Khalidi Anasi Azizi

Khalidi called me this weekend
I was in Oregon
My grandma died a week ago
And I am very far from Africa
He sounded the same
Clipped simple English

And I remembered
Lying on my bed
Tying his dread locks together as
He fell asleep
The next day he'd be
Awake for hours before he noticed
Why did you close them?
He's accuse me
A dark flash across his bony
Beautiful face
I didn't dum-dum
I'd laugh and tell him to lighten up
And sometimes he would actually try

But it was hard for Khalid to be happy

My arm says we all have earned our lightness
But the truth is
Some of us have but can't find it
Because we are hungry
Because hope is dangerous
And we earn and we earn
But things stay heavy

Khalid walks lightly
On bare feet
But his sharp shoulders
Are curved
And sometimes thick venom
Spins from his mouth
It beats against the
Hard Zanzibar nights
And lands heavy inside his ribs
While he sleeps in the ghetto
There is no roof to keep it out

And the cycle continues

One night Khalidi
Sobbed in my arms for the orphans
And he was soft and liquid
And fifteen years old
With his mother just dead
And at that moment
I would have put him in my stomach
And I wished that love was simpler
And more like the ocean

This weekend
He asked me to call him back
And I promised I would
His demands were
Softer and I don't know if it's the
World between us or
Something else
But it just made my heart ache like dry lungs
With all the things I cannot do

Writing

Ok Lovers, here are two last things I wrote while living in Zanzibar. The first is about forming a friendship with a man named Kassim in the village where I lived. The second is my thoughts the day I left Zanzibar. I am going to post some more photos soon too. S

PS. First photo: Uroa kids with Aline at dusk, Next: Muridi, a boy who taught me all the Swahili words he could in one afternoon.


Kassim
April 2008

I like Kassim
I remember the morning he asked me my name
I had been staying here nearly a week
And every morning he served me my
Fruit and bread and
Tea and juice
With out a smile
From that
And the way he looked at me
That first day
(I could have sworn it was with contempt)
I deduced that he did not appreciate my presence
But would do his job anyway
So the fruit and bread
And tea and juice faithfully arrived
And I placed him alongside the cold and indifferent
(At least he wasn't leering or laughing)
And brought my books to the breakfast table

Then one day I got up early
He was caught off guard
Breakfast time? He asked, and before he could delete it
And control it
Worry crossed his face
And I thought
Is that concern? Because of me?
Yes, is that ok? I was running late and could go with out
Twenty…five… minutes? He asked in hesitant, forced English
I checked the time
It's ok I told him, moving to go
The worry on his face increased
And I was so surprised by the display
That my appointment at the school
Shined less urgent and I felt
A smile tugging the corners of my mouth
25 minutes? I asked
Utterly confused how it could take 25 minutes
To bring out bread and fruit and tea and juice
But softening by the second
Yes he said, hustling into the tiny kitchen

I sat
Intrigued by this newly dimensional man
And his sudden and disproportionate care for my nutrition
When he brought the plates
(It couldn't have been more than five minutes)
He had clearly prepared his question
You go town today?
I shook my head, to school
He nodded
It seemed he accepted this reason to be up early

With the next plate, the next question arrived
At school… You student, or teacher?
I'm going to be teaching. English.
I was absolutely not ready for the smile that
Broke sharp and brilliant across his lean
High cheek boned and ebony face
Oh the sound was almost a laugh
That's good
I found myself grinning dumbly in return
Charmed

Before I finished eating he reappeared at the table
So, (he makes such direct eye contact it's unnerving but nice)
I see you many days, but do not know your name
It's Sylvie
His face brightens at this news at well
And I am just happy to be making him happy
However that is possibly happening
If he could just keep smiling…
He tells me about a job he used to have
And there was a boat or a boss
I'm unsure of which
Named Sylvia
All the while with that disarming break of
Teeth and crinkles on face
And then he tells me his name,
Kassim

And In the following days
A slow, quiet, smiling friendship is forged
And I am very grateful for the softening effect
On the hard-edged loneliness I had been cultivating

Zanzibar
31May 2008
Dar Es Salaam Airport, Having left Zanzibar

It's all those beautiful boys
Lean and dark and hopeful
The one in the very back left corner
Of Form 1B English
I would look at him
And see the hope before he stood
I knew he wanted to try to answer
Quick eye-contact, a question
And with my encouraging nod
He would stand tall and teenaged
And his still-white teeth would break
Brilliantly across his face
Unbridled hope
In shy, faltering English he would answer
And I'm scared because he wears
His hope too openly
I'm scared because he's vulnerable
And scared because surely he will
Learn one day to conceal his hope
In the same instant it reaches his
Mouth, his eyes
Like all the boys five years older
Have learned
He answers incorrectly
I tell him, gently
And the smile falls away
But the soft hope still sits in his eyes

It's the three little girls on the beach
In Uroa
Sophia, Aisha and Amina
And how they would shout and cheer
Whenever they saw me
Sophia! Sophia! They'd chant
Confused and happily thinking my name
The same as one of theirs
We'd draw pictures in the sand
Play really girly catch with a tennis ball
While the little boys laughed at us
And I would think about how I've only
Met men and children in Zanzibar
Because the women stay home or don't
Know English
Or don't like white people or
Are too shy
Or are oppressed and unhappy
And I worry for these little girls
Full of personality and bravery
Too young for insecurity
Or oppression
I worry that when they reach puberty
And exchange their ragged little dresses
For long shapeless cloths that cover
Them head to toe
They will unknowlingly be exchanging
Their lively spirits for something more
Drab as well
But for now we can run on the beach
And laugh
And understand each other
Today they are just like me
But better

It's the feeling of the little monkey's
Fingers on my shoulder
They are tiny and dexterious
And a little bit rubbery
Like the pads on a cat's foot, but damp
It's that and curving through
The jet black streets of Stone Town
Ends of cigarettes glowing from faces
That blend away into the night
Candles burning from wooden tables
Selling small, useful items
It's swimming with a dolphin
And her child
In the open sea as it glints turquoise
Green
The way the dolphins turn their heads
To look back at me and smile saying
Are you keeping up girl?
It's the pleasant surprise that my breath
Can be taken away by the grace of an animal.

Really Late Updates & Some Creative Writing

I don't know if anyone still checks this, but I wanted to post a little more writing from the Zanzibar days. I apologize for falling off the map toward the end of my trip. The entire island lost electricty for the last couple of weeks I was there. And when I had connections they were so slow. :)

I am back in Seattle. I have been here for nearly three months. I am adjusting. A large portion of myself remains in Africa.

I will start with a poem I wrote about a trip to Uganda.

Room for Ronnie and the Baby Bird
He kicks the football with the young boys
And I watch him from behind my sunglasses
Slight and athletic
And shiny black
His dreads tied back in a ponytail
He laughs with the kids
And they are all so beautiful
And coordinated
The sound is of the ball on bare feet
The smell is mild and grassy
And sweaty
I walk inside and when I return
He is under the tree
A baby bird in his hands
It fell
It only has one eye

You shouldn’t touch it
I tell him
It’s mom will smell you and not take it back
I worry about the bird
He hands it to me
And the little thing stops squaking
He seems to have fallen asleep I tell him
Where is his mom I ask
Ronnie shrugs
He’s going to die
I say
He’s not going to die
Ronnie tells me
Slipping his arm
Lightly along my waist
Smiling away from me

When the car
Comes to take us to the airport
I hand the bird to the taller, gentler boy
Take care of my bird Amos
He is fragile
He nods solemnly
And I pile into the car with Samantha
Ronnie and Kevin

At the airport our goodbyes
Are rushed
And Ronnie might cry
My heart sits enlarged in my throat
Swollen with the tall, gentler boy
Ronnie and the baby bird
I am leaving them in Uganda.

6 April 2008-- Thoughts in Zanzibar
I.
He always feeds the cats under the table
While he eats
This is one reason I mostly trust him
He picks some meat from the bones
Swiftly, with long narrow fingers
Against fragile fish ribs
And drops some flesh to the floor
I always smile as he does this
I can't help it
And his eyes meet my eyes
And he half-laughs
What? Nini?
Nothing, Sikitu I tell him
The cats are too skinny I murmur
Stroking one along his spiny back
Fingers and ribs
He nods and they continue their meal.

II.
The clouds are all stacked up
One on top of another
Each defined so neatly
Like those skinny layered rocks…
They are building a canyon
Up and out of the sky
Like there is something better up there


When the women walk up
From the water and past me
Their shapes and colors are framed
Lovely and vibrant
By the blue and grey and white
Of clouds and sky
And from where I lie on the sand
They are big and strong and proud
With baskets on their heads
Filled with useful things from the sea

And I am a little afraid of them
But I love them
Even though I can tell they are
Talking about me in Swahili

I wish I could take a photo
Of the women and their sky
Only to capture their beauty
But I know they are already
Indignant about my bikini
So I will just have to remember
And maybe try to write
A little more vividly and often

III.
One woman comes and stands over me, glaring
In Swahili she tells me to cover myself
She motions to the piece of cloth I lay on
She motions to my body
And I understand her well
With out the language
I nod that I understand
But do not move to cover myself
I cover myself in the village
Hot and dripping water
Beneath a shawl wrapped at my neck
But I live right off of this beach
And today is Sunday and hot
And I'm planning to swim
And at the moment I am tired
Of what it means to be a woman in Zanzibar

IV.
There are crabs underneath the sand
When they come out of their holes
They scuttle sand white and camouflaged
Quickly and sideways
I kind of hate them
But would really hate them
If they ran at me instead of away
They are more afraid of me than I am of them
I remind myself
But I have always hated knowing
There is something underneath
The surface
Moving and breathing and living
I have always hated
Things under things

At night it is so dark on the beach
And they are braver about leaving home
When Khalid shines the blue beam
From his lighter
To the sand
It is suddenly moving
And they race for their
Perfect round holes
Every once in awhile we see a hole
That is too big
And I shudder
Do you want to see him? Khalid asks me
I shake my head no
But he is already shining the
Blue light in the too-big hole
Sure enough the crab is home
Crouching he freezes at the light
He is huge and blending white into the sand
We keep walking
And I try to ignore the scratching
Of crab feet on sand

V.
One day I walk on the beach
Past the school
And the children have the crabs on strings
Leashed, the creatures moved
Less frantically
And my mind is eased
I have to appreciate the resourcefulness
Of the children
Creating their own playthings
They clearly do not fear the crabs
And I cannot help but laugh as they walk their
Pets on the beach

I like this lighter side of the crab situation

14 April 2008
The Front Porch of my Bungalow
Uroa Village, Zanzibar

Ernest Hemingway was also terrified of snakes
I learn this, happily, while crammed into a dala dala
Breathing dust and fumes and human sweat
Along with the 20 something other passengers
We hit an especially rough patch of road
And my book bounces bounces bounces too hard and too fast
So I'm reading the same sentence too many times
I lower the book to wait out the jolting
And check the faces around me
There is always much resignation riding the faces of a dala dala
It didn't take me long to understand it
It didn't take me long to learn it
But the learning it and taking it as mine part
Bothered me just enough that I have taken to burying myself
In books
The sweet escape I learned as a child
But haven't visited with such fervor for too many years
I can thank Africa for rekindling my love affair
With the written word

But at the moment the book is in my lap, dusty
And I am present in the bouncing dala dala
We all stare at each other
There is not much choice as we sit knee to knee
Hip to hip
Shoulder to shoulder and face to face
I get extra stares at my skin
The faces are usually hard but indifferent
I find myself practicing my indifference here too
Too many smiles and you're just a naïve bleeding heart white
Too many frowns and you are a spoiled rich one
Who doesn't like other people's sweat on her clothes
I try to keep my face neutral and my heart soft
I try to keep it soft but not stupid
Hearts are tricky and sometimes they harden
And sometimes they break

I sigh because other people's resignation
Makes me tired
I sigh because no matter how practiced my indifference
My face will always be white
I sigh because some part of me wants to be
Clinking ice cubes into a tumbler for an afternoon gimlet
Like Hemmingway's wife is doing
Inside my book
Go take your bath, darling, I'm going to have a gimlet
The afternoon cocktail indifference is practiced too though, isn't it


Then there is the other part of me:
There is the part of me that wants to take the dirty red and hard sky blue
The hot pulsing gold and damp living green of Africa into my bones
And make it my own truth
The same part of me knows that with the colors comes the
Thick black night only sometimes punctured by trillions of stars
And even then heavy and canvass and greater than we can hope to be
Even all of us together

My bones are greedy but my stomach revolts

I knew I couldn't come to Africa and not see a snake
Khalid says there are lots of crocodiles in Stone Town
And while he means people and bad hearts frighten me plenty
I remain most petrified by literal belly sliding snakes

Before I left Seattle I refused to acknowledge the reality
That I would see a snake while in Africa
Because I know my saddest and most severe limitations all too well
And I needed to do this

There was a small black snake weaving its way across
The white sand of the garden where I live
We were with out electricity and I'm lucky I didn't step on it
Khalid flashed the blue beam of his lighter to the ground
And excited he said
Look!
Utter confusion and panic entered my brain and body and I didn't know
Where to run
While I stood paralyzed I was half aware of Khalid and another man
Stomping the thing and tossing it into the bushes
When I could speak I asked
Is it poisonous?
Ndyio, Khalid nodded, smiling

And then there was the matter of the dead scorpion
On my bathroom floor
I think it crawled up from the shower drain Khalid told me
This seems plausible but will not help me sleep tonight
Don't worry, it's dead
He is clearly and entirely unfazed
It's the ones who are alive and in my bed I am worried about I tell him
He just laughs
Have you ever been stung by one? I ask
He shakes his head no
Has anyone you know ever been stung by one?
I am attempting to assess my odds for the next three point five months
He nods this time
My grandmother
What happened to her?
She was in bed for two days
But she got the root from a tree and then—better,
He shrugs it off
Somehow bush doctor remedies are not easing my mind

Anyway I digress terribly
I'm reading Green Hills of Africa by Ernest Hemmingway
It's autobiographical and mostly about hunting big game
I can't imagine much I'd hate more than shooting a living thing
But Hemingway can write
And when he quotes the simple Swahili words I've learned
I like it
And he was terrified of snakes as he trampled through
The African bush
So I guess you could say I'm just enjoying his company

I'm not going to reconcile my relationship with Africa tonight
But this is an update
I am here in Zanzibar
It is beautiful, it is lonely, it is hard
I've stopped making any promises
And though I am not always so happy
I am getting along better with myself than I have for a long time.


Ok, I have like five more pieces to post, but I'm gonna break em up. :) x

Some Writing From the Last Months

Hey again,
I just thought I would share a few things I've written over the last few months. Anyone who reads my blog on Myspace may have already seen these. I just thought some of you might be interested. Feel free to skip. :) Peace and love. S.



17 Dec 2007
AFRICAN PEOPLE THEY ALWAYS FIGHT

Zanzibar Airport Rooftop

He told me
Don't feel bad to me
African people
They always fight
Don't cry
Because you cry
I cry
You understand?
I nodded and tried
To stuff the tears
Back into my eyeballs
Is it? Sure, sure, he murmured
Pulling me to him
Pulling my tall head
To his low slight shoulders
I cried into his dirty white
Button up shirt
One of two I've seen him wear
I touched his neck
His short dreadlocks
His face
I'll give him some shillings tomorrow
Khalidi will get by
Barefoot on the beach
Smoking ganja
Trying to make business
With the tourists
He'll get by another day
Even with out my shillings
But getting by the way
He gets by
Isn't good enough
For anyone
And now I love him

My heart breaks softly and slowly
Sweet and bloody
As I walk away and realize
That everything I've ever felt
For humanity
In that passionate but vague way
I feel for all people
Is now too personal and real
My heart swells and deflates and
Swells and deflates
And I know I am not finished with Zanzibar



31 December 2007
FROM THE BACKSEAT OF TUMELO'S CAR

The backseat of Tumelo's car
On the way back from Swaziland
Written on the back cover of 'On Writing' by Stephen King
Which was given to me for my 25th birthday by Graeme

You gotta stop sometimes and just let it all flow
Until your insides are caught up
With the outside
The globe is spinning fast
And you can be on any side you'd like
Tomorrow
But can you catch up?
Where is your heart
Hovering in the air maybe
A million miles from any place
Real

You can walk on red dirt or brown dirt or concrete
You can speak with words or just sounds, Zizi
(Your smile says a lot)
But are you caught up with yourself?

Catch up
Catch up fast
Catch a fire catch your breath
Catch your heart before you lose it for good
Or no good
And are stuck wandering
Longer and harder than is helpful.



25 January 2008
BIGGER THOUGHTS

I watched a lady walking in a field in Zanzibar, and I wondered if she liked the feeling of the bright cloth she wore over her head as it blew in the breeze. It looked lovely and I knew that if I was there, walking in the field, with my bright head cloth blowing in the breeze, I would be enjoying the feeling. And the sun on my forehead. But I bet she works harder than I do and is tired. I bet some days she is hungrier than is comfortable and that the baby on her back cries because he is too. And I wonder whether her husband comes home at the end of the day and asks her about hers, or about her thoughts and feelings on things. I want to think he does, but I am worried that he doesn't. Gender roles are different here than what I am accustomed to; than what I cannot help but believe is only right and fair.

I realized as I watched the lady and hypothesized about her life, that it was just that I wanted so desperately to relate to her. I wanted her to be able to enjoy the breeze and the sun, and her own beauty. I wanted her to have comfort and love; the simplest of pleasures, if nothing else.

Many times since I have been in Africa I have been reminded of a movie I watched shortly before I left Seattle. The movie is called 'Tsotsi' and actually takes place in Johannesburg and a township outside of the city. This isn't the reason I've been reminded of it, strangely enough. There is a scene in the movie that struck me hard and has stayed with me ever since.

The main character, who is a thug, is in an alleyway, harassing an old, mostly blind, crippled homeless man, who is in a wheelchair. After spilling the old man's tin of coins all over the alley and yelling at him and threatening him, the thug (Tsotsi) stops and asks the man, "Why do you go on living if you must crawl around like a lame dog? What could possibly make your pathetic life worthwhile?" The old man moves his foggy eyes to Tsotsi's face, and you can see that he has a real answer to the question. "Because I like to feel the sun on my face," he says.

To me the man's answer is pure and real and beautiful. Sometimes all a person is left is some of the very simplest pleasures. But if you are still able to enjoy anything, you are in fact still living and your life is in fact worthwhile. For me, this is a very clean and reassuring truth. It is a hopeful, bony thing that applies to every human being.

I have a real affinity for things that apply to every human being. Especially if they are simple and hopeful. Ever since I was a little kid I have had a strong sense of human connectivity. I remember riding around in our orange Volkswagon Vanigan with my mom and looking out the window at all the other people driving past in their cars. My little mind would marvel, at all those people, with all those stories! My mind would seriously be both blown and excited by the idea that every single person in every single car had a whole life that was just as detailed and important to them as mine was to me. That every one of those people woke up that morning. That every one of those people was once a newborn baby. I loved these thoughts because they made me feel like we were all the same in some basic, crucial way. Like we are together. 'Tuko pamoja' means 'we are together' in Swahili. I was taught this by my friend Khalid, when I asked him how to say 'peace and love'. "Tuko pamoja," he said, writing it down for me, "But literal translation is 'we are together.'" That made a lot of sense to me.

It is because of this sense I've always had that we are together, that I am so motivated to do what I can to help people who are suffering. When I see a person suffer I cannot help but suffer along with them. I think this is because I do feel like I could be anyone in the world, that I was only lucky enough to be born into a very privileged situation (my family was actually just above the American poverty line when I was growing up, but when you consider the world scale, I was born into a very privileged situation indeed). And because, I truly do feel together with people; all people. Once you get to know and care about people on a really personal level, you are no longer able to ignore their suffering. This is one of the main reasons I wanted to work with disadvantaged people. I cared a lot about the sufferings I would read about here and there, before I left Seattle. But I knew I did not care enough, and that I could care more, and that caring is the main motivation to action. And action is what is needed, because caring, feeling, even loving, is not enough.

There is one last very important thing I have been made to realize and contemplate as I have been in Africa. I have been continually amazed at the lightness I have stumbled unexpectedly upon when wandering through a place or a situation that seems very dark, or hopeless. When I first began working in the township, I was sadly awed by the poverty there. I saw tiny, haphazardly built tin shacks planted next to one another in the dust. And then I met the children—bright, beautiful, joyous children with more light shining from their eyes than I had ever seen. And I felt God. This has happened for me time and again as I've traveled and met people and seen things for myself. In the saddest situations God often seems the closest. And many would say that is because he is. The God I choose to think about is one who suffers with the suffering, one who is most present where he is most needed.

I watched a movie the other day called 'Shooting Dogs.' The movie is a based on the true story of a Catholic School in Rwanda, which became a refuge for the targets of the genocide in the 1990s.

There is this scene near the end of the movie when the UN is pulling out of the camp, abandoning the people-- basically to their deaths. The young English volunteer who has been living at the school and passionately helping the targeted group is finally leaving for safety. It is his last chance. He is struggling because he is breaking a promise to his young Rwandan friend who will most likely die along with everyone else who was seeking protection at the school. There is also a white priest who's life's work has been at the school and the church. When the young volunteer realizes the priest intends to stay, he asks him what he is thinking (it is basically suicide to stay and continue trying to protect the people). The priest says that he has never been so aware of God's presence as he is at this camp, with all of these desperate, destitute people. He says "God is here. I have never been so aware of his presence. And this is where I belong."

This really cut deep into my heart. What he said resonates with me. I haven't been in as sad or dark a place as this priest found himself. But in the saddest and darkest places I have been, I have found God. I believe that God really does suffer alongside every single member of humanity. That he is together with us. That he is most present with those who need him most.

Maybe God's presence is the light I see shining in my crèche kids' eyes. Maybe they are just wonderfully resilient creatures. Maybe it is that they still have their innocence, the untouched hope that often seems to dull with age. All I know for sure is that I have never been more certain of where I belong. I belong living and working alongside people who don't have much. I belong giving to them whatever it is I have to give.

I just thought this might explain some of what I feel and why I am so motivated to continue working with people in Africa. It's hard for me to tell all my friends and family at home that I want to stay longer—that I want to return to Zanzibar and give the children pencils just for starters, that I feel more at home half way across the world from the States than I ever have anywhere else.

I just think I have more to learn; more to gain and more to give. And then I will return home, more motivated and hopefully better equipped to make an effective difference.



1 February 2008
I LIKED YESTERDAY

I like sitting on the concrete floor of the crèche, surrounded by small children as we all eat our lunch. I like the open metal door that lets in the light and the heat of a South African summer. I like the red of the dirt in the garden and how Africa's sky has never failed to impress me, even on a typical day in the township. I like the bright green that one of the neighbors painted the tin portion of their home and the laundry hanging in the neighbors' yards that moves in the slight breeze. I like the food that Lorraine cooked. It is pap (maize meal) and cabbage stew. We eat with our hands, balling up a handful of pap like play-do and using it to scoop up some of the stew. It's messy, but basic and somehow makes the meal taste better. I like the quiet in the room while each child and adult contemplates their plate, balls up some pap, scoops some stew, chews and swallows. I like the men who sit on buckets in the yard next door, in their hats in the shade. They talk and they laze and there is something so comfortable about their pace. I like walking the reddish dirt roads to the tuck shop once the kids have gone to sleep. I like the big, heavy glass coke bottle we bring with us, which allows us to purchase a new one, filled with cold coke. I like the lady at the tuck shop, who is always wearing a bright head wrap. She grins at us and delivers the new, cold bottle of soda. We thank her and she says, 'sharp,' (cool). I like the word sharp. I like that when we ask if we can sit in the shade of the tuck shop, a man named Daniel calls to us to answer because our lovely friend in the bright head wrap doesn't understand us, 'Yeah Mama, you can sit here, ' he reassures us. I like that an old lady with a gap between her front teeth suddenly appears with three plastic chairs. 'Oh thank you,' we say, 'that's not necessary, but is so kind.' She grins and disappears. I like that next the bright head wrapped lady appears with three proper glasses for our coke. 'Oh thank you!' we say, 'so nice of you.' We all three sit back in the adult sized chairs (only kiddie chairs at the crèche), with a cold glass of coke in one hand. We sigh, enjoying the shade and the luxury. I like that I am entirely happy. I've spent my day with kids. We are teaching them, and they are learning! They are beautiful and lively. They don't have much, but they don't really know it yet, and their hopefulness is so encouraging. I've had a good meal, prepared by a good lady, which I ate in good company, with my hands, which I've learned I really enjoy. And now a coke in the shade. Uncalled for hospitality by people who have little, but insist on giving. I really like it.

Quick Update

Peace and love from Dar Es Salaam. I like the name of this city. :) I have not been good at keeping this thing updated, and I am sorry for that. I really do have a lot of valid excuses...power outages in SA, lots of travel, etc. Anyway, I want to provide a quick update before I take off for Uganda tomorrow...I may be even less connected over the next few weeks.

I spent my last month with Botshabelo in a new creche, working alongside my friend from California, Samantha (many of you know Sam or SHIZZAM :)). The work was great, just as it had been in November. We felt we were pretty successful in implementing the learning routine, and the children were awesome, as they usually are. There were some challenges, but nothing that could not be overcome. You become accustomed the heat, the dirt and the smells of the creches and the township...it's nice to become accustomed to these things and 'get over' yourself a bit. The women who worked in our creche were awesome, and most days we enjoyed tasty simple African lunches with the kids, cooked by these ladies. Sam and I liked ending our days at our favorite tuck shop down the road, where Sarah served us cold cokes under the shade of the tuck shop awning. She'd even bring us glasses and chairs and we'd have the chance to chat with some of the residents of the township as they came through for snacks and necessities. It was nice to really merge into the community a bit.

During this time we also worked some extra shifts in the Babies' Home, and even when we weren't on the schedule, would often find ourselves there, just because we love being with the kids. Sam and I would often get home from the creche and go right to the BH to grab some kids and take them to the coffee shop for icecreams. We laughed at ourselves for not being able to get enough. It's funny...kids are exhausting, but very addictive. :)

Graeme arrived from Seattle Feb 14 (awwww), and he had a chance to visit the creche with us on our last day. The next day we took the BH kiddies the pool. It didn't take him long to fall for them all-- nor they for him. The kids love having male attention and interactions, as they don't get these things nearly enough.

G and I then headed to Cape Town to meet up with Sam and a couple other volunteers. Cape Town is stunning, and we really enjoyed our time there, and also driving along the Garden Route (along the south coast of SA). G and I finished our time together with a few days on the beach in Mozambique, which was also beautiful and interesting.

The day before yesterday I said goodbye to Graeme and sent him back off to Seattle. Yesterday I packed up my room at Botshabelo and said goodbye to South Africa and all the children I have come to love so much. It's been pretty overwhelming.

BUT, I am excited about the next steps. As many of you know, I am not back in Seattle, as I originally planned to be March 6. Instead I am in Dar Es Salaam, the capital of Tanzania. Sam is here with me and tomorrow we leave for 2 weeks in Uganda (the safe part) and Rwanda. It should be a real adventure. I've already lost my luggage (hopefully to arrive today...crossing my fingers), and am hot, sweaty and dirty...wish me luck!

On the 23rd Sam and I fly to Zanzibar. She will stay for a week and we will visit all of our friends from December. Then Sam leaves and I'm on my own, yikes! I will be in Zanzibar for four months, involved in volunteer work much like I was doing in SA. I am so thrilled to return to Zanzibar and immerse myself in the culture and the people...it is truly such an amazing place. I have much to learn, and hopefully much to give. Believe me when I say the people are very deserving of whatever any of us can give them.

There is some chance a fellow volunteer from Botshabelo will be joining me in Z come May. She is a wonderful girl named Aline, and I am really excited at the prospect. My dear friend Jonathan also plans to come out in June and spend two months in Z. He is a medical student and would like to spend his summer volunteering in a clinic.

Thanks to my Grandmother's generosity, I am able to support myself while volunteering. This is a real blessing, as was the money I was able to raise in Seattle before I left for SA. By the way, I would like to thank again all the lovely supporters out there. Because I raised more than my goal, I was able to buy much needed resources for the creches and the BH-- the extra went a long way.

I apologize for the rather dry and brief update, but it is a million sweltering degrees in the lobby of our hotel, and I need to call the airport and appreciate the AC in our room, as it is the last I will be seeing for probably about 5 months. :)

I will do my best to stay in touch over the next months. Things are pretty limited in Zanzibar, so I can't make any promises, but there are a couple of internet cafes there, so I should be able to keep ya'll posted to some degree!

If you know G ask him to see all our great traveling photos! I'll try to post some as well.

All my love, lovers. I really miss my friends and family, every day.
Sylvie

A Bit on the Babies' Home

I'm sitting at my new creche, which is located on a slight hill on one of the edges of the township. It provides quite a view of the sprawl of tin roofs. It's raining and I am watching all the laundry the neighbor ladies spent the morning hanging as it becomes wet again. The bright colors of the clothing are pretty on the grey sky. All the children are finally really sleeping and not just pretending, so I left them to go sit outside and wait for my ride back to the property. But now I am inside because of the rain. I am inside, looking out, listening to the rain on the tin roof and thinking about how much there is to tell you. Much has happened since we returned from Zanzibar.

I realize I haven't told you anything about the Babies' Home. I worked in the Babies' Home for the month the creches were closed (December). I am so glad I had the opportunity to get to know this group of kids. When I first began work at the BH I found it to be quite frustrating and challenging in very new and different ways than the creche work. When I began there were nine children between the ages of 2 and 4, and three newborn babies. Let me quickly introduce you to the cast, then I will get back to the challenges.

Rudzanni: 2 years old, girl
Lesedi, 2 years old, girl
Samkelo, nearly 3 years old, girl
Karabo, nearly 3 years old, boy
Larato, nearly 4 years old, girl
Mthobisi, 4 years old, boy
Khanysa, 4 years old, boy
Zizi, 4 years old, girl
Thembe, nearly 5 years old, girl

Caroline, 4 months
Snokolo, 4 months
Mbali, 3 months
(all girls)

As I was saying, after being in the creche, the BH was very different. There were a few key things that struck me right away. First, and most obvious, the children all speak perfect English. After a month of communicating with sounds, expressions and body language, it blew me away to have little (like tiny) four year old Khanysa come up to me and say complete sentences like, "You must jump on the trampoline with me now." This wasn't a challenge, but was a very interesting contrast.

I must admit, that I assumed discipline would be simpler with English speaking children. I couldn't have been more mistaken. This brings me to the first real challenge I faced at the BH-- the kids were not so good, like the children in the creche had been. In my first couple of days I could not believe how many times I heard the word 'no.'

I think when I first began working at the BH I was a little put off by the kids. They seemed spoiled to me. I was coming from working in the township, where the kids live in shacks and are dirty and snotty and don’t have a lot of clothes or toys or things. The kids at my crèche had all been so loving and exuberant—so eager to learn and do whatever we were teaching them. At the Babies’ Home the kids have everything they ‘need.’ Through donations they have lots of clothes, food and toys. They live in a clean home with hot water, electricity and three balanced meals fed to them each day. And they were constantly telling me ‘no’, what they wanted or didn’t want in whiny voices, etc. It was a little disheartening at first.

Soon I began to learn a lot more about this group of kids. One thing that is pretty obvious, but was hard for me to focus on in the beginning because of the struggles I was having with the kids, is that they by no meaning have everything they need. Most of the kids in the BH have lived there their entire lives. They have never had a family structure. They have never had parents. They depend on rotating caregivers and volunteers who are constantly abandoning them, once they’ve worked for the agreed upon months. This results in somewhat of an inability to form normal, trusting relationships with the adults in their lives. Even though the caregivers and volunteers show them a lot of love, the kids have no guarantee that any one person will be there tomorrow, or the next day, much less ‘forever,’ which is a perhaps false sense of security, but still a sense of security most of us who grew up with families depended upon.

I learned that the kids were testing me in the beginning. After all, I was just some new volunteer. They’ve seen tons. They’ve been told what to do by volunteers in the past, formed relationships and then lost these people. You can see why they would become skeptical. It really didn’t take long to win them over however. They are kids, after all, and after a week or so of playing with them all day long, every day, they began to trust and love. I also realized that some of the behavioral problems are due to the lack of an absolute standard for behavior and discipline. Every caregiver and volunteer has a different idea of what’s right. I quickly began to see how confusing it must be for the kids to really learn how they should be behaving.

The other major challenge the kids in the BH face is that half of them are HIV+. They are too young to understand just what this means, but the ones who are sick, know they are sick with something, that they must take medicine every night, and make frequent trips to the doctor. A couple of the kids have other health complications due to HIV.

Once I settled into my role in the Babies’ Home, I began to really see the individual personalities in the kids. Khanysa is a four year old boy who is so extremely intelligent and verbal, it really blows my mind. He always has something clever to say, and a million well thought out questions for everyone. He is very serious as he questions you, furrowing his brow and making demands. He is also so quick to laugh if you joke with him. He understands humor that most kids miss. He teases you back. He is also one of the most sensitive boys I have ever met. The other morning we were watching “Barbie’s Nutcracker.” At the end of the movie the nutcracker turns into a prince and Barbie is transformed into a princess. They begin to dance. Little Khanysa was cuddling with me on the couch and suddenly sat up, looked at me very seriously, with damp eyes and said, “Sylvie, the tears are coming.” I was so touched by both the humor of the situation and the sweet sensitivity of such a small, intelligent child. “That’s ok sweet boy,” I told him, “it’s okay to cry.” He laid back down and cried into my chest as the movie ended.

I will write more to you about all of the children. They are all so unique and brilliant.

Just wanted to give you a bit of an update. More to follow on other travels and work in my new crèche!

Love love love
Sylvie
Photo: Khanysa at the pool.

Disclaimer Re Zanzibar Chronicles

Hello lovely friends and family. Sorry I have been out of touch for so long. We were with out internet access for the second half of December and have been on and off traveling as well. I added two more parts on Zanzibar to the journal. I apologize if it seems I am going on too much about this place and my trip there, but there is really so much to say. I was very deeply impacted by my time there. The two new posts were meant to have lots of awesome photos to go along with the stories, but I have the hardest time with the blog photo uploader. Sometimes it seems like it only wants to allow me to upload two photos a day. Frustrating! I didn't even share the best ones. I will try to add later. Also, please forgive me, but I will probably write two more short stories on Zanzibar, as I had a couple more experiences that cannot go untold. But then I will move on. I also have much to say about my work in the Babies' Home over the last month. It's hard to tell you everything I want to tell! Maybe I need to simplify, sigh. Anyway, more to come. Also, I have had a little more luck uploading photos to Myspace, so if you have a Myspace account, please check them out. My page is located at: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=1774882.

Sam and I are off to Victoria Falls and Botswana tomorrow morning! We will be gone for five days. When we return, we will be resuming our work in the creches, which is an answer to my prayers. I am so excited to resume the work we began in November. We will be working shifts in the Babies' Home on top of the work in the townships, so it will be a long month, but also I trust it will be a good one.

All my love,
S.

Zanzibar Part 3: Beautiful Beach Babies and Three Young Cousins

I decided to walk down the beach. The sun was white hot. The ocean green and turquoise. The sand whiter than the sun. I went further than I’ve been before. I came upon a group of little girls playing in the sand. They rushed me, “Jambo, jambo, jambo!” they said, “pencil.” I smiled, “Jambo.” “Pencil,” they persisted. I shook my head, indicating I had no pencils to give. I wish I had known all the children in Zanzibar needed pencils. I would have brought boxes. I sit on the sand and let the girls crowd around me. They wear bright pink and orange and yellow against their ebony skin. Ebony, orange, yellow, white, turquoise. I am surrounded by these colors and the white noise of the bright sea. I cannot believe the beauty of these children against the water , sky and sand. They stroke my hair and try to braid it. They pull on my rings, singing softly the whole time, “Jambo” (hello), the only Swahili word they know I know.

Afterward, I begin walking back to the hotel and have to stop to cry. As I am sitting on a bright colored cloth in the wet sand, two new little girls slowly approach me. They sit down near me, shyly meeting my eyes, “Jambo.” They begin making balls of wet sand. They pack them together, ‘pat, pat, pat’ and throw them in the air and then catch them. I make one too. Soon we are playing catch, laughing and squealing ‘weeeee’ together whenever we successfully catch the sand balls. Laughter is universal. They do cartwheels in the sand. I clap and tell them ‘nzuri’ which I hope means nice or good. They laugh at my attempted Swahili. I stay. After a bit it is only me and one girl of about 7. She wears a pink dress and sits quietly against the ocean, creating a huge sand ball, ‘pat, pat, pat,’ and the surf on the land. We meet eyes now and again and smile, but mostly just enjoy the sand ball making comraderie. My skin and eyes burn beneath the blazing sun, but I cannot get up. I am at peace and I am not ready to stop seeing such a beautiful sight.

I see three tall boys in the distance, slowly approaching. I sigh, assuming they are beach boys, coming to sell me a tour. I am tired of saying no. I am tired of saying yes. I am tired of only being spoken to for money. I am sad because I know it is only desperation that drives them.

They get closer and I see how young they are. They are handsome and grinning. They each drop silently to the sand, encircling me. They sit on their haunches. One of them asks me tentatively, “What are you doing?” He laughs a little and gestures at my huge sand ball. I smile and motion to my pink dressed little friend who is still hard at work packing her sand ball, ‘pat pat pat.’ “I’m playing,” I say. They all smile broadly.

We talk to one another, slowly and brokenly. They are curious about me. I find out they are all cousins, “His father, and my father, and his father, from the same mother,” one of them tells me. Whenever they speak in English they are shy, but they do so well. Their names are Nawawi, Rajabu and Kassim. Nawawi and Rajabu are 18 years old, and Kassim is 20. They tell me about school and family and their home. They ask me many questions about America.

My little pink dressed friend is Nawawi’s sister. They ask me if I want to come see their home. I do. “Ok, but…this is Islamic country,” Nawawi explains, “So you must…” “Wear full clothes to your house?” I ask. “Yes,” he says, relieved I understand. “You cannot wear underwear,” he says, motioning to my bikini. I laugh and nod, “No problem.” We arrange to meet back on the beach in an hour once I’ve had a chance to clean up and change.

Later the boys walk me through the village to their home. “It’s ok to take pictures,” Nawawi tells me. The house is new and lovely, set back from the rest of the village. They proudly show me pineapple and banana trees in their garden. They teach me the Swahili words, “nanasi” for pineapple, “ndizi” for banana. Inside the room is open and airy, brightly lit by large windows. They offer me a seat and Nawawi fetches his older sister and his mother to come meet me. “Karibu, karibu,” they tell me shy and smiling, “Welcome.” None of the boys live in the house, it is reserved for Nawawi’s mother, father, and the two daughters, but they call it their home. The boys live in the village. Nawawi’s father built the house recently and they all are very proud of how nice it is. It is really lovely. They ask me if I would like to try their fruit. I nod, and soon have a huge plate of fresh pineapple and banana in front of me. I try to share with them, but they want me to eat it. It is delicious and I am so touched by their hospitality. I was worried when these boys approached me that they wanted something from me, but instead they have only given. It’s amazing and humbling. We all take photos together. When I leave it is hesitantly.

The boys tell me they’d like to see me again tomorrow. We arrange to meet on the beach around the same time. I am so happy to know I will see them again. “And the photos?” Nawawi asks me, “How can we see them?” I ask if they have an email address, and they say they will bring their father’s with them when they return tomorrow.

The next day we meet on the beach. They ask about Samantha (I’ve told them I’m in Zanzibar with a friend). I tell them she’s at the hotel, and they ask if they can meet her. We begin the walk down the beach together. They ask me more questions about America. They want to know if it’s nice, what life is like there. I tell them it is nice where I live and that I like it very much. I ask them if they like living in Zanzibar. “Yes,” Kassim tells me, “but it is a developing country and life is very hard.” I nod. These beautiful, gentle, intelligent boys…they deserve everything. I look at the sand and we keep walking.

Samantha joins us on the beach and we continue to get to know the three cousins. Kassim wants to be a doctor. Nawawi wants to be a teacher. Rajabu is the shyest and quietest one. He has a beautiful smile. They write down their names for me and give me their father’s address. I promise to send the photos. We sit in the sand and make lists of Swahili words. Nawawi is already quite a good teacher, as he explains things like plurals to us.

When we are saying our goodbyes, I am so sad to see them go. They speak to each other quietly in Swahili, then Nawawi (his English is the best), turns to me and says, “Most visitors do not want to talk to us, we try and they look away, but you are very polite people.” We smile and tell them that they are very polite too. “And generous,” I say. “Thank you so much for taking me to your house.” They ask for a photo with Sam before they leave. I promise again to send them the photos. I watch them walk away. And not for the first time, nor the last time, I am overwhelmed with love and admiration for the people of Zanzibar.

Photos (out of order, but I'm just stoked I could get them to post!): top: three cousins walking away after our second and last gathering; next: from left to right-- Rajabu, Kassim, Nawawi, in their home; next: one of the beach baby girlies I played with in the sand; next: Nawawi's little sister, my sand ball making comrade; next: me and Nawawi at his home; next: the three cousins in front of the house.

Zanzibar Part 2: Meeting Nemshi and Chasing Dolphins in a Storm

I want to tell you more about Zanzibar. On our second day I woke up feeling a little blue. This is normal enough for me, especially when I think too much, and being in Zanzibar for a day and a half had already given me much to think about. I wandered down to the beach to watch the ocean. Khalidi found me and was immediately perceptive and sensitive to my melancholy. In an effort to cheer me up he invited me to come see his friend’s property, which is located just off the road behind the beach. We walked a narrow path through tall green foliage to the back road, then up a little hill and onto a beautiful property with some partially built structures, a huge lovely garden and a tent. This was my first time at Nemshi’s place. Nemshi soon became our other close Zanzibari friend. Nemshi wasn’t around that afternoon, so Khalidi and I just relaxed on a hammock and talked to one another slowly and in broken English. I was surprised by the sensitivity he showed me after only meeting me the day before. I laid in the hammock and stared at a beautiful tree full of bright yellow flowers, brilliant against a vibrant blue sky. My spirits lifted.

Later, in the early evening, Khalidi and I brought Sam back to see the property and we had the pleasure of meeting Nemshi for the first time. He proudly showed us around the structures he is in the process of building. His plan is to create a restaurant, and eventually a small hotel. He is building the entire thing with his hands, and living in a tiny tent on the property while he works. Nemshi is one of the most generous, warm people either Sam or I have ever met. We began visiting Nemshi on his property most evenings. He was every time such a lovely host. Nemshi has very little, but somehow managed to always be giving to us. We would sit around with him, Khalidi and usually a few other friends, communicating in the limited way that we could, swapping English and Swahili words and laughing at our mispronunciations. It would grow dark and often we would all just stay quiet, watching the stars fall and enjoying the simple company of friendly, loving people.

On our third day in Zanzibar we awoke early to take a dolphin tour to the south beach, called Kizimkazi. We arranged this tour through the hotel and were joined by three young South Africans who were also staying at the Safari Club. It was another jolting, hot van ride with another friendly local driver. Just staring out the window as we drove down the island was wonderful. Kizimkazi is a beautiful, beautiful beach. The waters are filled with small wooden boats. It is an unrealistically pretty sight. I took photos, but knew I would never capture it and that it was best to simply drink it in while I could. We waded out into the warm ocean with our snorkeling gear to our boat, ‘Moby Dick.’ There were 8 of us in total; the three SAs, our driver, the boat owner and his sidekick and Sam and myself. Soon we were in the middle of the ocean. First, we chased the dolphins. It was a wonderfully hectic experience. We would spot some dolphins surfacing a ways off and follow them in the boat. Then suddenly the Zanzibaris would be yelling at us to get into the water, hurry, hurry, follow them, this way, that way!!! We all clumsily pulled on our flippers and masks and dropped into the water, breathlessly swimming after the dolphins. I was always the last one in the water and the men laughed at me and teased me that I was lazy. I was just so overwhelmed! I did manage to see the dolphins up close though. I dipped my masked face into the water and there they were, probably six of them, swimming directly below me. It was breathtaking.

Next they took us to another spot to snorkel. This was a little less hectic. We swam around checking out the bright fish. I grew tired of the mask and spent most of my time just swimming and watching the storm move in. The water was turquoise and the sky a deep grey. Lightening broke up the sky and thunder rolled. I swam and the water grew choppier.

Once we were back in our little wooden boat, the guys served us pineapple and bananas. As I sat on the bow eating dripping pineapple the rain started. It came hard and stinging. I was drenched from the rain, from the ocean, from the pineapple and I just sat there and grinned, loving that all the water just mixed together warm and wild. Soon we were all drenched and laughing as the boat rocked its way back to the beach. Our ability to communicate with the Zanzibari guys was limited, but it was clear we were all thoroughly enjoying ourselves. Laughter is universal, after all.

Photos: top: the view from the porch of our cottage in Zanzibar; next: the trail to Nemshi's; next: Nemshi's-- he's the one in the back on the left; next: the yellow flowers in the tree!; next: Kizimkazi; next: after the storm, walking back from the boat; next: the view from the parked van at Kizimkazi