are testament to the relative wealth of the dead. A cacophony of hymns competes for splendor, as the men methodically cover the body with shovel after shovel of earth, leaving plumes of red smoke rising from the multitude of red mounds as we depart. We are doused with water when we return to the home to be cleansed of the lingering scent of death, and the mourners gather to share the food prepared and served by the smiling women’s group, and life goes on.

It is with a deep breath of appreciation that the Swaziland scenic rural beauty appears through the protective cover of cloud, and the rolling hills, red dirt roads, and rural thatched homesteads appear beneath us. Sipho’s smile is immediately familiar and his warm embrace transports us comfortingly back to our first meeting on Salt Spring Island, at the Community to Community Conference last fall. We decide to rent a car, as the Khamboke homestead lies a remote 100km south of Manzini, where we have landed.

The scenery becomes ever more magnificent as we head south, a semblance of the rural Nepal of a previous journey. Terraced hills are strengthened by the rich red soil that offers life to numerous crops, and proud homesteads are scattered over the countryside. We traverse the last rugged leg of road which provides a family welcome to Sipho’s simple and magical home, and we are greeted warmly by Colleen, Sipho’s cherubic and charming wife, and three of their wonderful children, Magi, Phumie and Lungi. Sipho’s homestead is a comforting blend of tradition and movement, with a simple concrete home surrounded by the traditional Swazi ancestral offerings, a rondavel with a shock of thatch providing shelter, and an intricately and methodically created ancestral shrine, each stone and stick purposely placed.

We are delighted to be visiting the informal orphan school that has been the result of much thought, compassion, and planning for Sipho’s family. Sipho retired from his position as Minister of Agriculture some 10 years ago and immediately recognized the need for orphan care to deal with the crisis of 600 orphans in his surrounding community. He responded selflessly by creating an informal school and orphan care centre at his grandfather’s homestead, some 4km from his current home. Walking over the gentle fields to the orphanage offers time to reflect on the significance and importance of caring for our families, neighbors, and friends both locally and globally, and my spirit is rejuvenated to see 42 healthy, bright, energetic kids playing outside the school. Of course there are issues, one little girl who has the stature of a six year old, yet is ten, surely has fetal alcohol syndrome, one little boy born with hydrocephalus perches on his bottom, content with the shunts draining fluids from his brain, several of the newest arrivals are severely malnourished, with the accompanying sores and scabs of lack of consistent care, but there is clear hope here, and a sincerity of mission that it is impossible to fabricate. We have brought $4000 from our generous community in donations of food, medications, and assistance in the construction of toilet facilities, structural support in finishing the roofing on a classroom and library, and funding a chicken project, providing meat, eggs and financial stability to the school.

The hospitality offered to us by the family was astounding and we were somewhat sad to leave the farm at the end of the week, on route to meet the infamous Ray of Revelstoke, an acquaintance over email, and soon to become a fast friend (literally). Ray and his wife Jackie have been shipping containers of donated goods around the world for a number of years, and being with Ray is akin to being in the middle of a well intended hurricane, doing good wherever he lands. Ray is one of the most energetic and dedicated people I have had the pleasure to meet, and he clearly does not know the word no! Everything is possible in his world, and Ray immediately had us schlepping boxes, loading containers, running around to projects serving 450 children meals each day, and after 6 days of activities we were pleasantly exhausted and felt as if we had known him for 6 months! The donations Ray receives are incredible; fabulous soup mix from the Gleaners of the Okanagan which will provide 200,000 servings of immensely nutritious soup for local orphan initiatives, bales of clothing, boxes of shoes, children’s books, computers, dried apples and pears, building materials, medical equipment, and countless other offerings. These orphans are so desperate for affection and attention that it is with much difficulty that we pry ourselves from their clutches when it is time to leave. Ray is so good natured that after meeting Colleen we loaded up a truckload of goods to take back to Sipho’s home, which had the family literally dancing with joy.

In the midst of all the revelry of container distribution, Beth and I took a well needed break, and took Colleen with us to the Hlane Game Reserve, where we were thrilled to see elephants, rhinos, giraffes, lots of various antelopes, warthogs, and numerous birds. Beth’s second mission to Africa and she has finally seen some animals! We are all off to Lesotho next, to arrange distribution of another container of goods for Mamello’s project, Ha Makhata, where 300 students are now benefiting from a new school and nutritious food, and a new community of friends awaits us.

All for now, and all our best to you,

Anna and Beth

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March 20, 2007

Andrea Palframan, in Lesotho, South Africa

Lesotho is out of bounds. We were all ready to leave yesterday
morning, pumped up from a weekend powwow where a bunch of volunteers got together, brainstormed, got philosophical and creative and came up with a plan for the next week, the next year, and the rest of our lives.... big and small details were discussed and some genuinely
brilliant ideas were born, fleshed out, raised and sent out into the
world. (Some of you got very detailed emails...! some of you have yet
to hear of your assigments! )The meeting peaked on Sunday with us all
in the beautiful tangled permaculture garden at Rustlers' having a
picnic in the afternoon light, enjoying pesto made from basil grown
in the Ha Makhata garden. The light was gold, the picnic blankets
were a patchwork of all of our Basotho blankets we'd been wearing all
weekend, and there we were in a painting ! under the plum trees and
the waving bamboo curving overhead.....a bunch of idyllic,
outstretched volunteers, laying on the solid earth, together in this
amazing story we are all authors of.

Then, just as we were setting out the next day, the phone rang.
"don't come to Lesotho today it is very dangerous there are riots",
read Mamello's text. And another from Motholo "things are getting
stiff here don't go to Maseru". What's going on? A month ago there
was an election in Lesotho - elections usually have some accompanying violence and silliness, and occasionally the country erupts. This time, there has been a month long delay, but the defeated party is 'contesting' the election results not only in the courts but on the
streets, rallying supporters in urban centres who wear their yellow
ABC shirts and flash their open palmed party salute. Yesterday ABC
(All Basotho Congress), the official opposition party, called a
general strike. Since only 36% of the population is employed, and
workers are mainly concentrated in urban centres, the rural areas
where we mainly work were largely unaffected. But we must go through the border at Maputsoe, a rough and ready factory town, in order to get anywhere in Lesotho. The trickle down of ABC's incitement is that the guy in the street, who may be hanging around unemployed looking for something to do on an ordinary day, can be easily persuaded to get caught up in unrest and violence. The yellow shirted shit disturbers are mostly peaceful and happy to sing and stamp and shout to make their point, but a few like to flip cars over and set things on fire. In previous times of unrest, aid workers have been killed
and shot at, and we heard a gruesome story about a Chinese business
owner whose severed head was displayed on a stake at the border gate.

Without getting into the nature of the politics and the intricacies
of the so-called 'electoral fraud', a case which has yet to be
proven, the week is shot as everything is closed, no-one is going to
work and the moat between us and our projects is filled with
potential crocodiles. Africa! Our plans are like colourful balloons
and the gods have sharp pins.

So what now? We have to get a Peace Corps volunteer who shall remain anonymous back into Lesotho so s/he can report for duty. A carload containing a brave trio left early and made it through Maputsoe, and Leribe, safely up into the mountains. Gary I and I stayed behind in Ficksburg wondering what now. I've been looking for a place to get a sign made for Ha Makhata, so visitors can find the project, so I go find Gavin at Tourist Information. Tourist Information has moved; where it used to be is now a bad fast food restaurant. (hint; if you want an impressive sounding name for your restaurant, Wimpy isn't it) Where is tourist info now? In this beautiful old sandstone complex of buildings just outside of the downtown core. We pull up to a beautiful old colonial school, with wonderful, high ceilinged rooms lined with hardwood panelling, and big windows looking out over a view of the mountains of Lesotho. The place is empty - a collection of quiet, lovely buildings with well kept gardens between them. This is the nicest building in Ficksburg. If it was on Salt Spring it would be the library, the museum, the school of the arts. Why is it here, empty, when everywhere else in town is crammed and dingy? Mysterious.

I find one office that is open, and in it, Gavin, who has
set the place up with computers, printers, tasteful furniture, and
design magazines. We get started chatting and it turns out that he
grew up in Lesotho. Where? Leribe. Where? In the home of Andy Salm, a friend of ours whose sandstone house we lust after every time we pass by. As we make this connection, the phone rings (of course Gavin is on Skype, actually has the best broadband connection for miles) and on his computer screen appears his friend from ... Hamilton, Ontario. So there's this Canada connection too. Oh, and he is a graphic designer and filmmaker and yes, he can print the sign for Ha Makhata and would I teach him InDesign? Anyway, I'm home.

Gavin tours us through the complex of school buildings, 3 of which he
has renovated in partnership with the Departments of Education and
Tourism. (p.s he still needs R10 million for the other 3 buildings if
anyone has any spare change) He's gotten grants from an Irish
company, and put in a fair chunk of his own corporate funding. He
shows us the theatre, which is all set up with desks and chairs just
crying for a film screening, a choir performance, a multi media
workshop. And there's the future cooking school, which will also host
a restaurant, and five star hotel which will double as a hotel
management training school, and the weaving and handicraft training
co-operative, with looms all ready to go. And the elegant, beyond
belief ballroom with chandeliers and hardwood floors.... last week we
watched a ballroom dancing performance that took place in the dust
outside some huts in Lesotho..... I can see those dancers in their
high heels and their flashy costumes walk in here and be
gobsmacked..... This whole place is set up as a training centre, in
tourism and the arts. A performing arts school will also incorporate
media training like filmmaking and multi-media. The ideas Gary and I
have, about teaching youth & adults about digital media, and creating
media by and for Africans whereby they can tell their stories,
produce educational films and publications, make the southern African
Sesame Street for all those orphans who have no-one to teach them how to tie their shoes...... we babble excitedly about the possibilities
with Gavin, who, while he is a cool and refined character, can't help
but grin his head off. What a connection! So there's this incredible
centre that is well on its' way that Gavin and his partners are a bit
stuck with. The usual South African problems of
sllllloooooooooowwwwww and complex beaurocracy have stalled the
project for several years, but in the meantime, yes, we can certainly
rent the theatre, anytime, and yes, if there were any people to run
handicraft workshops or music lessons or computer training they could
just go right ahead.... so for us, there is no problem. We don't have
to wait. We are weavers of stories, the internet is high speed, and
the rooms, and looms, are ready. Nice invite.

(this next bit uses initials instead of real names due to the
personal nature of the story. I am telling it because it is a story
of how people become involved in this bigger story of community to
community in such strange and beautiful ways. and it s a very African
story of reconciliation)

Next, we call M, who runs an orphanage for 30 kids in nearby
Clocolan. She invites us to her farm, where she has her office set
up. We drive out to the bakka beyond (most places 1 mile off the main
road are the bakka beyond, and her place is 14 km beyond that) to
this estate farm where M lives and works. She is not at all what we
pictured; on the phone her thick Afrikaans accent had me imagining
big, badly dyed hair and too much mascara, a look that is popular
around here. Instead she is a hip woman in her 50's wearing army
pants and Jackie O' sunglasses. Her place is so very very lovely;
winding shady sandstone paths, creatively landscaped and set up for
entertaining with a separate complex with a proper bar and swimming
pool, guest lapas and her spacious and modern office from where she
runs her projects. She could be running a high end B&B or a safari
lodge, but instead she is running an orphanage, a women's weaving and sewing handicraft co-op, and a nifty network of self-employment/
income generation projects that train kids and youth in jewellery
making.

We visit one of her many little beading circles, where the
children of the local farm labourers sit quietly making beaded
necklaces. Each kid gets their first batch of beads bought for them,
then they get taught how to keep track of their income from sales so
they can re-invest their earnings in the next batch, keeping aside
some profit to buy food. M helps them by setting them up and offering
a market for what they make, which isn't charity as these beaded
jewellery pieces are very beautiful.

p.s. Anyone in Canada reading this who has connections to retail
outlets or is interested in taking on marketing some of these
necklaces is welcome to email me and chat more about how it works; I can send you pictures of the products and of the very cute producers.

Here's a situation where child labour is a positive thing; their
after-school activity, which is creative and social, is also a big
help to their families. While they make the jewellery they also talk
about HIV and AIDS, rights, and their aspirations and hopes for their
lives. There are many of these beading circles set up by M., and more
can be established if new markets open up. Anyone?

We met M through a Canadian woman, B, who was at an event at UBC that the African delegates from the Community to Community 2
conference attended. M asks us if we've heard the story of how she
met this Canadian woman, who is now involved with her projects in
Africa. The story is incredible. One day, an elderly woman, J,
appeared at M's door. She had walked there (remember this is 14
km off the road) from out of Africa, and asked for shelter. M said
she looked like a tramp, but she took her in. M is that kind of down-
to -earth money-where -your -mouth -is Christian. The woman, J, was
very bright and very lively, but a bit mixed up in her head... she
didn't want to talk about where she came from or about the past,
except to talk about her children, who she said she hadn't seen in 20
years. So Marie contacted the Salvation Army and eventually they
traced the kids in ... Canada. This is how B. came to Africa, to be
reunited with her mum who disappeared from her life 20 years ago, and how now B. is involved with helping orphaned children who have also lost their families. This tearjerker story is true, and beautiful,
and another way that somethings that were once broken are being
mended by these synchronistic connections that keep happening. You
could not, really, make up a story better than this life we're living.

Today is another no-go day for Lesotho. Apparently the strike is to
continue until Wednesday, so we'll see.... out of our hands, truly.
Kina and I are going off this afternoon to have a mother/daughter
day, get her ears pierced and get our hair cut, and to investigate
this place called Cosmos City where they export cosmos flower seeds.

There are many many other thoughts but Cosmos City beckons...
Love y'all
Andrea

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March 18, 2007

Andrea Palframan, in Lesotho

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March 14, 2007

Anna Callegari, in Mozambique

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March 12, 2007

Andrea Palframan, Lesotho

Hi everyone
Sorry I haven't been in touch. So much happens, every day, I feel
like a criminal not expressing it. But thankfully Gary and I are well
met in each other, and there are nights of processing that make sense
of everything, only to bolt like startled animals in the light of
day. Finally it is night and calm and I have to shoo moths off the
keyboard so I can type.

Can I just share that coming home tonight, I drove over these roads,
from potholed tarmack, to dirt, to sand, to ridiculous washboard -
the audacity to call this a road! and jattered and jiggered finally
come to the grass track that is our "driveway' . And still I am
sending out this email communication from clear across the world -
thank you, geeks and techno philes, for making this conversation
possible. we don't actually need more tarmack; just a cel phone and a
laptop and it all connects.

\How does amazing grace look the morning after? At Mamello's
Phelisanong Disabled village. Lifting 2 girls into a wheelchair...
one is bright, her neck is like a willow branch, supporting this big
eyed face. She counts perfectly, in English, while her friend who is
not so bright makes faces and cheekily chucks and grabs at the
crayons we are sorting. They both get hefted into a wheelchair made
from a plastic lawnchair, mounted on bike tyres. Another boy has lost
his cane... we were drawing pictures in the sand and he somehow lost
his stick to all the kids who were wanting to play tic tac toe in
this four foot square of sand. XO made with sticks, and his went
awol. He holds on to the wheelchair for support, his wobbly legs need
his upper body to carry him. He really wishes he could walk alone,
and tries, and we hold hands and then fingers and it seems like his
determination will be enough, but there's this physical, engineering
problem with his legs. He holds onto the wheelchair and staggers,
sometimes checking out if I see the funniness in all this. We set
out... the wheelchair has a flat tyre.... we push hard.

So in Lesotho there are all these orphans. What if they were your
kids? The statistics who can't count. Our role is telling them how
much they count, how much they are needed and loved. Truly (Kanete)
they don't need us as much as they need each other; this is their
social network, all these other orphans who know what each other has
gone through, and who know that caring for each other and the love
they share is their family, now. They are compassionate.....
suffering is a lightning strike to avoid, love is a warm fire to
gather around. Stay in the circle, don't get too close to the fire,
enjoy this warmth that is happening now and has not always been and
may not always be. Community is a blanket.

Teachers at the primary school have a wage pool, where they put a bit
of their $200 a month salary aside for a rainy day. They then can
lend to one another in times of difficulty, here obvious and
constantly defined as Funeral Times. HIV and AIDS kills 8,000 people a day, 6,000 in AFrica.

There are 2 million people in Lesotho and
100,000 orphans. Do the math; it's a lot of funerals. Casket,
diggers, slaughering a cow, burning lots of wood for cooking. The
relatives pay for all that; the funeral parlours are the best
business in town. The schoolteachers pay the money back with
interest, their collateral is their work with the orphans at the
school. Many such systems emerge as we look at how the projects do
their 'accounting'. It reveals how the community functions in such
conditions of cyclical deprivation and abundance. We learn from
people who have lived subsistence lives what it really takes to get
by... it is sophisticated, turns out, and people give their families
a lot of thought. There is no gap year in Europe; your family is your
responsibility and your identity no matter how rich you get, or how
poor you are. Sharing comes not by some philosophy or guilt but from
necessity and it is never questioned that your 2nd cousin should eat
if you get to. The economy of poverty is ancient and many patterns
have evolved. There is no rescue, Noah's ark or spaceships to Mars
are just jokes, here we are in our cabbage and our cornfield and we
pray with our full might for rain. Together.

It could be a village or it could be a war that draws us close to
that fire, that bring us into our full selves, awake, alive
. Because it turns out that if we invested all the resources we have
gathered towards helping each other live instead of killing each
other we'd all be a lot better off. Do we really need to prove our
philosophy against a different one, fight and bomb our way. take
sides and live this conflict of duality, or can be actually recognize
the diversity that has helped us survive, and thrive, on this
beautiful and harsh planet we share? The energy we expend defending
and insuring is all a fight against our second cousin. Let her in,
pick up that hitchhiker, swap stories and peel an orange with
someone. Please, peace.

Seeds are everywhere and synchronicity is afoot. Strange and blatant
assistance comes our way with scant bidding. Amazing grace has
tousled hair like a Talahassie trailer park madam but she pokes her
head faithfully out the door, everyday, and takes a big swig of the
air we breathe.
Thanks,
Andrea

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.March 6, 2007
Kuwangisana Centre

"To Strengthen Each Other"
Anna Callegari, Sena, Mozambique

It is difficult to determine the starting point for this chapter of our story, but I suppose the clearest option is with the drive to Mozambique, 15 hours from Salima over some remnants of tarmac and many rutted and water gouged clay roads. Tony, our generous host has offered to take us the length of Malawi, all the way to the border, but first delivers us to Blantyre, where we retire in a somewhat dubious but characteristically dependable backpacker's lodge. It is from here we must depart at the ungodly hour of 4:45am on the uncertain path ahead.

As matter of course "locals" at the bar warn us; "you will never get through", "the road is completely impassable" and "I hope you have 6 or 7 days to get there". However as the drama subsides, and the reality surfaces, we learn that the road is relatively dry, and unless we get an abundant shower in the next 12 hours we may as well go for it!

Life becomes simpler, and somehow more complex as we progress towards the southern tip of Malawi and then on to Mozambique. Sporadic huts rise from sanguineous soil, at times indistinguishable from the numerous termite mounds dotting the landscape. The road becomes bumpy, then rough, then incredulous, undulating over concrete shells designed to alleviate flooding and harness the flow of rising water. It is difficult to imagine that entire villages exist in this vast grassland, but occasionally we witness signs of community such as schools, herds of goats, and the distant mirage of shady trees that signifies a village graveyard. We finally and thankfully arrive at the border of Mozambique, with its two officials, and we are thanked for visiting Malawi and wished well on our journey.

On the other side of a 3km stretch of undesignated land we are welcomed by the Mozambican officials, asked to pay a $4 US entry fee, and told to report to the border guard. We approach somewhat tentatively as we have an obnoxious amount of baggage, not only our own, but duffel bags full of medications, medical supplies, and huge amounts of food for the orphans of Perpetua's project. The border guard is young, enthusiastic, and delighted to have an opportunity to practice his English. We share our food, give him a world map, and chat about everything but our baggage for two hours while we await our transport to Sena.

Thankful as we are for the shade of the cassia tree, we are more than grateful to finally see a sole vehicle trundling up the long and dusty road that awaits us. Perpetua hurtles out of the cab, unable to contain her excitement at our long anticipated arrival in her country. We exchange hugs and shake hands with all who have accompanied her, and pile our luggage and dusty bodies into the low slung, rusty and well worn mini pickup that is being driven by the chief of police of Sena District. The dilapidated truck strains under the combined weight of 7 people, and 8 bags, but despite the groaning of the chassis and suspension, he screeches to a halt midway home to offer a lift to an elderly woman making her way along the impossible road.

The landscape is immediately unfamiliar as we speed along the dirt track, no quilt of maize, no sorghum waving in the breeze, and no crops of groundnuts dotting rolling hills. The land is flat and dry, covered in thick grass emerging from sandy soil. The air is suddenly stifling and parched. As we approach Sena we bear witness to thousands of makeshift huts of straw draped over tents of twigs, the living legacy of over 100, 000 people displaced from their homes by the recent flooding. Some have been draped by the tarps of global concern, UNAIDS, Med Sans Frontiers….yet still perch precariously on the verge of a nursery rhyme ending in the unpredictable breeze. These people have nothing save the hope that they can return to their homes along the Zambezi river to continue the sustenance that they know.

We are told that the real reason for the massive floods in the Zambezi basin is the government's intentional release of waters from the overextended hydroelectric dams in Tete province nearby, and that Cyclone Favio is a convenient coincidence; really they have not had much rain this year. Ironically the villagers are now praying for rain so that the crops of maize that remain do not become drought affected and unusable in the stifling heat.

The last piece of the puzzle is placed as we cross the clattering, neglected wooden tiles of what was once the longest bridge in Africa, under renovation for the last 2 years, and closed to all but cyclists and pedestrians 6 days per week. As we survey our surroundings we see hundreds of people washing clothes, bathing and gathering drinking water from the remnants of the flood that still buries the borehole.

Our frenetic driver, Nuru the chief, proves to be a somewhat rotund fellow, with a crunchy exterior and soon evident soft middle. When we arrive in Sena he arranges money exchange, offers us several beverages in his bar (cold beer!) and all of the goose and guinea fowl eggs in his coop, and tells us to "call him if we have any problems". We anticipate few, as the people are warm and welcoming, although there has been no deliveries of food for weeks, and bottled water is in slim supply. Perpetua is thrilled with the fresh vegetables we are able to bring for the orphan program as they have had nothing but porridge, nzima and beans to offer since the flooding.

KUWANGISANA CENTRE

Joseph greets us at the Kuwangisana Centre, the latest creation of the energetic and amazing team of Joseph and Perpetua Alfazema. Joseph and Perpetua met in Kenya in a refugee camp some 23 years ago, escaping the harsh brutality of the civil war in Mozambique. They emigrated to Canada, got married, and raised three children there, visiting Mozambique many times over the years to visit family and friends, and supervising the creation of the Kapasseni Project. They were soon undeniably compelled to return to their home to help alleviate the suffering that they were witnessing. Joseph and Perpetua have now left the comfort of Canadian life, packed up two of their three children, and returned to their country of birth. They welcome us wholeheartedly to their simple home, their kitchen a wood fire outside, their bath a bucket surrounded by the privacy of a bamboo screen, their toilet a pit latrine.

The Kuwangisana Centre was born in Sena, a town encompassing a catchment area of 35,000 people, and serving the neediest in their community, those affected by HIV and AIDS. There is limited medical care in this village, a health centre exists but is not staffed by any doctor or clinical officer, and the remote location and harsh climactic concerns mean that often the trucks do not get through to deliver medication, even the life saving ARVs.

The official programs at Kuwangisana include orphan care, adult education, a monthly food support program, crisis care, and home based care for AIDS patients. There are four activists that provide home based care, Tiago, Marta, Lacerda and Arnaldo; a basic nurse who assists clients, Amelia; and a new part time registered nurse, Monica, who will provide essential health care. Currently the program has 24 orphans who are traumatized by the loss of one or both parents to HIV and AIDS. These children arrive at the gate of the centre at 6am most mornings, and are provided two nutritious meals, education, play, education in life skills, and lots of loving care from the centre's staff. Many of the adult residents in this rural area are uneducated, unable to read or write, so Kuwangisana provides adult education three days a week, supplying child care, a teacher, and any learning materials required free of charge. The Food Support Program ran the second day we arrived, and is offered once monthly when the HIV patients of the service attend to receive maize, beans, cooking oil, salt, sugar, soap, and water purification solution. The 25 HIV positive clients in the program gratefully receive their packages and sign their names or leave fingerprints on a list of attendance. There is a huge waiting list of affected people and the goal for this year is to extend the program to 50 clients. These people are gravely weakened by an inadequate immune system, unreliable access to medications, and a staggering shortage of food, and it is encouraging to see that many attend with a family member, slowly extinguishing the stigma that pervades this disease.

The home based care is the heart of Kuwangisana, and the activists offer assistance and hope to those whom the village has forgotten. The vast majority of the clients are women from 17 to 40 living alone or with young children in remote mud huts, with nothing to their name but a small patch of measly maize or millet, a pot to cook with, and a tattered mat to sleep on. Many have lost their husbands, and most have lost at least one child. The stories are heartbreaking. Once a week the activists visit their clients in their homes, assessing their general condition, medication compliance, health concerns, and offering overall care such as bathing, cooking, cleaning and shopping for those who have nothing.

One of our first adventures is attending two of the Lutheran churches that Joseph has started in four communities. We bicycle the 2km to the local church and are greeted by the joyful harmonies and mesmerizing dance of the parishioners who are joined by the rhythmic beat of the musical section, with cans full of tiny pebbles shaking methodically. We are given front row seats for the sermon, and there we meet Rosa, a 38 year old grandmother with HIV who is looking after 3 grandchildren, the littlest of whom is a gorgeous, cheeky, bright little fellow called Chico. We are mesmerized by him immediately, and broken hearted at his state of malnutrition and the fact that at almost 2 years he shows no signs of walking, probably the result of some entirely fixable hip dysplasia. We are determined to assist him, and plan to make inquiries with our orthopedic friends in Malawi.

Before we depart we are surrounded by an insistent flood of people, pushing their children towards us to allow examination of pus flowing from ears, and any number of infections of the skin, hair, and many descriptions of the women's private parts. We offer the few antibiotic drops that we have, and mentally create a list of essential medications that we can help provide with donations from our community. The need here for basic health care is difficult to fathom in our immediate satisfaction western health world.

At the peak of the sun's intense 33 degree heat we set off on rickety bicycles with unforgivably hard plastic seats to Murrema, a village some 17km from Sena, winding along goat tracks and past stunning scenery. After repairing two flat tires we finally arrive, sun baked, and the chief of all the surrounding villages shows up to greet us, somewhat imposing, and reminiscent of a rooster fluffed up for his hens. We are told later that he has 3 wives, and is always looking for another, polygamy being commonplace in Mozambique. He has arranged for a bridge of reeds to be laid over the remnants of the flooded waters so that we can join the 150 people singing under the filtered light of the matriarchal mango tree.

At the end of the service we are mentally transported to a scene from "The Gods Must Be Crazy." A local teenager drags out a hand carved stump of a guitar, a makeshift branch of a microphone, a homemade speaker, and a getto blaster, and proceeds to play the electric guitar and sing in amplified tones, providing the sustenance for the suddenly materialized vocal backup and dance section.

In the last 5 days we have cycled at least 60km over dirt roads and winding trails to meet some of the Centre's home based clients. The poverty here is even more pervasive than Malawi, and education seems almost nonexistent. Despite the availability of free education for children up to grade 7, the access for many, especially girls, seems prohibitive. Many of the HIV clients are ostracized from their families and communities, many have lost children and husbands, most have TB and other opportunistic infections to deal with as well as the burden of the disease. When we meet Maria we assume she is about 20 years old, although most of Perpetua's clients do not know exactly how old they are, and she is unable to care for her son Victor, so he is one of the "orphans" that attends the Kuwangisana Program. Victor is three years old, but is no more than the size of a one year old. His legs are painfully fragile little sticks supporting the classic extended belly of the starving African child. He is unbearably sweet, and gentle, docile beyond comprehension, has not learned to talk, and is dressed in tattered shirt, much too large for his delicate frame. Despite her HIV, Maria has had two children since Victor was born…both have died.

Two other clients, Anna Maria and Maria are widows of the same man, both blaming each other for bringing the curse of HIV into their home, and living solitary lives, surrounded by the stigma of AIDS. Both have had babies that have died of HIV, and both likely need TB treatment. The stories are devastating; these affected women have either lost their husbands or have been abandoned as soon as they got sick. Reliance on traditional healers is common in this rural area, and many bear the scars of either treatments or beautification traditions. Those who do receive ARVs are lucky to be able to continue them uninterrupted, as the Sena clinic has been out of stock for over a month.

Zita is lying flat on the remnants of her mat when we arrived, her HIV positive son lying next to her. She has an inch of dirty water in a metal cup beside her, no firewood, and they have had no food all day. The Zambezi river is too far for her to walk on excruciatingly painful neuropathic feet to collect contaminated drinking water. Zita's mother is out working in the field, trying to save any remaining maize with her cousin, who has given birth weeks before. We borrow a few coals from a neighbour, for Zita has no match, and a few cups of clean water from another hut to make corn porridge for the pair, who ravenously devour it.

Our next client is a grandmother, married to a pastor, both HIV positive, and looking after a disabled orphan grandchild. Beside the mat a pig jerks in disturbing seizures, suffering some horrible disease, until a young boy arrives with a machete and slits the throat, throwing the pig into the fire to burn off the hair before butchering it and offering us some meat, which we decline.

Nutrition is woefully inadequate here as the diet consists mainly of maize meal and millet, with the addition of the occasional green leaves of the cucumber and pumpkin plants when the sandy soil supports them, and watermelon or mangos when in season. This year will be difficult, as the flooding has destroyed many of the maize crops, and there are no other options.

The men of Mozambique are noticeably absent in this struggle; many are in denial and are unwilling to take responsibility for themselves in the face of the disease. The polygamy is astounding to us, men are in short supply because of the war, but it is difficult to comprehend the willingness of the women to be the fourth wife when the women seem to do the majority of the work and bear the responsibility for the communities. Education seems the only answer, but a comprehensive, inclusive program is a long way off, at least in this rural area. Kuwangisana will soon begin a men's group to encourage positive change.

The stories are so painful that it is difficult to not become desensitized to the stimulus, but to do so would be to give in to a very dismal future. Joseph and Perpetua are an inspiring example of how the suffering in this pandemic can be mitigated by the genuine compassion of a few individuals, and we are so grateful to be part of this effort. Our community has generously contributed $5000 to be used to purchase essential medications and supplies, and to fence and prepare a plot of land for planting corn, cabbage, beans, tomatoes, potatoes and other vegetables to feed the orphans and sustain the project. Last night we sat in the cool of the night air, mesmerized by the fantastic light show of an approaching storm. Victor's petite, sweet grandmother arrived with 3 huge watermelons, giving her thanks to us for the light in her grandson's eyes, and all night long it has rained.

With renewed hope every day,

thanks for joining us.

Anna and Beth

===================

 

From the Skin of the Drum, by Gary McNutt

an update from Ha Makhata, with Mamello Lehlotha discussing

Phelisanong project, Lesotho

=================

 

=================

Feb 19, 2007

Gary McNutt, Lesotho

Hello everyone,

There's a couple of new clips on youtube. They're from the Film "Time
to Deliver" about the Flag project that ICAD, VIDEA and SOLID were involved with last summer. The first clip is the music intro, the second is about the Grandmothers conference in TO, the Community to Community gathering on Salt Spring and some updates
from Lesotho.

http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=garymcnutt

 

Any Angels Out There?

.

 

Grassroots Voices, Global Connections

.

So much is to do with how well we Listen.
Gary.

PS. The Community to Community/SOLID clips just passed 10 000 views.

========================

February 16, 2007

Anna Callegari, Nkhoma and Kassina

We are escaping the pervasive and familiar sights, sounds and scents of Nkhoma for a journey to Kassina, where we will meet the children of Dzenza Primary School, the twin school of Fulford Elementary.

The 11km route is almost impassable, impossibly rutted and sleek with deep red mud. Certainly no feat for a bicycle taxi, so we are gratefully delivered to Kassina in a reliable vehicle, not as romantic but certainly less messy. We are met there by Sister Clara, Sister Mary and Sister Ife, members of the Medical Missionaries of Mary, a medically related mission group founded in Ireland.

Clara is just as I imagined her, cheeky and sweet, with a wonderful view on the world around her. Mary is undeniably Irish, and she clearly possesses a feisty sense of humour and demeanour. Ife is the latest addition to Kassina, a remarkably poised and pleasant young woman who is teaching theology and English, and who likely wonders how she ended up in this little village far from her home in Nigeria.

Kassina is a very pleasant, rural collection of huts, punctuated by the Kassina Health Centre, which provides primary health care to a catchment area of 22,000 people. Thanks to the obvious efforts of John and Johanna Booy of Salt Spring Island, two years ago, the centre is in impeccable shape (by Malawian standards), and the “fresh” paint disguises a multitude of stories, triumphs and tragedies. The Nutrition Rehabilitation Unit is an obvious success story as far as providing essential nutrition to 45 starving babies, but the clear tragedy is the edema state of these blond haired, suffering children in the first place.

The clinic offers maternity services, basic health care, minor surgeries, and has a small inpatient unit. Sicker patients are transferred back to Nkhoma by ambulance, although Clara tells us that last year the bridge over the Lintepe River washed out, and that they had to transport people in stretchers across the raging river to safety on the other side. Sometimes these transfers have devastating consequences, today a newborn is returned to Kassina, her mother having died from an inexperienced clinical officer mistakenly administering a high spinal epidural (during the caesarean procedure the mother was paralysed, stopped breathing, and died on the OR table). The mother was 21 and this was her first child. Such stories have become commonplace.

The next morning we are welcomed at the primary school where 1367 students are being tutored by 13 teachers (one of whom is blind). The first, and politically correct, stop is the headmaster’s office, offering him an opportunity to wax about the success of his programs, and the official statistics on the numbers of students who make it through to secondary school. We are offered a tour of the school, with its concrete blocks for classrooms (desks only exist in the Standard 5 classroom), and the only exercise books in view are stacked neatly in the headmaster’s office. The library is a trifle tragic, infested by rats and termites, and securely locked up, the books are slowly being destroyed before they can be consumed by the ravenous children; hungry for knowledge. The library also houses the large cast iron pots that were previously used for a funded school-feeding program. Funding dried up, and as a result these kids have no food at school, many leaving home at 6am to get to school by 7am, then not having any food until they walk the hour home at 2pm. The craft room holds an assortment of clay figurines, and the only play equipment in sight is one ball, comprised of a tightly wound collection of plastic bags tied up with string.

There is an obvious pyramid in place here, 267 bright cheerful children line up in random but controlled chaos on the hard concrete floors of the Standard 1 classroom. They are cloaked in varying degrees of disarray as it is Wednesday, the hump day of the school week when the children must wash their uniforms (if they have one), and are allowed to wear street clothes. The teachers and students are thrilled with the offerings from Fulford School, and the kids are particularly excited by the announcement of new sports equipment. They thank us by clapping loudly in a rehearsed cacophony, and offer an incredibly cute song before the teachers line up the most needy for distribution of new uniforms. Fulford Elementary School had donated money some time back for uniforms, and Clara has employed a local tailor to make some 150 new uniforms for the scruffiest children in the room.

One by one we are introduced to the classrooms, the obvious attrition attributable to what can only be seen as lack of hope. Of all the children who attend this school only 45 will finish Standard 5, and of these half will be selected to attend secondary school, despite most students passing the entrance exams. There is simply a lack of classrooms and teachers to accommodate the huge numbers of children in the country. Most families in rural areas of Malawi still have over 6 children, and the teachers are among the growing group of those affected by HIV and AIDS. The teaching profession in Malawi, as in much of the world, is sadly under funded and under appreciated, and primary school teachers earn a meagre 8000 Kwacha (about $55) a month, and live adjacent to the school in dismal brick dwellings. A secondary school teacher with a degree would earn slightly more at 21000 Kwacha ($145), barely enough to support a family even on maize alone, and certainly not enough to save for educating 6 children!

The children are shyly overjoyed to receive the offerings from Fulford School, and it is clear that they are thankful to have friends on the other side of the world. One by one we tell the different grades of what life is like for students in Canada, and answer a few reluctant questions before passing out the few uniforms, and saying our goodbyes.

We return to Nkhoma after two blissful days in Kassina, which has felt like a breath of fresh air. Our first day back at the hospital, and my first task of the day is to donate blood for a very sick woman on the surgical ward who needs O+ blood. Mrs. Samalani, a forty-year-old mother has had a complication of pregnancy, a C-Section, and hemorrhage. This is her sixth pregnancy, and only two of her children have survived.

There are so many tragic stories here. The morning report stated “nothing special to report on the surgical ward” and when we arrive our horrific leg wound patient is comatose, barely clinging on to life. She apparently has not been checked all night, and her guardians stand, wringing their hands at the bedside, while we try to rehydrate her, pump IV glucose into her sunken veins (her blood sugar this morning is 16 – normal 90 to 120) and hope in futility for her survival. Mercifully she slipped away 4 hours later, and the guardians follow the body to the morgue, wailing and singing, and calling many other guardians into the procession like the pied piper. We follow along to offer our condolences and on our return to the ward witness out the window the second funeral procession of today, an oxcart carrying a very young pregnant girl, dead from the severe anaemia of malaria.

Then there is the jubilance of the Saturday afternoon soccer game, the team thrilled with the new balls and uniforms we have brought. One man about my age appears, horribly disfigured as a child, when he suffered an epileptic fit and fell into the cooking fire. Despite efforts by a visiting plastic surgeon he is still grossly abnormal, and suffers ridicule and stigma for his appearance. He reveals that he is a stanch supporter of a local village team, and that they would also be thrilled to receive a new ball. We send him off with 1500 Kwacha, the $10 allowance money donated by Beth’s other young neighbour, Callum, to buy a new ball to present to his village and he beams. Saturday night we get all dressed up, then strut along the main village street to a visiting minister’s house for crepes…delicious and delightful company as we share our work and blessings. Life continues at Nkhoma, babies are born, people do get well, survival continues and hope abounds. The need is great, as is the resilience.

All our best,

Anna and Beth

============================

February 20, 2007

Andrea Palframan, Lesotho

======================

February 14, 2007

Andrea Palframan, Lesotho

do we make a difference?
this morning, after walking Kina and Marly to school, we set out for
our day. Kina is in a class of 45 kids, grades 4 and 5 combined, in a
small cinderblock building with 2 teachers. There are only 6 girls in
the class... the mystery of where all the young girls are continues
to baffle me. Her workbook is getting full of English grammar, Math,
and Sesotho... she aces English, Math is very much like it is all
over the world (and she does well at it when she decides to), and
Sesotho is really HARD!!! but she's got 45 eager teachers and class
spills over into the playground, where the real language instruction
starts. Marly marches off to his kindergarten class, 30 kids and 1
young and energetic teacher, with 12 of them disabled in one way or
another. He organizes ring around the rosy.. kids chuck their canes
and grab each others hands, and do a good job staying standing and
walking in a circle... wasn't ring a round the rosy popular during
that other plague??? anyway, Marly and Kina are fine, so fine, and so
brave to be along with this adventure. They will go further than I
ever will at understanding this culture, and their world view will be
forever influenced by their experience of this level of poverty, and
the depth of community that is needed to survive (and sometimes
thrive). Kids at school, done; on to our day.

First we pick up Mamanie, a girl who was diagnosed with TB yesterday
when a couple of doctors from Maluti Hospital, originally from Boston
University, came to do a clinic at Ha Makhata. Any kids who were sick
were seen, along with some of the more severely disabled kids. You
could see the doctors, who have only been in the country for a week,
struggle to keep their emotions together as the parade of the sick
and the maimed, in miniature, filed past them. This clinic took place
in the little stone hut usually reserved for resident disabled kids.
The community was happy that there was only 1 TB case, but we were
sorry to see it was a girl who we really like who is sick. So this
morning, Mamanie,a teenger, chucked her crutch in the back seat, we
picked up Mamello, her mother, and Paffi, the Israeli volunteer who
is helping build a guesthouse, and flew off in our flying saucer
Saab. Up the hill to London, dropped off mum, carried on to pick up
another girl, Lebohang. This girl is one of the scholarship students
who is being sponsored by Salt Springers; she is a beautiful girl, a
brilliant writer (once I sent you all a letter from her, "a 14 year
old girls persepective") and is HIV positive and scared. She has
been boarding with a family across the road from her new school,
Khanyane High School. While it's close to the Tsepong Clinic, Lebo
has been afraid to be seen walking in and out of the hospital,
fearing the stigma from her peers. So we drove her there and met with
the nurse, who tasked us with ensuring that Lebo keep her
appointments and stick to her medications.

While Lebo was getting her CD4 count done, Paffi and I wandered into
the support group's vegetable garden, a project that was supported by
the Stephen Lewis Foundation. Here we saw beets and carrots, ready
for the picking. Today is the support groups' meeting, where Motholo,
our agriculture mentor, is coming to give a workshop about
greenhouses; the group received funding through Omidyar Network to
build a greenhouse and tree nursery so they can grow market seedlings
and trees. The group will prepare the ground for the greenhouse and
tomorrow we deliver the poles and hardware to erect the greenhouse
frame. Outside the clinic, in the little memorial rose garden set up
for clinic patients who often wait hours to see a doctor, we bumped
into Ntate Ramphesa from the Tsepong Support Group, sitting on a
bench. Last we saw him his wife was pregnant; they have just had a
daughter, who is 2 weeks old. Born HIV negative thanks to the
clinic's PMTCT programme, her name is Pride. We arrange for Ramphesa to meet with Lebo when she comes out of the clinic, to counsel her and invite her to join the support group. Being part of that
community will help Lebo overcome the stigma she fears, and give her
a group of adults who can help her with the practical aspects of her
treatment, and give her the emotional support she needs.

We also arranged with Rampesa that the support group harvests the
beets and carrots in the garden, which we will buy for the school
lunches at Ha Makhata. Ramphesa is having trouble buying milk for the
baby, as his wife (who is HIV+) can't breastfeed. The money from the
vegetables will help.

After dropping Mamanie off at the TB clinic for her chest xray, we
carry on towards Maseru, the capital. At the ATM we run into
Masheane, a police officer who helped us through the unbelievably
complicated process of importing, and registering, a car in lesotho
(ever seen the movie "brazil"???? a labyrinth of complications,
orchestrated by incredibly sloooooow moving clerks, each wielding
their stamps like scepters, aware of our dependance on their
benevolence... a maze of line ups out the door that turned out to be
the wrong line, offices closed at 2 pm, required papers that don't
exist... that in the end, we gave up on protocol and just forged the
last signature... forgive us, Lesotho Gov't, but I was too
impatient!!!! meanwhile whenever we have crossed borders or been met
at police roadblocks, we never get asked for our registration, even
though we have no license plates and sport an expired south african
sticker on our windscreen ). Anyway, Masheane helped us, and now he
is trying to get the school fees organized for his young wife, who
wishes to complete high school. $200, anyone? It's tough, all these
relationships are good, but people do tell us their stories and ask
for our help. We do what we can, but it is a struggle to try to
decide what appeals to put out to you all , and what ones to keep to
ourselves .... it comes down to what is do-able, who we feel is in
their integrity and ready to make the committment necessary to use
the money responsibly, and where the need seems most pressing. Cops
make $200 a month, and Masheane looks after his sister and her baby
since his father passed away from AIDS last year.

And here we are on our way to Maseru, reading all of your emails.
Someone has a foundation and is buying a farm near Ficksburg, South
Africa, (in our backyard!), to provide care for AIDS orphans; someone
else is seeking to develop microcredit lending for Basotho
entrepeneurs; another person has given a huge donation towards
irrigation; someone else donated money to buy musical instruments for
a youth HIV support group.... wow, this community to community thing
is working....

Anyone who hasn't seen the appeal for funding for the school at Ha
Makhata, please visit the project site and DONATE!!!
www.solidsaltspring.com (go to links for Ha Makhata school) The
school is operating on a wing and a prayer, and needs investors to
help keep the teachers paid, get the school kids fed, and to complete
the building. The vision is becoming real, with 250 kids, mainly
orphans and many special needs & disabled kids, attending primary
school. There are 5 teachers from the area and one fantastic
volunteer from Canada, Sue Richards, who is helping develop the
curriculum, teaching some classes herself, and taking on doing art
therapy with 10 orphans as part of an after school programme (thank
you Maggie Ziegler!). We feel blessed to be part of such an energetic
community & these kids are getting a chance at a future.
==================

Feb 10, 2007

Nkhoma and beyond

Malawi

Anna Callegari

This morning I feel as if I am sitting on the precipice of a fantastic dream, unwilling to pinch my pink flesh for fear that all will reveal itself as a figment of my imagination. The last two days have been beyond our comprehension, and we are floating with fascination and gratitude for the experiences.

Friday early morning comes quickly, despite our moonlit somnolence, and the skies soon offer a portrait of pink clouds and the promise of dawn. We are joining a team of a physician, pharmacist, accounts man and driver to travel to two of the remote clinics served by Nkhoma Hospital. Our jalopy is cleverly disguised as the hospital ambulance, and at 5:45 am, it arrives, delivering several ailing men, an emaciated babe, and a very young woman in labour. We are encouraged to alight, and in doing so I place my hand on the seat in what undeniably is some body fluid, likely amniotic …I am eternally thankful for the wet ones.

Soon we are hurtling towards the mountain pass that will deliver us to our first destination, Chigoda clinic. The route is circuitous, but stunningly beautiful. Layered hills are blanketed with a patchwork of crops of maize, cabbage, rice, tobacco, and groundnuts. The romantic mist slowly clears with the comforting warmth of the morning sun, revealing the serpentine road that winds down towards the valley below. The crowning jewel at the end of this journey lays promisingly ahead, the cool breezes and eggshell blue of Lake Malawi.

As if by divine intervention, the brakes start to fail near the bottom of the mountain; the controlled chaos of a sudden lurch, then the emergency brake. We are offered another glimpse of rural Malawi life, and move towards the local grain mill in search of a spanner, creating a scattering of children in every direction. Slowly they emerge from behind brick buildings and reeds to satisfy a curious glimpse of the gulewakulu (whites), and before long all the village children are laughing hysterically at their images captured within the camera.

With our drinking water as coolant, and the nod of Mr. Piri, our driver, we are off again to travel the blissfully flat route to Chigoda Clinic. As we pass over the last leg of the journey, a sandy road reminiscent of a goat track, we are delivered to the clinic; a simple brick building sheltering the concrete pews that support the faithful, who seem certain that the doctor has come to heal all. Hundreds of mothers and babies are waiting for the under five clinic, and we mingle and entertain the villagers until the doctor has finished seeing the sickest of the patients. Mr. Madetsa, a sweet little man with an infectious laugh comes here once every two months, and provides care for the more complicated cases that cannot be managed by the medical assistant based here. The pharmacy is stocked with only the most rudimentary medications, no designer drugs available here, and we are on our way to the next clinic.

The scenery is exquisite, and with a fraction of a turn of the head, the vista unfolds in a kaleidoscope of vibrant colours, textures, and forms. The Bilboa tree stands defiantly every few hundred feet, it’s trunk firmly stomped into the earth like an elephant’s formidable foot, and its’ laborious branches like arms, reaching wide to offer shelter for its’ people. Rice paddies vacillate in the breeze, making way for the proud corn stalks, which are gently coddled by pumpkins as far as one can see.

We continue towards the lake, to Malembo clinic, where Mr. Madetsa inserts Norplant implants, a contraceptive that offers women five years of birth control. Malawian women at least seem in control of their reproductive health in this way, but sadly the protection against pregnancy sometimes results in the freedom to engage in extracurricular activities. We learn that there are 12 million people in Malawi, and that 52% are under the age of 15. The life span is now reported at 37 for men and up to 45 for women, facts flying in the face of a reported HIV rate of 18% and falling. Many of the doctors here believe the numbers to be much higher at 30% and rising.

Having completed our work at Malembo we venture to the lake, which covers a third of Malawi and is incredibly beautiful. Rack after rack of drying fish defines the shoreline, and ramshackle huts are piecemealed together, offering shelter for those selling fish, bananas, mangos and avocados. The wooden shells of canoes, roughly hewn, evoke images of traditional antiquity and share the prime beach space with several large cows lounging in the afternoon heat. A gentle sensuous breeze cools us despite the scorching sun, and we watch mesmerized as young sinewy boys paddle out to “sea”. The children are indescribably excitable and delighted with their images in the camera, jostling for attention in front of us. One little boy comes running to us at the end of our visit with a camera fashioned from sand and mud, a highlight of the day that elicits spontaneous and contagious giggles from all of us.

We venture home, slowly but surely collecting passengers and cargo as we go, and at the end of our trip we share the ambulance with 8 people, 7 huge bags of rice, a kitten in a sack, and a copious amount of dried fish. As we navigate the dusty rutted road we notice that snow appears to be falling outside, one of the rice sacks has loosened at the top and rice is escaping. We screech to a halt and all are employed in not only tying the bag tighter, but then moving the bags inside the vehicle to protect against the impending torrential rain. I am moved by the actions of Mr. Modetsa, the clinical officer, who climbs to the top of the ambulance to collect handfuls of stray rice kernels, food is not wasted in Malawi.

We arrive home in the middle of an impressive rain storm, fourteen hours later, and after showering off the layer of dust and grime, fall into bed, lulled to sleep by the cicadas and odd electronic bat noises, and even the dogs barking protectively doesn’t wake us.

The next morning is Saturday and we have a lie in (8:30 this time!) and wake to find no power in the house. The American crew has managed to blow a fuse in the electrical system with their pancakes, eggs, sausage, kettle, and hairdryer extravaganza. We quickly escape to the relative sanity of the morning market and collect our week’s supply of tomatoes, onions, pumpkin leaves, and potatoes.

In the afternoon we are invited to join our friend Dalson in a trip to a nearby village, Milamba, which is about 8km away from Nkhoma, to participate in a community meeting. Nothing would have prepared me for what we were about to witness, although a little foreshadowing would have been wonderful as we arrived heathen like in our trousers (unheard of for a Malawian woman) and with only a soccer ball as an offering. Milamba is an outreach clinic for the Moyo Project, a very successful project currently funded by Save the Children, to provide HIV and AIDS awareness to rural villages in the Nkhoma area. The project currently serves 9 outreach clinics, and countless individuals, many of who are not benefiting from the public education system.

We arrive at the relatively humble building which houses the project in Malimba, and children descend on the vehicle as expected. What we are not expecting is the hundreds of children, 86 village chiefs, and some 900 people mobilized for this community meeting. The colours and sounds are somewhat overwhelming as everyone finds their places, the go gos (grandmothers) gathered in their radiant head scarves, the respected chiefs forming a wall of peppered heads and layered torn clothes, and the many children traversing the field like cheerful cherubs. Beth and I are introduced as honoured guests and the afternoon’s festivities begin.

First the local band is welcomed, and asked to perform their songs about the dangers of HIV and AIDS. The instruments are incredible, guitars garnished from old Mobile Oil cans and a rudimentary wooden neck, or large soup cans and wire. One of the performers hobbles up with a large stick, unable to walk because of a markedly deformed foot. The percussion section is comprised of a forked tree branch, with a wire stretched across, and bottle tops strung along the length. The band is remarkably talented, as they warn the local women of the dangers of HIV and to be clever, and ask men to respect their women and tighten their trousers.

The youth choir then rises to join their voices with angelic consequences, swaying back and forth in their mismatched blue shirts and torn trousers and skirts. They sing harmonically of the effect of HIV in their communities, and the multitude of children gathered at their feet are mesmerized by the message.

Courageous young girls and boys arise to speak their truth about the devastating effects of the pandemic in their lives in emotive poems, translated thoughtfully and gently by the teacher beside us, and Beth and I offer our gratitude and honour to the crowd in a small way, translated for the Malawians.

Suddenly excitement ripples through the masses, and everyone shifts to welcome the traditional spiritual dancers, who are emerging victoriously from the long grasses behind the group. These masked men, decorated extravagantly with a multitude of rags and elaborate feather headdresses, are invited to communicate with the spirits through dance. The elder chosen women are chanting and swaying, singing to call the spirits and offer space for the traditional dance, which reflect the cultural conditions of the people. These dances are frenetic and powerful, and one after another the men arrive in the circle to offer prayer to the spirits. This ceremony is used to recognize honoured guests, celebrate a new chief, or during funerals or initiation ceremonies for youth. It was one of the most moving events I have ever experienced, and Beth and I felt incredibly blessed and humbled to have been present.

I am so impressed by the clarity and openness in this community in the discussions of HIV and AIDS and it is a testament to the success of the outreach program. There must continue to be such efforts to reach the unreachable if HIV is to be controlled in this country. Incredulously this program is only funded until the end of March when Save the Children will pack up their laptop and vehicle, brush their hands together sanctimoniously, and declare their work done. There is so much more work to be done. We plan to assist Dalson in his search for further funding, and are happy to try to support this important work.

What will tomorrow bring? I can only imagine that it will involve the warmth and generosity of these incredible people. One more week of work at Nkhoma and we will be headed for Senga Bay on Lake Malawi, to work in a palliative care unit. Thank you for offering your imagination and interest in this journey. All our best, Anna and Beth

=============================

Feb 5, 2007

Nkhoma Hospital

Malawi

Anna Callegari

This morning began early with rounds at 7am at the hospital, at the moment there is a sea of white faces, a plethora of assistance, all well meaning but with the potential to do a lot of talking rather than listening. We, being polite Canadians, are willing to do just about anything that needs doing (within a reasonable scope of practice of course).

Typical morning:

7 Babies born

2 children die of malaria

Motor Vehicle Accident with 6 deaths (care of the newly paved road to Nkhoma)

Multiple surgical patients admitted

5 more admission for the Nutrition Rehabilitation Unit (children starving)

Spent the morning doing menial chores in the pharmacy stores with Barbara, the pediatrician, trying to manage the fine line between budget constraints (the hospital is over $100,000 US in debt) and the desperate needs of the patients spilling out of the wards into the hallways. Seems somewhat inappropriate that the only pediatrician on staff spends hours in the bowels of stores while kids are dying on the wards, but that is Africa….things often don’t make sense to us from the western world.

Beth and I returned to compile a list of all the donations being offered to Nkhoma before returning to the wards to start our project….A Day in the Life of Nkhoma Hospital. We have been asked to document the comings and goings of the hospital, to try to reflect the needs of Nkhoma and the people it serves to a world which has, understandably, little conceptualization of this reality.

We are offered a tour of the hospital by Olive, the acting head matron of nursing (who had sent a note to Beth by bush telephone)

Laundry- none of the three monstrous industrial machines work, and there is a cute little tailor making cloth hats for surgery out of recycled sheets.

TB ward – isolation for multiple TB patients, as well as a unit for patients suffering from meningitis (seems an unlikely combination to me!)

Kitchen – most patients in the hospital require a guardian, usually a family member who cooks for them, washes them, and takes them (or their bodies) home. There is a small, very basic kitchen for the TB and VVF patients, who often have no-one.

Nutritional Rehabilitation Unit – This was very likely the most disturbing thing I have witnessed so far. Despite a good harvest last year people, primarily children, are still starving. In 2002 Malawi suffered from a terrible famine when donor pressure forced excessive sales of maize to repay debt. This, in combination with torrential rains, resulted in an unbelievably insufficient harvest. People were literally dropping dead on the streets from malnutrition. Even now, when maize is plentiful, many children have insufficient protein and calories, resulting in these pathetic creatures suffering with either anorexic like proportions, or worse, massive edema resulting in swollen feet, legs, arms, and eyes that are painfully swollen shut. We met a mother 13 years old, starving with her baby, and laughed with a grandmother supporting her daughter who had a 3 month and 16 month old, both starving. Luckily for these children Nkhoma Hospital exists, and has a very comprehensive rehabilitation program.

ARV clinic – HIV patients line the halls waiting for a chance to consult a clinical officer, and get their antiretroviral drugs. Many of these patients have walked hours, some in very feeble states, and waited all day for a chance to be seen. Currently there is no Voluntary Counseling and HIV Testing being offered…the hospital has run out of money for HIV tests (ok I have to comment – ludicrous!)

Medical Wards – 45 beds on each ward, with mattresses laid between the beds on the floor. The ward is overflowing with patients ranging from desperately ill with malaria to those dying of AIDS. For all this need there is a patient attendant on duty, with two weeks official training, and one nurse for all medical and surgical ward. One young woman who has just had a large tumor removed from her thigh shares her bed with her two guardians, and three plates of food, sima (pure, unadulterated starch), relish (pumpkin greens fried), and corn (more starch) – not much room for the reparative effects of protein in this diet. Wandering into the back “private” room I meet Mr. Nsenga, who is living out the last few days of his life in a hospital bed, succumbing to malaria and AIDS, the typical skeletal figure. Ironically on the wall above his bed hangs a colorful hand painted mural, depicting a plump and happy Malawian standing beside a diminutive thin white person.

Pediatric Ward – sometimes 3 to a bed, malaria season is claiming more lives than any other malaise in Malawi. Infection seems to occur so easily here; there is a three week old baby with a huge cerebral abscess (infection), luckily diagnosed and drained before the baby perished. A three year old lies on her back, legs dangling in the air in traction for the last three weeks, and she patiently plays with a rubber band and piece of string. Beth is asked to run back to the house for one of the antibiotic suspensions we have brought, a life saving potion in the form of a plastic bottle. There are so many suffering children and as you can imagine, funerals are commonplace.

Maternity ward – One of the best parts of my day, a 16 year old with a brand new, minute old baby, the mother ecstatic and the baby content, sure that all is well in his world.

Surgical Ward – This is Beth’s Malawian home away from home, where she offers her much needed assistance. The ward is full, and there are so many incredulous stories to tell. There is a young woman with the most gruesome surgical wound on her leg, a deep incision from hip to knee. The awful infection which necessitated surgery followed a visit to a traditional healer, who scarred her leg with a razor to ward off evil spirits, resulting in the worst infection I have ever witnessed.

Despite all of these stories we are so very grateful to have an opportunity to be of real assistance, and are feeling very clear that we are offering all that we can in the face of this pandemic. One of our success stories follows:

Kiera’s Gift – Before Beth left Canada, her neighbor’s daughter Keira came over to offer her allowance, $63 Canadian, and wanted us to find an appropriate person to help with the donation. We found her in Nellia Kauwambale, a 59 year old grandmother from Mozambique who presented to a health clinic in late September with a lump in her breast she was diagnosed with an infection, given a few antibiotics and sent home. In Oct she was diagnosed with breast cancer which needed a mastectomy. She then had to wait until Dec 22 nd for the surgery, which successfully removed the tumor, but resulted in sepsis (serious infection of the blood). She was quite a complicated case, and was held in hospital until Jan 31 st, when she was discharged. She was still in Nkhoma on Feb 6 th as she had no money to go home. We decided to use Keira’s allowance to help this woman, her daughter and granddaughter go back home.

Total Bill 6332 Kwacha ($57)

Patient Paid 2000K ($18)

Keira Paid: Bill 4332K ($39)

Transport Home 1400K ($13)

Food 1268K ($12)

Thanks to Keira for her donation!!!

Next we have to find someone to help with her brother’s donation! As you can see, every little donation helps in Malawi, and there is so much need. Thanks for listening and being so supportive. Will be in touch as often as we can (technology is somewhat challenging here!) All our best, Anna and Beth.

.

==============================

Feb 3rd

Nkhoma Hospital

Malawi  

Anna Callegari

Arriving at Kamuzu Airport in Lilongwe, stepping onto the red saturated earth, and breathing in our first sample of the lavishly rich moist air was a blessing after over 40 hours of travel.  Beth and I prepare ourselves for dealing with the first of many customs officers and border guards, and ingeniously (….truthfully without much scheming at all) place our most innocuous duffel bags at the top of the pile, and predictably are asked to open one from each cart. After rifling through both my underwear and miscellaneous clothing, and what appears to be mass production of very adorable baby hats, the customs officer and police man both agree that we can go through with our eight pieces of luggage, welcome to Malawi! We have managed to complete the first difficult task of our journey, delivering the multitude of gifts and donations from our many supporters in Canada with no extra charges!

We are picked up by the charming Davison, who carries a handwritten sign saying BERTH KISSINGER, which completely cracks Beth up, and are then delivered to Shoprite (should be coined Shopwhite) where we are tempted by an embarrassing selection of expat options. Beth and I take a deep breath, refrain, and choose the more Malawian options to sustain us (with the exception of a small amount of gouda). After changing a little US cash ($1 buys 143 Kwacha; 5 Kwacha buys 2 yummy bananas) we are on the road to Nkhoma Hospital, our destination for the next two and a half weeks. I had forgotten how rich and palpable the African experience is; even being witness to road side life brings an incomprehensible array of colors, smells, emotions, and vistas.

Young boys herd their goats, young girls walk proudly with bundles of firewood balanced precociously upon their delicate heads, women wander with cherubic babies tied to their backs, and the brightness of the worn clothing persists despite the tears and triumph over many washes. As we near the outskirts of town we pass “Furniture Row” where signs for coffin makers are ironically interspersed with bed manufacturers. The people wear beaming grins and deep brown skin, and offer tentative waves as they witness our porcelain presence. The scenery is exquisite, rainy season brings lush, vibrant greens, and deep muddy reds to the rolling landscape, which presents itself as a quilt of maize (corn), groundnuts (peanuts), potatoes, bananas, and dots of boulders and hills for pronunciation of the squares.

Arriving at the newly paved road of Nkhoma (Beth is flabbergasted by this) we near the hospital where we will try to assist in the amazing work these clinicians are offering. Still time for a walk through town before dark and on our journey we meet many of Beth’s friends, including a young nursing student Beth has assisted over the past two years of his training. These students work 10 hours a day for what used to be 150 Kwacha a month, just over $1 US. Now the government has decided that the students should get no stipend…they do get three meals a day….and have to pay their own way to the placement they are assigned to on completion of their training, an impossibility for many. We are taken on a lovely walk with Charles, witness stunning scenery, and warmly reconnect with old friends for Beth and new friends for me. On our way home we visit quickly with Barbara Nagy, the pediatrician and single mother of three, including two girls from China and a lovely little bub from Malawi called Happiness (the new addition). Night falls like a smothering blanket with its darkness, and the night sounds, unfamiliar excepting the cicadas, lull us off to sleep under our mosquito nets after our trying journey.

Our first full day in Malawi begins with an early trip to the local market, where the poverty is undeniable, and hopeful people gather with their small piles of produce, hoping to make enough kwacha to sustain them until the next week. We are told that this is a lucky year, there is still maize from last year, and not many people are starving. The evidence suggests otherwise, with the swollen bellies, sunken faces, and yellowed hair of malnutrition ever present. Hundreds of people are milling about, trying to sell corn, potatoes, tomatoes, nuts, beans, greens, goats and chickens. Bales of “donated” clothing are frantically picked through for a warm sweater for a young boy, or slightly shabby sleeper for the baby on a mother’s back. The people of Malawi are tentatively warm, and respond with beaming grins to our simple attempts at greetings such as Zikomo (good day) and Muli Bwanji (how are you). They are curious, and delightful, especially the children…ever present as half the population is under 14 years of age.

Our afternoon is spent on a quick tour of the hospital, which is a convoluted collection of brick buildings, corridors, and antiquated equipment. The pediatric ward is full, this year has proven particularly bad for malaria, and most Malawian’s suffer from this condition many times over in their lives. This ward has 45 beds, but often bulges with 100-150 children.  The patients who are admitted to the hospital need one or two family members to provide meals and general care, no extra nursing here.  The hospital is very well organized in terms of its programs; male and female medical wards, outpatient clinic, maternity ward, surgical ward and eye clinic. We deliver the many medical supplies and medications to Barbara, and she is thrilled, kissing the bottles of Augmentin, an antibiotic that is certain to save lives and difficult to get here. The 400 knit baby hats and receiving blankets that Beth has organized will prevent the newborn babies from getting hypothermic, as many mothers do not even have a cloth to wrap their babies in to take them home.

Tomorrow Dr. Hull and his team from Ohio arrive to provide surgical treatment for the VVF patients for three weeks. The Vesico Vaginal Fistula patients are primarily young women who deliver unassisted in very rural areas, and have greatly prolonged labors which results in a hole between their bladder or rectum and vagina. These women have no control over leaking urine or stool, and are shunned by their families, often their husband leaves them, and usually their baby has died in labor. Nkhoma Hospital is leading the way in providing treatment for these women and allowing them to begin new lives. Our day has been full, and after a lovely dinner with Barbara and the children we are off to bed, dreaming vibrant dreams of Africa and home.

Morning’s first light is accompanied by the harmonic singing of church groups, gathering for the first of many services today. Beth and I decide to attend the Chichewa sermon, and arriving a few minutes late, struggle to squeeze ourselves into the back of a throng of at least 600 to 700 Malawians, gathering to garnish hope for their lives. You can only imagine the number of times already we have heard “god willing” on this journey. The sermon smells of lecture, with many references to Yesu and Maria, and not one mention of HIV or AIDS. It is my first impression that this disease is still very much riddled with stigma here, and we have heard many examples of young people dying of “cancer” or “pneumonia”.  There is a dense odor emanating from the pews, many of these people have worn their Sunday best but can’t afford soap to wash. The woman in front of us has her baby swaddled on her back, and mid sermon the baby produces a puddle of pee on the floor at Beth’s feet. I couldn’t resist asking Beth if there was a restaurant nearby where we could have lunch, again producing muffled hysterics. The highlight of the service, which was a protracted three hours, was the incredible singing, dancing and harmonies which produced goose bumps on my arms. I managed to sing along in Chichewa, perfectly pronounced I am certain…., by sharing the song book with the cute little girl beside me, who gingerly kept touching my arm, to see if my skin felt any different than hers.

After the service and a bite to eat we set off on a 6km walk out to Charles’s village, where his mother, grandmother, sister and her family still live. The journey is stunningly beautiful, and every available piece of land has been cleverly and meticulously crafted into a work of art of gardens and fields. The path is red and muddy and well worn from the villagers meeting at Nkhoma for food, work and “god willing” a future. The village is extremely simple….mud huts with thatched roofs, window panes devoid of glass, simple rondavels for cooking huts, and happy, warm and generous people. We have offered 500 Kwacha ($3.25 US) for food for the family, which provided potatoes, mangos, soap, a kilo of sugar, tomatoes….more than they had seen in the past six months. The grandmother is absolutely gorgeous with her leathered face and tiny diminutive frame, and she is so grateful for the visit. Charles’s sister Lea, who delivered her first child at 14, has just produced a third chubby son, who I immediately confiscate and cuddle, knowing just when to pass him over to Beth so he can pee down her leg….she seems to have a knack for that.

We arrive home, tired and content, and are confronted with the arrival of the Americans, who are a team of surgeons, a nurse and the doctor’s wife. They have managed to transport an incredible 12 “foot lockers” full of medical supplies, suction machines, and incredulously at least half of the totes were absolutes on the “must have food items” – peanut butter, crackers, cookies, sausage, cheese, probably marshmallows and dehydrated Big Macs. Yikes….Beth and I happily munched on our rice and greens, had a cup of tea, and are now off to slumber land….more to come in the next few days. With our deepest gratitude for all your support,

 Anna and Beth

January 26, 2007

Andrea Palframan, Lesotho

Kids have the greatest Mary Poppins nanny who takes them on adventures & does projects with them. Marly has a big crush on her; when she has to go home we must pry him from her leg. They have their own little garden and an incredible, huge sandpit where they can dig caves and tunnels. Maybe they will grow up to be miners. They are the best thing in the world to come home to every day & occasionally we take them with us into Lesotho. Last time, we were at a fancy restaurant in the capital city, with a lovely fountain in the courtyard. Marly thought he'd try and grab one of the goldfish, so he reached in his fat little arm ... and somehow his whole fat little self ended up very wet. You should have seen his face as he had to shlorp, shlorp, shlorp across the crowded patio back to us in his soggy soggy shoes as all the diners erupted. Kina was very pleased. Nothing more enjoyable than a chagrined little brother.

We go to Lesotho just about every day. Once you get where you are going (in our rocket ship Saab we are traveling in) things slow right down. Yesterday we were off looking at irrigation with Terry, a crotchety old Boer with a thousand tall tales up his sleeve...hint - do not encourage a Boer to talk about hunting. He was very moved by the projects that we are involved with, saying in 25 years he has never seen anything so encouraging. Nice words from someone who knows the terrain. The biggest problem in Lesotho isn't lack of resources or labour ; these are in somewhat short supply, but there are plenty of fallow fields and idle people - the issue we are confronted with over and over is dependancy on aid; it seems to have killed a lot of initiative here in Lesotho; people expect a handout and won't get things started on their own. Plus government is wickedly corrupted ... the trail down \from donors to the people is lined with greased palms. So donors come in, design projects, fund them to the hilt, then expect people, who actually only see 10% of the funding, to carry on once the funds are dry. A vicious cycle. Even farmers stop producing food when the World Food Programme comes around, but who would say food aid should be cut off in a place where people are starving????? Not stuff that is easily solved. And AIDS complicates things......... all the people my age are dying, leaving their kids behind..... it is a country of grandparents, widows, and orphans.

And these guys are the nicest people you ever want to meet - cheerful, full of rhythm, and teasing each other all day long. How do they keep up their humour? They are really the most amazing people. And everyone is a character; Tim Burton would be in heaven picking extras around here, with all the big fat nuns and tall skinny old men dressed like Cab Calloway and the cock-capped young hustler's at the helm of brightly decked out donkey carts. Gorgeous. The architecture is tin shacks and perfect round mud huts, there are no bookstores, museums, or concert halls, but this place is a living, breathing opera. i think i mentioned everybody sings, all day long.... sitting by this lovely little spring yesterday, all the women started singing a hymn..." by the rivers of Babyon, I sat and wept, when I remembered Zion..." Harmony.

Fortunately we have very limited funds to spread around (!) and we have observed that money is the last thing people need... they need leadership , self-confidence, and ownership of their projects and ideas. So there's a lot of listening, and as the layers peel back we find out what we are really here for.... like yesterday, arriving in a village with our big irrigation scheme... turns out there are 2 natural springs & all we need to do is build a stone tank and gravity feed water down, will cost 20 bags of cement and a couple of day's labour.... at the end of the meeting, we were introduced to a woman and her adopted child. They hope we can help get her into the new school Salt Spring islanders are building here in Lesotho. It is to be a primary school for AIDS orphans, special needs, and 'vulnerable' children).

So here's this woman laying on the ground, her holey shoes testament to her destitution, with her adopted kid who is mentally and physically handicapped. The girl, who is 8 but looks 5 (malnutrition will do that) literally can't sit, smelling strongly of urine, grinding her teeth and lolling her head. Dear Gary just sat and held her, and calmed her down with his stillness. He has learned much from his daughter about patience. So the story comes out; the woman is also mentally handicapped, lives alone, and occasionally her home is broken into by young boys and she is gang raped. Happened again last week. She is about 40. The girl is a double orphan, both parents died of AIDS; they are all each other has. I have no idea how they manage to eat. So we are asked to help get this strange and touching family to safe ground. Screw "sustainable development initiatives" - this is basic human dignity. We help. The school also has a residence for disabled kids, so these two can go and live there. The "mum" will be an extra pair of hands to balance the extra mouths they have to feed. What do we have to do with this story? We're just the chauffeurs.

Hi Everybody,

This is really worth reading...... a story about justice, which is just US.

1.

We are spending 6 months in Lesotho, southern Africa. This week, visiting the Phelisanong Disabled project at Ha Makhata village, where orphans and handicapped people all gather to care for each other. Wheelchair bound men weave hats from grass and the hairdresser has put aside her crutches to braid a toddlers' hair, the way her mother would have, had she lived. Everyone looks up to project founder Mamello, this childless woman who has brought us all together - Mamello, the mother of this project, in her long red gown and her red scarf wound through her hair, going between us all, sorting things out, giving commands - beaming now, stern now, seriously in charge she inspires every one of us to give it all.

Mamello is a fire, pouring her lava all over us, changing things that have been fixed - seems like forever - she makes new land where once it was barren. She melts taboos and reforms them into fair play. Collecting orphaned children, neglected elders, and confused teenagers, she makes a whole family out of fragments. She looks after people whom her culture declares untouchable; handicapped people, albinos, people with AIDS.

Today she brings us a group of 15 girls, all at that tender age between girl and woman. They are shy and proud and vulnerable...they are painfully beautiful. I have a hard time seeing past all of the perils that are in front of them, to their strength that will carry them through. Early marriage. Rape. Brutal trade offs - dignity for base survival. Sex for food. I am worried about them.... want them to keep their innocence, want to shake them awake to the harsh realities that they now face as adults.... sex here is like a sword. It can empower you and it can gut you. It can be inflicted on you and it can kill you. These girls must claim their womanhood and I want to hand them all a good sharp sword to protect themselves from all the blades that are turned their way. Although they are proud and gorgeous and smart, they need a bit more mothering yet.

Anyway. Here's a group of 15 girls and Mamello is asking us to help secure their futures. They are all brilliant, she says, and they all want to go to high school. They need help; this ones' parents are dead, this ones' mother has AIDS and is not working; this one is the last of 8 children and the father has passed away.... Then they take turns standing in front of us so we can take their pictures. They don't pose so much as they reveal themselves . Look at the pictures...... they just say, here is me. Look.

All members of the HIV support group in the village, they also do a lot of theatre and acting. These dramas they create tell the stories that surround them and are wicked cautionary tales. As grim as the tragedies are, they are full of singing, humour and great characters, and the girls love to parody and tease. They don't hold back; when they do the mock funeral scenes their exaggerated mourning offers such release. It is over the top; it is maudlin, macabre and so funny. We ask Mamello how often the support group meets, and she says, "Oh, they come EVERY day!". This isn't some kind of after school club; it's survival.

As we are leaving, they hand us letters they have each written, expressing why they want to go to school and giving some reasons why they can't afford the $350 a year fees. Even if they had parents, the fees amount to half a year's wages for a working class person. So we go away with these pieces of paper and these photographs. No pressure.... school starts in 2 weeks and they need $5300.

This is where the community to community part comes in. We have all of you, all of these friends in Canada and all over the world, who actually watch the video emails and read the letters. You may have come to conferences, you may have been with us in Lesotho, you might have the misfortune of being related to us and therefore be a captive audience. But you are listening. Mamello knows a lot of you; after coming to Canada and setting everyone on the edge of their seats at the Community to Community 2 conference, after checking out your nice houses and hearing you promise to help how you can, she knows what you are capable of. I'm very glad to be used by her! and passed on the girls' scholarship appeal without the usual hand wringing apologies. You all got the email; Here's an idea, $5300 anyone?

OK, maybe not as easy as it sounds, there is conspicuous silence from over there. I imagine what you are thinking - " Is this really a sustainable development initiative? What about all the other girls out there? How can we keep something like this going, year after year? We don't even know these girls! plus it is a hell of a lot of money, and we just blew the wad on Christmas."

I do understand, but I have this instinct that there is someone who will work through all those disclaimers and come forward. School, right? The first step towards just about anything a person does. The best way for girls to avoid HIV and early pregnancy. Teachers, the school community - A family when your own has collapsed. Mentors when you are on your own. Not to mention the very tangible school lunch that means you get to eat well at least once a day. While there are lots of great "sustainable development" project to support, education is undeniably the biggest leg up a person can possible gain in a world where ignorance = death. And while funding individuals isn't something most agencies do, we know these girls' names now, and we know their stories.

2.

We return to that other world, of cel phones and email. I start in the morning with email; there is a message from a friend saying she will work with some students to fund one of the girls' scholarships. YAY!! OK! one down, 14 to go. Then a minute later we get a text message on our phone from Mamello. "How r u coming with scholarships 4 girls? meet with them today 2 choose who will have schooling." SHIT! Ok; maybe this is something I just have to let go of. I'll have to tell Mamello I couldn't help, and she'll have to pick the winner out of 15 girls who should all have had a chance. Maybe next year we'll be more prepared, fundraise in advance, make sure we've got discretionary funds for things like this that come up that don't fit into the box of formal aid projects. Maybe I'll write something to my immediate family and start to... well, beg.

Back to the computer to compose the grovelling email..... and there is 1 new message. It reads:

"After reading your email regarding the scholarship fund for these young

women, we would like to sponsor all 15 for the next year. In $$ that

would mean 15 x $350.00= $5,250.00. We will have that full amt available

to send on Jan 10/07."

I swear to God the tears shot right across the room. Can you kick off your shoes and dance in your socks with us on this one???? Hooting - hollering - laughing - crying - kitchen dancing, Gary and I hugging and jumping up and down and then rushing to open the patio doors, shouting to the mountains... "THANK YOU MONICA!" .... and thank you community to community, this is working its magic and we don't know how but this wretched story has a happy ending.

Justice. Is our life just? A bird comes into our room, flies around, finds a window, flies away. we come to Africa, witness people's lives, and then leave. Is it fair that it's these girls and not other ones ? would it be more fair if it were none of them ? can we, could we, should we judge who is deserving or do we just accept that our work is to do what we're asked to, by people who we trust? is it fair that we get to be the ones to tell Mamello the good news, even though it isn't our money? we are a strand in the braid of this story. 15 girls are going to school this year and at the end of it all, that's fair enough.

So that's how we celebrated New year.... brought in with a raucous affirmation. Rustler's valley, where we live, has a new year's festival every year as well, so without having to go anywhere, we were at a great party. Music filling the valley and lights, banners, colourful costumed revellers and primal fires grounding the thump thump thump of the techno-coloured yawp!!!! Deep down celebration, gratitude for this community that lives in natural harmony, grateful for our birthright that is justice.

Tucking daughter Kina in on new year's eve, we lit the candle she made me for Christmas, little round green apple, and made wishes for the new year. Wishing that all girls be well, that they carry strong hearts and sharp swords. Balancing the candle on the way back to the party, the wax warm running into my palm . Candle in one eye/moon in the other. One is a daughter/oneis a mother. Can't see for the light in front of my eyes..... I'm swimming through the darkness, guided by candlemoons.

Everything , absolutely all of it, is a lesson. Just when you think there can be no consolation for all the dying, suffering, horrible abuse and downright evil in the world, someone pulls back the veil and you glimpse amazing grace. Hail Mary, heal Mary.

May you all have a new year filled with community, may you have a firm grasp of your sword, may you be part of many happy endings and beginnings this year.

Love

Andrea & Gary