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Click here for the 2005 Blog Archives Here are the letters and images home from Africa from various folk doing their work in Africa ================================== Some of our friends at http://www.omidyar.net/home/ are helping to raise awareness of the situation in Darfur by posting video clips daily for 10 days as they review the situation. SOLID will host the video links for 10 day journey beginning July 10, 2007. Each day there will be a new short video interviewing people who have fled Darfur and are now living in a refugee camp near the border. We hope to support the people of Darfur by raising awareness to their plight and and hope that those of us who can will put political pressure on our governments to do some thing to help stop the bloodshed. ====================================================== DAY 10 - July 19, 2007 Last Day - But i-Act Continues with You ====================================================== DAY 9 - July 18, 2007 Returning Home to Build a Better Darfur ====================================================== DAY 8 - July 17, 2007 The Children Take the i-Act Team on a Tour
====================================================== DAY 7 - July 16, 2007 More Dreadful Stories
====================================================== DAY 6 - July 15, 2007 Walking to school with the children
========================================= DAY 5 - July 14, 2007 Drawings from a child shows the tragedy
========================================= DAY 4 - July 13, 2007
======================================================== DAY 3 - July 12, 2007 Abeche Greeted by the Beautiful Children ================================================= DAY 2 - July 11, 2007 Meeting UN High Commission for Refugees
========================================== DAY 1 - July 10, 2007 Gabriel is in Chad/Darfur, raising awareness about the genocide situation in the Darfur region of Sudan ============================================ .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 ===================== April 3, 2007 Andrea Palframan, in Lesotho We've crossed the moat now and are staying in Pitseng, Lesotho. The general strike which threatened to keep us immobile has ended. It is very dry; the corn is turning bone white in the fields and it is getting dire for farmers and families who depend on this season's harvest to carry them through winter. Still the fields of sorghum look promising.; the red bauble tops are laden with berries; mixed with a sprinkling of early purple, pink, and white cosmos flowers the fields are rainbows. The mountains reach in a velvet sweep around us, their colours dancing through the day from green in the morning to afternoon brown, and drenched red at sunset. We opted to stay at Aloes Guesthouse instead of in the village of Ha Makhata; there are 2 kids the same age as Kina and Marly who speak great English, there's a swimming pool, there's a place to shower and cook. We are in a bit of a bourgeois bubble but it's ok. Tv turns out to be as bad in Lesotho as it is everywhere when you only get 3 channels; we settle for anything, anything at all, in English.
First day we go out and meet the chief of Pitseng. Ntate Khetisa is a middle aged guy in a dingy office, responsible for liasing with all the village level chiefs and for setting disputes that these local chieftains can't solve in their communities. He's not as relaxed as your regular guy; he's dealing with underresourced local governments, underserviced constituents, and, oh, yes, a pandemic that infects a third of his people. It's me, Sam, Sue and Gary from Canada, and Mamello at the meeting this morning. Four years ago when Mamello came before the same chief, she came alone. He told her that she would never succeed in her dream of building a project for orphans and disabled people. The fear of AIDS was rampant and anyone who as much as associated themselves with the disease, or its sufferers, was castigated. Mamello sat in this same office and was told that if she invited disabled people into the village, she would be shunned; he even hinted that if she valued her life, she'd abandon her plans. Mamello went ahead anyway, and today sits surrounded by her supporters, listening to the big man praise her courage, and her accomplishments. He was self-aware, though, and honest. He said that governments & people in power in Lesotho tend to take things over, to assume control and most of all, take credit, for projects that succeed, and that we should be wary of the motives of anyone who comes in to help Mamello. We laughed and said, "In Lesotho? In the world, it's like that everywhere." And went on to talk about aid and development agencies & the problems of 'imposed solutions' versus community initiatives that come from the ground.
Next it was off to Tsepong Clinic; we've been trying to nail down the hospital administrator, together with the administrator of the AIDS clinic. It has been difficult. Last weeks' taxi strike meant patients couldn't make their Monday and Tuesday appointments; when the taxis started running again on Wednesday, the clinic was deluged with 3 days worth of very ill patients needing CD4 counts, counselling and medication. There's always a gulp and a cold sweat passing through the clinic door. Corridor lined with very sick people, wrapped in makeshift blankets. Many mothers with youngsters; which one is sick? or are they both? Emaciated children stretched out on laps. Guys who should be hipsters, eyes huge in gaunt faces. You can see why this disease was once called 'slim'. Everyone sitting quietly, waiting many hours to see doctors. The waiting room is so quiet; one place I don't greet everyone I pass, as is normal everywhere else in Lesotho. The film we are making is for these patients, many of whom have come not knowing much about the disease that they are afflicted by. The idea is that by showing a short video in the waiting room the basics of causes, care, treatment and prevention of the spread of AIDS will be communicated, along with sharing resources that can help the patients in their home communities find support groups and community services. Mixed in with all that information will be songs and poems about HIV by youth and adults who are open with their status or who have powerful words of encouragement for their fellow countrymen. After setting up numerous meetings which had to be cancelled for various life or death reasons, today we were very lucky today to stumble into a gathering of all of the Tsepong Clinic staff, relaxing at the local bar after a looooong week! The staff were saying goodbye to Elizabeth Lavoie, a French Canadian nurse who has been working there for over a year. Her spirited and upbeat presence will be missed at the clinic.
On Saturday we go down the ridge into a river valley, and walk through the canyon, Kina and Marly wallowing in the shallow river the whole way. Nobody around but two boys with a hacksaw, about 8 and 6, cutting firewood, and a lone guy on a black horse who rides up the steep sides of the canyon... someday I'd like to make a cowboy movie in Lesotho, these riders are so rowdily barebacked and cock-capped, they could be heroes, outlaws, lone rangers in their blanket ponchos riding against the epic mountain backdrop. We pass willow trees that have been struck by lightning, had limbs hacked off, but still survive, their feet rooted in the stream that keeps their leaves coming back after every setback. This river receives all the little streams that feed these mountain villages; it is the lifeblood that carries generation after generation. Waterfalls pour off the hills even in this drought time, and nurture clumps of scrubby indigenous trees that defy gravity, rooted in sheer rock.
We follow one stream uphill and find ourselves in a tiny village. Three women wash clothes on a rock - they call us over and we quickly exhaust our limited Sesotho, they their limited English. But no worries; the kids are here! by the dozens, and many of them attend Mamello's English Medium School at Ha Makhata. So these mini translator/guides lead us through the shire-like village. Kids we know from school stand in little clusters in the doorways of their round, shaggy roofed clay huts and shyly wave. Here is where these orphans live, just huts like this one, all alone but in the hearth of the village life that teems with other orphans... the washing women are too few to care for so many, and are so happy that every kid in town has decided to walk us home, so they can have some peace! and get on with the work of the day. Marly entertains with his crowd pleasing cow noises and Kina finds her hands held by girls she knows from school. She shows off her earrings, eventually, once she decides she has enough space and safety to open up. Basotho do not have the same need for privacy or personal space as Canadians... we brush up against a stranger and both apologize, while here people are comfortable to cram together, touch when they are curious, and hit and slap where Canadians would say, please excuse me. They're not rude; they're actually much friendlier to strangers. People look right at you, especially when you can't communicate with language you resort to looking at each other and reading expressions, which tells you a lot about a person. People just don't look away, without being met first. Natural curiosity was never polited, neuroticized or scared away here.( And yes I'm allowed to make up words... Marly does all the time. We go over speedbumps and he calls them goosebumps, and the sores on his feet are called scabbages. )
Doing cool media stuff with teenagers. We set dates to do a poetry anthology and DVD with a bunch of poets from Molapo High School; we'll mix the poetry in with the movie we're making for Tsepong Clinic as well. Kids can sell the chapbook; this is affirming their words and their thoughts, and also hopefully helping them buy lunch. Last night we had a group of youth from Pitseng over the the Aloe's Guesthouse where we are staying to watch some of Gary's films that they happen to be in... lots of laughs and ribbing, played it 3 times in a row, very fun. Next we're making a film of a play these kids wrote, where we'll film it properly and use the youth choir for the soundtrack. The play is about life, as in, HIV/AIDS, and is a cautionary tale that can be used to educate younger kids, and their peers, about all those useful things like prevention, rights, and treatment. Yes, treatment is hard and there are so many barriers to access, but people also die from 'depression.' So many people give up because of lack of imagination. They have such limited options (try to find food today being the main driving force for the orphans) that to encourage them to express their ideas, their dreams, and their visions, values the life they lead inside of themselves which so often goes unexpressed or unheard. It's fun to sit with kids and talk about what they really want and think about... their dreams are as rich and surprising and vast and sometimes damn lovely, as any imaginings of a bunch of teenagers, anywhere. We're helping them to become by showing them who we see them to be, by us admiring them and caring about them and listening to them, they get it that they are special, cool, important, valuable.
Only four more days until Anna, Beth, Meron and Ray appear on the scene. What a fun reunion; Melanie is also coming from Zimbabwe where she has been working with a permaculture village called Kufunda. We are setting up meetings and planting trees so that we can all sit in the shade and come up with more brilliant ways to connect our worlds. It has been an interesting week, once again, and we alternate baby steps, giant strides, and stillness, and in some fine way at the end of the day feel sane in this crazy country of extremes.
Love y'all
Andrea
============ March 20, 2007 Andrea Palframan, in Lesotho, South Africa Lesotho is out of bounds. We were all ready to leave yesterday Then, just as we were setting out the next day, the phone rang. Without getting into the nature of the politics and the intricacies 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 Gavin tours us through the complex of school buildings, 3 of which he (this next bit uses initials instead of real names due to the Next, we call M, who runs an orphanage for 30 kids in nearby We visit one of her many little beading circles, where the p.s. Anyone in Canada reading this who has connections to retail Here's a situation where child labour is a positive thing; their 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 Today is another no-go day for Lesotho. Apparently the strike is to There are many many other thoughts but Cosmos City beckons... ================================== March 18, 2007 Andrea Palframan, in Lesotho Hi Everyone!
Wanna visit? Have tea? Brew yourself a cup and join me in Africa for awhile.
Today was absolutely wonderful. We started off very early, leaving the kids with Mampolokeng, who had her 2 boys with her as well as it was a day off for the local primary school. Playtime..... Mampolokeng has taught Marly to crochet using a twig, and Kina has become knitting obsessed; when I come home at night the place is decorated with miniature doilies in wobbly rainbow colours. The boys are fast runners and agile; at the end of the day Kina and Marly are begging to go to bed, having played in the hay pile, climbed trees, and swam all day.
Off to Lesotho. On our way, we picked up Nthabiseng, (pronounced Tabby-sing) who has commandeered the Rustler's Valley resort craft shop and made it her home and sewing studio. Nthabiseng is a permaculture expert; she can be found in the valley's organic gardens in her long tie-dyed butterfly gown and gumboots - she'd fit right in on Salt Spring, another fairy with her fanciful muddy soles. She is the keeper of the local seed bank and collects all kinds of medicinal and food plants, and teaches organic growing with Food and Trees for Africa to schools and community groups around South Africa. Because she grew up in Pitseng, where the orphan and disabled project we are working with is located, we asked her to come with us today to participate in a 'pitso' (meeting) about the Phelisanong Orphan, Disabled, and HIV/AIDS organizations' farm plan. She wants to work in Lesotho, with and for her own people, and is glad to help. This morning Nthabiseng comes out of the little craft shop hut wearing an Indian sari for a scarf, long dangly earrings and fancy gold lame slippers. She is one fine farmer.
In Lesotho the sit-down pitso is a finely honed artform. Everyone sits in a circle; someone opens the meeting with a prayer. Then people take turns speaking, for as long as they wish. Nobody interrups, everyone listens. There is a lot of silence after someone speaks. Then the next speaker will begin with, 'thank you for what you have said." The meeting goes for as long as it needs to, and people sit patiently. Nobody writes anything down. There is no agenda but things proceed, orderly. While it might seem like it's just a lot of talking, many things are discussed and decided. This is the format for choosing leaders, council meetings, communal land allocation, and delivering community justice. The meeting was in Sesotho, a language of which I understand only a scattering of words, so while I got the very basic gist it was the expressions and the body language that was what I was listening to.
The gist was: the project has a big farm, and also is working with 14 outlying villages to develop community gardens and livestock projects to support the HIV+ population, and the orphans. First, people talked about their frustrations with top down programs designed to help farmers. Good ideas with not enough resources to do the necessary follow through and implementation. Lack of support also plagues NGO projects; the building, the tools, the seeds, but not the training or management, and up until now, no help for farmers to market and sell what they grew. The thrust for NGOs has been to encourage household food security ahead of income generating, commercial growing. Of course people will always practice subsistence agriculture as an insurance policy, but what to do with the suplusses they grow? How to encourage even producing more than what the family needs so they can have the cash needed to get to the clinic, to buy medicine for the kids, to buy candles & clothes and soap? The problem with policies coming from above is that people who are supposed to implement them weren't invited to the pitso where they were developed.
Attending the meeting, along with the local farmers' association, the farm manager, and foresters Motholo and Sam, was Thuso Green, an hyper ectomorph whose racy mind was grounded by the respectful format of this village pitso. He lives in Maseru and works as a consultant, with big projects, big NGOs, and government. He opened by expressing his market-driven approach to farming, whereby with a bit of education, farmers could make small changes to their growing cycle and make real profits. He used the example of corn; fields of corn wave golden all over these hills; even the most humble shack has a 'mealie' patch out front. The corn they grow is for food and cattle feed. Thuso explained that farmers who have shifted to growing sweet corn, using their traditional methods but with an improved seed, get six times as much money from their crop, and that those who grow organically get an additional third as a premium. He got very excited about the organic potential in Lesotho; farmers here effectively ARE growing organically, although they may not know what you are talking about when you say organic. Just as Lesotho is being marketed (through Bono's Project Red which channels profits from the Red line of products into social programmes in Lesotho,��and the ALAPHA programme to test and treat factory workers) as a 'fair trade' nation in the textile market, it can also be marketed as an ethical, ecologically sound source for food. It really is a permaculture oasis; people can't afford chemical fertilizers or pesticides, and every scrap of organic matter is recycled back into the soil. There is abundant water if it is managed right, and everyone in rural areas has a household garden, a few peach trees, and communal fields to cultivate.
We talked about irrigation, trees, nurseries and greenhouses, livestock, and primary school gardens. One of the gentlemen at the meeting from the Senyake Farmers' Association, who has been volunteering with Phelisanong to help make the farm more efficient, started this Grassroots Livelihoods program in primary schools wherein kids grow seedlings and learn about how to produce a year's worth of food, then are encouraged to take seedlings home and do the same thing in their yards.This is a great way for the nursery and greenhouse at Phelisanong to be useful; kids can grow their own seedlings, along with a few extra for the project itself, with the clear incentive that these are THEIR plants, to care for, and to keep.
We go outside and walk the land. The place, the place... the day was exceptionally clear, and the sweep of blue green mountains embraced us as we walked through the yellowing grass, looking at water sources where women were scrubbing laundry on rocks, laying out clothes like bright flags onto grass to dry. Through it all this wild scene of kids - recess time has kids running, playing, giving each other rides in wheelchairs... walking through it all I spot all these familiar kids who used to shock and upset me. The wobbly toddler with the crooked wooden cane, the girl who walks on her ankles, her feet flopping behind like flippers, the teenager with one leg turned inwards making her way around with her fluid lurch... hey, wait a second, I've never seen her walk without canes before! Where I used to see misery I now see hope. Nthabiseng and Thuso, both Basotho people, are staring around in wonder. In her hometown, Nthabiseng is witnessing this amazing convergence of energy and hope, so intensely alive. People keep coming up to her and recognizing her.. the "I know your father!" conversation comes up a lot. She has come home, and she does and doesn't recognize the place. The vision coalesces in the second part of the meeting; Phelisanong, being the centre of the community, is a natural marketplace for farmers to bring their produce to trade, and sell. Since it's on the main transport route, trucks fly by who can take produce to bigger markets, like bringing peaches to the Maseru processing plant to be canned, juiced, and made into jam. Here in Pitseng peaches grow everywhere, and when they are ripe, there is a surplus. But how do you sell someone a peach when everyone has too many? Thuso explained that if the farmers all bring their peaches to Phelisanong on Saturdays, he can help arrange for a buyer from Maseru to come pick them up. Is there demand? Hell yeah; the processing plant is operating at 1/8 of its capacity. The Saturday market is also a good place to distribute seedlings and trees to the 14 outlying villages' community garden groups. They can pick these up at the same time as drop off their saleable products. All those farmers, all together on one steady day, means workshops and resources can be delivered, like lessons in permaculture farming techniques, water harvesting, and distribution of good quality, open pollinated seeds. The nice thing about this particular gathering, on this particular spot, is that these ideas will actually happen. We have seen it before; because the Phelisanong organization is so tight, and there are already systems that really work in place, there is a solid foundation upon which to build. The hardest part of any project, the getting together committed people & figuring out how to work together, has been done. Funny moment happens when 4 people from the Ministry of Agriculture show up. There has been much talk about the problems with the way government works (or doesn't work) with rural communities in this meeting... and here they come, in their big white 4x4 truck, to do 'agriculture outreach', only to find we've got it all figured out. Mamello, queen of subtle diplomacy, makes them wait outside awhile. She is loving this;��the people who once made her wait while they made personal calls on their cel phones in their urban offices are now standing around uncomfortable, getting tugged on by friendly handicapped kids and wondering why this place doesn't call them anymore.
The meeting wraps up. It's clear where we go from here, and everyone feels inspired, and together. Then the 4 albino chefs deliver this astounding lunch. Really. On our way here, we stopped quickly at the grocery store and bought a big bag of rice, carrots, beets, and some chickens. The ladies have turned this out into roasted chicken with grated beet and carrot salad, with rice and lovely gravy on top. This is the best restaurant for miles, and it was all cooked on an open fire in 2 cast iron three legged pots. The leftovers get heaped on a plate, and devoured by three toddlers outside... afterwards there is orange, pink, and white confetti in the dust. Over lunch, Mamello updates us. She tells us about a bunch of nurses that came by the other day from the Leribe nursing college; they want to help with her AIDS outreach work, and want to staff the clinic that the project is hoping to open. MAmello shows us a little video on her digital camera; all these black nurses, all different shapes and sizes, dressed in starched whites, singing and dancing in the red dust. Yebo!
The cherry on top of the day... we went and bought leather for the project in Bloemfontein the other day, and brought it with us to give to Phelisanong today. Indulge me in a tangent here.... The leather shop was in the middle of this explosive neighborhood where it looks like life has been turned inside out, the contents of people's homes spilled out onto the streets. So much is going on...little gangs of teenagers stand in the middle of the sidewalk, the crowd streams around them, people carry loads on their heads from bundles of brooms to tall plastic buckets, everyone saunters in this African pace through which it would be rude, and alien, to rush. Of course the leather shop is near... the butcher shop. A truck full of animal parts is being unloaded. Men chuck bloody sheeps heads from the truck to the shop, over the heads of pedestrians who walk unperturbed beneath this bridge of blood. Big plastic garbage buckets full of miscellaneous animal parts sit open on the sidewalk. No tidy styrofoam trays or saran wrap here... people see this whole filthy raw scene, calmly walk into the shop, and pick the best bloody head in the bunch to stew up for dinner. Cattle are life, and wealth, in Africa, imbued with mystical qualities and used to pay a year's wages, a bride price, or a funeral. They are a tangible way to measure your worth, out in the fields for all to see, your four legged bank account that yeilds milk, meat, and skin. They are sacrificed to keep ones' ancestors appeased; people pray for their ancestors to rest in peace, and for their descendants to rise in peace, by offering a cow or a sheep at funerals, births, and weddings.
Sitting outside the butcher shop amongst all the usual street vendors is a guy who is fixing shoes. On one side he's got a pile of broken shoes of all kinds, on the other a pile of leather scraps, and hanging on the wall behind him, two well cured wild cat skins, heads still on.�We ask him if he knows where the leather shop is, and he jumps up, leaves his livelihood all laying there on the pavement, and takes us across three lanes of traffic mayhem towards the Orange Free State Leathers shop. We are left looking around this dusty specialty shop, where we spend an hour unrolling various thicknesses of cow hides and choosing tools for the leather working co-operative at Ha Makhata. We discover that the headmaster of the near-to-Ha Makhata Thaba Tseka vocational school (which has a leatherwork program) comes regularly to buy leather - this is great, means he can pick up future leather and supplies for Ha Makhata as he drives right by their village on his way back to the school.
We live a life of incredibly rich colour. I know my letters are loooong but I leave out so much. As much as we're riding this huge pendulum that swings from brutally tragic to hysterically funny, things are settling and strengthening at the centre of things,��where I spend more and more of my time. I'm taking Douglas Adams' advice, carrying a towel and remembering not to panic.
Be well my friends!
Andrea
======================== March 14, 2007 Anna Callegari, in Mozambique Beira, the capital of Sofala province, and Mozambique’s second largest city is perched on the edge of the Indian Ocean, vainly attempting to sparkle like tarnished jewelry; its weary Portuguese colonial architecture telling the stories of a 10 year war to independence, and its stunted growth evidence of the 17 year civil war to follow.
Just outside of The garden is developing beautifully, and Adelino takes us on a tour of his medicinal herb garden, his passion after completing a comprehensive training course. He has planted an incredible number of plants in parched and sandy soil, and there thrives Tetracycline which he distills into eye solutions for infections, African Potatoes for the immune system, and many other plants whose leaves, roots and seeds provide relief of a multitude of symptoms including diarrhea, malaria, worms, fever, anemia and pain. Adelino is addressing the ongoing health needs of his orphans by arranging for a local doctor in
The Mango Tree Kids Project has inspired the surrounding community to get involved, and there are 15 youth volunteers, 6 women, and 6 men, all dedicating countless hours to these rosy cheeked and now healthy looking children. The children have been fostered in the local village with loving families, and come to the Mango Tree Centre for education and care during the days. The centre offers sewing classes and carpentry training for both the orphans and local community, in an effort to reach some self sustainability in the future. They manage to provide this training with rudimentary equipment, rusty saws and hand cranked sewing machines, but still have an enthusiastic and energetic group of students. Adelino is also providing training in the building of fire conservation cooking stoves, ingeniously designed and built of clay to offer some reprieve of the continual deforestation of the landscape. The funding from outside NGOs has become nonexistent, and feeding these children has become a critical issue. Adelino winces slightly when he assures us that the children are well fed in the foster homes, but we are far too aware of the realities of Mozambican life to be convinced. The World Food Program has been canvassed, but nothing has materialized yet. We hope to assist Adelino in finding funding, and will connect him with the Stephen Lewis Foundation, and work to raise awareness of his worthwhile project. The centre currently invites the children for two meals on Saturdays, a breakfast of porridge, and lunch of beans, rice and vegetables, the crowd often swelling to over 300 children and many needy adults in the community. In the cooler season, Adelino works hard to produce a variety of vegetables and fruits to supplement the basic nsima diet they otherwise endure. The local sugar mill has generously donated 20 hectares of fields where the project will produce maize and vegetables to feed the children, as well as sugar cane to sell back to the company as an income generating project. Gratefully the children look healthy, happy and well adjusted, and we are thrilled to spend some time playing and interacting with them. The volunteer staff receives training in counseling traumatized children, first aid, music, nutrition, HIV/AIDS education, and administration, and the environment seems to help these children thrive. We meet a cute little boy, John, who presented to the centre with TB of the spine so severe that is was slowly causing paralysis and making a simple breath torturous. He is now treated, nourished, and loved, and the beaming smile across his face is evidence enough for us. The other children are laughing and cheeky, with chubby faces, blissfully black hair, and sparkles in their eyes. Adelino’s dream is to provide food, vocational training, a preschool, library and cultural training for these children, so that they can grow in a loving supportive environment to be proud of themselves and their culture. His project is an inspiration and welcome reprieve from the hardship we have been witnessing. We have had a much needed rest now at Bill and Jenna Slade’s lovely home in Mafambisse, and their air conditioned comfort, shower, flush toilets, wonderful food, and immense hospitality has been most gratefully accepted. We fly to All our best, Anna and Beth ======================== March 12, 2007 Andrea Palframan, Lesotho Hi everyone Can I just share that coming home tonight, I drove over these roads, \How does amazing grace look the morning after? At Mamello's So in Lesotho there are all these orphans. What if they were your Teachers at the primary school have a wage pool, where they put a bit There are 2 million people in Lesotho and It could be a village or it could be a war that draws us close to Seeds are everywhere and synchronicity is afoot. Strange and blatant ================================= .March 6, 2007 "To Strengthen Each Other" 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 ================= palliative care and "conservation" at Lake Malawi
Feb 25, 2007 Anna Callegari, Malawi Life is many things in
There is some hope now in
Palliative Care is the only hope for the many souls suffering needlessly in the mud huts scattered like anthills over the landscape. By definition palliative care provides alleviation of not only physical pain, but also the spiritual and psychosocial suffering associated with the end of life. This is what Lucy and Tony Finch aspire to offer in the Salima District in central
For the last week we have been privileged to accompany Lucy on her rounds of some of the most remote and basic villages I have ever witnessed. The realities of people dying in their mud huts has hit us hard, and for each of the patients I describe below I am certain there are many more that are not receiving the incredible love and care that Lucy offers. The last few days have been indescribable intense, the experiences offered unlike any which we would ever experience in the western world, and I’m not at all sure how to make sense of these for mass mailing so I am just going to ramble.
Our next patient is James, a young, good looking, emaciated man, covered with the tell tale spots of Kaposi’s sarcoma, a late complication of AIDS, painful and loaded with stigma. His young wife crouches in denial beside the hut, playing a dangerous game of Russian Roulette with her six month old baby.
Gracie is an inpatient in the TB ward and her cachexia takes my breath away, she is impossibly thin and fragile, her frame disguised by the gently folds of the bed’s feeble blanket. Tomorrow she will somehow cling to a local minibus for an ultrasound appointment in
Then there is Katy, a 12 year old girl whose life has been smothered by a horrendous case of cancer, Burkett’s Lymphoma. She lies in bed covered by a thin, dirty sheet, a sparrow’s frame supporting the gross deformation of her face caused by the tumor. Over the last six months her face has become increasingly swollen, her left eye protruding out of the socket and she has freakishly, disturbingly morphed into something unrecognizable, were it not for the sweet innocent voice emerging from her warped little mouth.
Janet is a 28 year old woman who has had 6 children, only her oldest son, 11, survives. She is HIV + and deaf from bacterial meningitis, but still manages to communicate that she keeps hearing her dead babies calling her.
Our last patient today is Samuel, a 31 year old, single man who presented to the hospital 6 months ago with left leg swelling and discomfort. I don’t know how to accurately describe the aggressive, unrelenting Kaposi’s sarcoma that has affected his leg, which is now blackened and swollen more than 10 times its normal size. He suffers multiple infected retched nodules that imprison him in his mud coated cell, even if he could still walk. The swelling and edema has extended up to his chest, necessitating multiple medications to keep him alive….for what purpose.
And then there is a “good news story” Annie, who is an AIDS patient, 10 years old, but built like a 5 year old, the skin on her arms horribly scarred due to a brutal case of shingles last year. Her mother and 5 siblings are dead, and her father has abandoned her, and is on his death bed, but at least she has grandparents that are caring for her and the availability of ARVs.
It is difficult not to be swallowed by the wave of grief that I have felt for these people, and I try desperately to cling to the life raft of positive examples; the success stories in this pandemic. The Tikondani Project, in
The Tikondani Project assisted over 400 new children last year, and reintegration of these children into their natural environment remains the goal, with intensive involvement of the seven social workers employed by the project. For various reasons there are some children who cannot be reintegrated, and currently the project assists 32 of these children by enrolling them in boarding schools to ensure a positive future. Many of these girls and boys are severely traumatized, and behave accordingly, but they have all made remarkable progress, both academically and in terms of emotional balance and social competence.
Today is a day of rest on the shores of Lake Malawi, which stretches 580km up the length of the country, and at up to 100km wide, is the third largest lake in
This inland freshwater sea also boasts a huge variety of colorful fish, although the fringes of Cyclone Favio, currently creating chaos in our next destination,
The variety of the African experience never ceases to amaze me. A few more days of enjoying Lucy and Tony’s incredible hospitality, and we are off to
All our best, Anna and Beth
================= Feb 19, 2007 Gary McNutt, Lesotho Hello everyone, There's a couple of new clips on youtube. They're from the Film "Time 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. 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 Imagine if the world was a village, and Africa was the family next door.
Canada would have a nice suburban style house with a car or two out front; Africa would have a tin shack or a mud hut. When the Canadian family got sick, they'd hop in the car and drive to the doctor; when the African family got sick, there'd be a funeral.
simplistic tho this metaphor is, it's useful for two reasons; one, it makes the injustices of the world very apparent, and two, it reminds us that if Canada and Africa really were neighbors, we'd help each other out a lot more than we do living so far removed from one another. The help would not consist solely of benevolent Canadians bestowing aid on Africans; it would involve Africans teaching Canadians how to deal with adversity, how to share, and how to trade singing out loud for Prozac.
Me and my family are living in southern Africa this year; our lives have been totally and radically shifted by the realities we witness here. Here's a few things I have learned from my African neighbors:
Canadians build towers; Africans build circles. Instead of one person shooting up, from rags to riches, as in the American Dream, success in African terms means you can extend your household and include more people in your circle of support. Development is horizontal, not vertical.. It is a system that grew up over millenia, where there have been cycles of hardship and abundance that have birthed these sustainable interactions. While the West has been busy building grand civilizations with elaborate hierarchies, Africans have developed societies the whole of humanity can learn from — societies that have learned how to sustain life, in balance with the elements.
These guys have their carbon ratio all worked out. Everything goes back to the earth; villagers' trash piles are right outside their houses, but there is hardly any 'garbage' - people can't afford to buy many store bought goods, and recycle with a creativity that is downright flamboyant. Kids play with old car tyres, rolling them along with sticks. Plastic bags get spun like wool to make thread for weaving hats. While people are tidy, emerging in the mornings from their shacks in ironed clothes and wonderfully braided hair, they don't flinch from ugliness; the pig's heads that get pushed uphill in wheelbarrows are just pigs heads, the wrappers on the ground are just bits of plastic too small to do anything with, so leave them there... where else are you going to put them? In your neighbors' yard? In your cornfield? There isn't a concept of 'gone' when it comes to stuff around here. It all keeps coming around, like it always has been.
While it sounds noble and throbbing and timeless, the harsh fact is that because we in the west take more than our fair share of resources, people in Africa suffer. We've been colonizing, pillaging, enslaving and generally robbing the pants off of Africa for centuries. Along with dumping our unwanted GMO corn and our out of date weapons and pharmaceuticals in Africa, we also export ecological devastation. Subsistence farmers in Africa aren't causing global warming, but it sure is getting hot around here. ...this week, in southeastern Africa, there are floods displacing hundreds of thousands of people. The UN is calling them 'climate refugees'. We might not be able to see them from our vantage point in our air-conditioned SUVs, but they sure see us, and they're choking on our fumes.
We profit from Africa's poverty; on a macro-economic scale, witness the loan repayments to the World Bank that result in countries spending more on debt servicing than on education. Look at the agriculture subsidies that mean imported food is often cheaper than what African farmers can produce locally - it's like the world is playing soccer on a slanted field where the Africans have to run uphill. Diamonds, a huge source of wealth to a powerful few, are dug by miners who sweat in the dark, day after day, earning barely enough to send money home to their distant families. I wish the flushed lovers unwrapping their Valentines diamonds could witness the miners' kids on the side of the road, picking up single grains of rice that the chickens overlook. People pay with their lives for our 'free' market; it may be free, but its far from fair.
As far as human rights go, it is true that African governments have a poor record - the likes of King Leopold and the apartheid engineers of South Africa were good teachers to today's despots in Zimbabwe and the Congo. And it gets personal - the rights of women in Africa are violated horrifically, daily; these mothers, sisters, and daughters suffer at the hands of desperate men; husbands, fathers, sons - whose own lack of value in the world has led to a vicious cycle of abused/abuser. Black/White, North/South, rich/poor, - when will the world get over these dualities and start to work towards a common future? In this moment in history, where the end of human life on earth is not only possible, but as predictable as the weather, we've got to get together. This means us, Canadians, spreading our abundance outwards. It means ditching the security fencing between our big house and the neighbors' hut, and working in each other's gardens. Remember Icarus? He's us, if we don't cure our hearts of that same egoism and pride - our mechanical wings will buckle and burn as we fall from grace.
In our big hurry to get greater, get better, consume more, do more, in our crazy mad striving, we are missing the moment, the one right in front of us, that is always revealing a perfect world to us. While we rush off in our cars, mad soccer moms on the run, the African mom next door is sweeping the yard, humming. I can hear her chuckle as she watches me struggle my shopping bags into the house. She's got her eye on that peach tree in her yard - it's ripening up nice.
When we take a cue from Africa and slow down, learn to spread ourselves horizontally instead of vertically, we find our arms wide open and our selves outstretched.
====================== February 14, 2007 Andrea Palframan, Lesotho |