Amani Children's Home

Since I have departed my adopted home land for 7 months of Tanzania, I guess it is a good time to explain why I was residing there for such an extended period of time.

While I travel, I am always on the look out for organizations that put money to good use.  When I was backpacking through Africa in 2004 I came across Amani Children's Home while spending a few days in Moshi.  It was a small rented house with one room set up as a classroom and another room crammed wall to wall with bunk beds where the children slept 2 – 3 per bed.  Outside was a makeshift kitchen with about 30 kids running barefoot around the grounds.  I spent some time talking to the young woman who was coordinating efforts at the time and she explained to me their situation, needs, and aspirations.  As a place that seemed very resourceful with what they had, they were still in dire need of more support.

After I returned State-side in 2005 I stayed in touch with Amani, spread the word about the organization, and raised a bit of money for them each year by rendering services I shouldn't mention on this blog because the government may be listening and I am sure I didn't do the taxes correctly.  As the years went by I always thought it would be great to get back there and spend some time volunteering and this was that opportunity. 

Returning in 2012, within the span of just 8 years they had raised enough money to buy an entirely new large plot of land which housed a large complex with four classrooms, library, cafeteria, staff offices, girl’s and boy’s dorm rooms, enough land for a soccer field, basketball court, and playground and was now home to just under 100 children.  It was extremely gratifying to see how well used the money they had raised through private donations was being used.  On top of that, all the kids looked happy.

So here is my bit on poverty in East Africa:

Street children are endemic in East Africa and especially Tanzania.  With an average daily income of $1.50 and a population of over 46 million, it is one of the poorest countries in the region.  Yes, things are cheaper and $1.50 can get you a bit of food but it won't put a roof over your families head, take care of medical expenses, put your children through school, etc...  Severe poverty along with a host of other issues, including losing parents to HIV or an abusive home especially at the hands of step-parents, leave many children with no choice but to turn to the streets and things aren't any easier there.  On the streets, they are sexually abused, beaten, and robbed by older groups of street kids.  The local community and police offer no helping hand seeing the children as thieves and nuisances and often turn to beating the children as well, sometimes severely.  

The least to say the government’s infrastructure for anything is severely lacking.  They have a hard time constructing a straight road much less taking care of children living on the streets or even wanting to.  Luckily NGO’s have moved in to try and alleviate some of the pain but it's like putting a band-aid on a massive leak however for the few kids who do get helped it can make a huge difference in their lives.  This is what Amani does.

Some of the boys pose for picture outside Amani with Kilimanjaro in the background.

I had two main job duties at Amani.  Since I speak the English good and had previously taught English in Japan, they thought I would make a good fit for English club teacher.  Since I had previously trained astronauts, they also thought I would work well with the special needs children. 

Knuckle sandwiches served with every meal.

Taking the reigns as the English club teacher was a new task to itself.  With no curriculum to go by, I could do whatever I could come up with for class.  As a tip for any international teachers, bingo is a solid go-to game in any part of the world especially when hungover.  The kids were surprisingly well behaved but as with any new teacher especially one who doesn’t have a firm grasp of Swahili, they will definitely see how much they can get away with.  At the beginning, I made a cheat sheet with useful Swahili phrases for the classroom which had varying degrees of success.  While one would climb on top of the table I would look at my notes to see how to say "Get down!".  When I looked up to say "Get down!", a different one would be going through the book cabinet, and when I looked down to say "Clothes the cabinet!" another one would be yelling out of the window.  When I looked down to say "Stop yelling!" another one would be.... and so on.  Luckily before I had my Swahili figured out, I did learn that they do understand being locked in the time out room or better yet being made to work with the maintenance guy shoveling rocks and that worked quite well as a deterrent.  If all else failed, luckily in Africa, headlocks are still an acceptable form of punishment especially when bingo got out of control.    

My other main responsibility was working in the special needs class.  We had a group of about ten kids who were either dyslexic, slow learners, or who had just never learned how to learn.  If you are in need of learning the virtue of patience, this is the place to be where productivity is based on months instead of days.  Sometimes it felt like a child was never going to learn how to even recognize the letter 'A' and then all of a sudden one day they were writing the ABC's.  This didn't happen often but when it did it was gratifying to say the least.  

Apart from the group in the special needs class we had two boys with severe mental disabilities.  One was Daudi who suffers from Autism along with a host of other disorders giving him a very unique personality.  He was left at Amani's front door many years ago and without anyway of communicating where he came from, Amani is his permanent home.  Daudi uses a set of vocalizations depending on his mood that ranged from low grunts to high pitch shrieks that echo through the halls.  It was always funny when tour groups came in on the weekends and to watch the looks on their faces when Daudi was making his noises that rang throughout the building.  Some of them would get that "I am kind of scared but don't want to show I am scared because I am at a children's home" look.  When I was giving the tours I would just tell them some children were being punished for doing poorly in the nuclear physics workshop and they would vaguely nod their heads in mild comprehension.

When working one-on-one with Daudi my main goal was just to keep him from taking his clothes off and not mixing up the different colors of silly putty.  That drives me crazy.  Whether he was throwing rocks at tour groups that came in on Saturdays or going naked down the slip-n-slide, everyone loved him.

Daudi working on some chalk art on the cafeteria floor.

On the other end of the spectrum was Lengai whose general attitude can best be summed up in the picture below:

Lengai was born on the streets to a mentally challenged and drug addicted mother who died shortly thereafter and had a childhood that is impossible to comprehend.  He had a love-hate relationship with a few of the staff and a hate-hate relationship with everyone else.  He kept everyone on their toes with severe mood swings not sure if he was going to give you a big bear hug, bite you, or completely ignore you.  He definitely had the stickiest fingers out of all the kids and had a great eye for taking exactly the thing you didn't want him to take.  As soon as he saw that you were onto him, and if you didn't grab his hands in time, whatever the item was went down the front of his pants and no matter how valuable it was to you, you didn't want it back after that.  My favorite was when he got his hands on a laptop and buried it outside to hide it so he could sell it later to buy some candy.  I would value a dirt covered laptop at around 1 pack of gummie bears, 3 blow pops, 5 pixie sticks, and 2 bottles of coke. 

Aside from those two roles, myself and the other four volunteers were also relegated the duties of organizing games and events especially during school holidays which usually amounted to controlled chaos.  That being said, for a home full of street children, they were no more scuffles than your average family household and myself being from a family of one, there were few.  We tried to give the kids as normal environment as possible walking the line between big brother and disciplined teacher.  Sometimes a kid would just come up under your arm to walk down the hall or come plop in your lap while sitting outside during lunch.

Of course, the kids had their own games they played but we introduced some of our childhood favorites  as well that included twister, slip-n-slide, and dodgeball.  Although the slip-n-slide was my favorite to participate in, dodgeball was my favorite to watch.  We converted one end of the cafeteria into a dodgeball court giving it pretty tight quarters to evade the ball in and laid out the rules of the game telling them not to intentionally aim for the head.  Inevitably this was their favorite target.  Without much room to move in, the kids would run back and forth against the back wall trying to avoid getting hit.  However, occasionally a ball would come flying across at super sonic velocity and squarely hit an unsuspecting victim on the head.  Since the victim was usually pressed against the back wall, his head would then ricochet off the solid concrete behind him sending the entire cafeteria into a laughing frenzy as he fell down to the ground holding both sides of his head.  We always gave the thrower two points for that.  The nurse was never too happy after an afternoon of dodgeball or slip-n-slide and we were told we couldn't play it again.  But we did.  It wasn't like I could get fired.

The boys trying to remember 'right' and 'left' in English.

Home-made giant slip-n-slide was a hot afternoon favorite.  Of course I joined in after I put the camera down.

Dodgeball or death-ball depending on which end of the throw you were on.

Amani also had other more organized extracurricular activities for the kids to partake in.  They scheduled soccer tournaments amongst the children who lived there as well as against outside schools.  Every once in a while, we would have a staff vs kids game.  Even with the referee on our side allowing us to use our size to push the kids around, they still usually beat us.  

The kids also loved acrobatics and had a great instructor who came a couple times of week to work with them for performances.  Whether he was there or not they always enjoyed practicing and putting on a show.  I tried to get them into tightrope walking and we set up a wire across a river giving them a safe place to fall when practicing however some staff stopped our efforts due to the crocodiles in the water below.  I thought it would just be a good deterrent to keep the kids on the wire. 

After my time at Amani was up and it was time to leave, it was difficult to say goodbye knowing that I would probably never see these kids again.  They don't have iPhones or laptops to stay in touch through e-mail or Facebook but if they learned half as much from me as I learned form them, I'll be satisfied.  I felt accomplished with the time I had spent there and knew it was time to get a move on some things were becoming a bit too normal:

1.  When a short Japanese man is teaching a group of young black children how to play basketball and you don't think that is odd.

2.  When a kid has been wearing a superhero outfit for the past week as his daily outfit because somehow he got into the costume chest and you don't give it a second glance.

3.  When kids are playing with their food and eating with their hands, instead of offering them a spoon, you wish that you could eat like that.

Along with all the great kids I got to spend tons of time with, I also made some long-lasting friends with the other staff and teachers.  I was invited to a huge Tanzanian wedding that was decorated like a mix between Rainbow Brite and Star Trek with as much hot beer as you could drink and as much goat as you could eat.

I got to tag along with some friends who went to a rally cross and since it was my first one, I wasn't sure of bystander etiquette but in Tanzania it seems that it was ok, if not encouraged, to interfere with the cars as they raced by.

It's not an everyday occurrence to get a Masai villager and rally car in the same shot.

Since this blog focuses on Amani, here is their link in case you would like to read more about what they do or help out in anyway:

Amani Children's Home: http://www.amanikids.org

Obviously, if you have any other questions you can always ask me also.

Hope everyone is doing well.

Peace out,
Jb

Food for Thought:  If you are in Africa eating dinner and you don't finish all your meal, what do you do if your mom says you need to finish it because there are starving kids in Africa?

Tanzania - Photologue

If you ever end up in Tanzania on a whim or are stuck here due to a layover, here is a run down of the top three sites the country has to offer:

Safari

The Serengeti is probably one of the most thought of names when people mention an African safari.  Lying in eastern Tanzania along the Kenyan border, it covers a massive area that is just a portion of the Great Rift Valley, the birthplace of humanity.  Aside from the famed Serengeti National Park, the lesser known Ngorongoro Crater National Park is my favorite park in the region lying just to the south.  As its name implies, it is a giant crater that acts as a natural enclosure for the animals that at some point in the past have ventured in.  It is filled with all the animals the Serengeti has to offer but in a much more confined area only lacking giraffes. 

The Kenyan side of the border has two parks to rival those of its neighbor.  One being Amboseli National Park, which is the only park where you can get views of elephants or giraffes grazing while the snow topped peak of Mt. Kilimanjaro rises majestically in the background.  The other park is Masai Mara National Park known for its high concentration of lions with plenty of zebra and wildebeest carcasses lying on the grounds to prove it.

Arriving on the Dark Continent, I first flew into Nairobi, Kenya, also known as ‘Nai-robbery’, where I had the chance to visit the parks there before heading overland into Tanzania.  I had five friends that found the time and patience to get to this part of the world and head out on the safari together.  I’ll keep the words brief here since the video below can show the grandeur of the animal kingdom much better than I can explain it.

Mt. Kilimanjaro

As a friend once pointed out, “Why would you want to climb a mountain that has ‘kill-a-man’ in its name?”  That’s a fair question especially since it is the highest point on the African continent and the highest freestanding mountain in the world rising 5,895 meters or almost 20,000 feet from the Serengeti Plain below.  It has also claimed the lives of more climbers than Mt. Everest, at least according to Wikipedia.   

Luckily, after the boys left after their safari, one stayed behind to help achieve the daunting task of reaching the summit.  Unluckily, I came down with malaria the day before our six day climb was to begin, but fortunately the curative medicine works rather well and I was back to normal within a couple of days, before the tough climbing kicked in.  This rounded my tropical disease count out to an even four so I felt could about that.

The tour companies tout that 90% or more of their clients make it to the summit.  When researched a bit, that number is actually closer to 60% so out of the two of us, at least one of us should make it to the top. 

Out of the six routes, we chose the Machame Route which is a bit steeper but offers more spectacular views and we weren’t let down by either one of those facts.  The first 3 days are steady, shallow 3 – 4 hour climbs beginning with lush forests before ascending above the scrub line to the harsh and jagged landscape of the mountain top.  The 4^th day is when the intensity picks up both in altitude and duration.  After an 8 hour day of hiking, we reached base camp around 5 pm, had a quick dinner, and were off to catch as much sleep as we could before the summit attempt at 11 pm that night. 

For two guys who have spent most of their lives living at sea level in a coastal state, the trip to the top pushed us to our limits.  As we climbed, focusing to put one foot in front of the other, we passed fellow climbers who were being pushed to the top by their guides, others who stopped to vomit on the side of the trail before pressing on, and still others who were being lead down after their body couldn’t take it any more.  I can say it was the most difficult thing I have ever done but after 6 hours of climbing we reached the summit just as the sun was rising and it was a magnificent view.

After about an hour at the top, we began our descent, continuing to trek passed our base camp, arriving at our final camp around 2 pm making for an exhausting two days and much needed rest.  The next morning we hobbled out the few hours to the main gate where we made the official entry into the log book stating that we had made it to the summit.  Our guides and porters who carry all the equipment for the entire journey looked like they were ready to take off again back up the mountain.

Mt. Kilimanjaro's top rises above the clouds keeping a watchful eye over Moshi.

First camp on a clear night with Kili's snow shining in the moonlight.

View from inside our tent looking across to our 'dining hall' at the second camp.

Third camp in the morning where the nights get well below freezing.

The line of hikers and porters ascend the steep terrain out of camp.

The porters are the pack mules of the mountain carrying everything in and everything out.

Sunrise on the summit with Kili's shadow resting on the Kenyan side

At the top with my buddy Mark, our guide - Dennis, and assistant guide - Rogers.

Hiking back down to base camp from the 'Roof of Africa'.

All the clothes I wore at the top and was still cold.  Yes, the beer bottle and gorilla mask were a necessity

2 guides, 1 cook, and 7 porters for just the two of us.

Simon Mtuy: World Record holder for up and down the mountain
along the same route we took in 6 days except he did it in 9.5 hours.

Zanzibar

It is the definition of an exotic island and being surrounded by crystal blue waters that meet white sandy beaches is just the start.  The waters contain an abundance of sea life from playful dolphins and whale sharks to octopus and tiny brightly colored nudi-branches making it the best place for diving on the East African coast.  (Most of the sea life can also be sampled at the local food stalls along the seafront promenade.)  The beaches are scattered with tourist baking in the intense equatorial sun while local Africans dress up in traditional Masai attire hoping this will increase their chances to sell their wares.

Inland, an indigenous species of red colobus monkeys fill the forest treetops while a sanctuary for the cumbersome giant tortoise takes up the well-trodden ground below.  Outside the protected forest, the countryside is filled with nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and a multitude of other spices, which are exported all over the world and lend credence to Zanzibar’s title as ‘The Spice Island’.

The focal point of the island is Stone Town, declared a World Heritage Site as the only functioning ancient town in East Africa.  Due to its heavy Persian influence, its architecture belongs more to Aladdin’s tale than an African island.  Each turn you take gets you more lost down the cities narrow streets but offers up more enticing scenes around each bend.  Being 99% Muslim, most women walk around covered head to toe, some with just their eyes visible, adding to the mystery of the place while prayer calls from the mosques and children singing songs in madrassas fill the air. 

In its past, Zanzibar, meaning ‘Coast of Blacks’, was primarily a horrific trading hub for slaves.  Persian traders would trek inland sometimes as far as the Congo with armies of men to capture or buy thousands of slaves whom they would march back to Zanzibar, along with as much ivory as they could carry, to be sold and then shipped to the Middle East, India, and Asia.  This slave trade was put to an end in the late 1800’s after British missionaries began colonizing the region.  The British influence can also be seen in some of the grander architecture throughout Stone Town and have also left English as the second language of the island making it easy for tourists to find their way when lost.

Pictures speak for themselves of the allure of Stone Town and one thing that is pictured the most are the intricate and strongly built doors on each abodes entry.  The doors were originally built strong and with sharply pointed accessories to defend from the blunt attacks of elephants trying to knock them in during periods of invasions but now lend themselves primarily to the onslaught of tourists’ cameras, which they can easily withstand.

Also, for the music trivia fans, Stone Town was the birthplace of Freddie Mercury.  For you non-music trivia fans, Freddy Mercury was the lead singer of Queen.  For the extreme non-music trivia fan, if you don’t know Queen, you can look that one up on your own.  So, since it is difficult these days to get a photo of Freddie Mercury roaming the streets of his hometown, I have chosen a Queen song to accompany this set of photos.  Although the tempo of the song doesn’t match the sultry laid back lifestyle of the town, a bicycle’s bell can be heard around every blind corner as you then have to quickly dodge the oncoming traffic cruising the narrow walkways.

I hope everyone is doing well and always look forward to hearing back from you.
Cheers,
JB

Karibu Tanzania

I am writing this inside a compound surrounded by a 10 ft tall concrete enclosure topped with 3 ft of high-voltage electric wire where three vicious security dogs are let out at night and the only one who can handle them without being eaten alive is the 24-hour security guard.  I also have to hand wash my underwear.  This means one of two things:
I am either in a jail just outside Guadalajara, Mexico or in a very nice house in Moshi, Tanzania.

Fortunately for me and my man-hood, I am sitting comfortably in my house in Tanzania, as you probably guessed from the title, where dropping the soap in the bathroom isn't that big of a deal.  I have caught up on my blog and am finally writing from the actual country I currently reside in.  I arrived in Tanzania at the end of last October and settled into Moshi, a quaint town at the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro.  I'll write more about why I am here in a later post but wanted to write about something I did recently for a change instead of months ago.

Karibu Tanzania - Welcome to Tanzania

Masai Easter
The Masai are a semi-nomadic people who originated in northern Kenya around the 15th century and over the years migrated south to central Tanzania.  They are well known for their distinctive jewelry, bright clothing, and enthusiastic dancing, and well recognized since they reside in the most popular wildlife parks in the region:  Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater National Parks in Tanzania and Masai Mara and Amboseli National Parks in Kenya.  They survive on the vast plains throughout the Great Rift Valley in extremely modest huts made of earth and dung where they herd goats and cattle for subsistence.  It is a common site when driving through these parts, especially out on safari, to see a young boy of just 7 or 8 herding his family's livestock across the barren land to patches of green grass or watering holes with just a long stick to protect the herd and himself from the same predators tourists  are eagerly hoping to spot.  That would include hyenas, leopards, and lions.  I wouldn't classify it as a truly traditional Western upbringing.

Of course some of the Masai have gradually assimilated into modern society.  Many work as night watchmen for private homes in nearby towns where they may live permanently in a small room separated from the main house or they may just come in the evening and leave in the morning.  Some are great and some are useless as with any employees.  Some sleep on the ground at night in a drunken stupor when they should be awake and alert but you really can't blame them because staring out into pitch black surroundings for 10 hours each night would drive me to drink as well.  Some are extremely diligent and very charismatic becoming great friends with the owners/renters of the house they watch which is the case for some friends I know.  Their 'Masia-guy' is Msafiri and he invited a group of us out to his house in Majimoto for Easter weekend.

In Africa, half the fun is getting there.
Please allow me to introduce you to the dala dala, the main mode of local transport in Tanzania.  At first glance it is a seemingly innocent looking mini-van with seats for fifteen that is usually packed beyond clown-car capacity making it a human sardine tin.  The most I have personally been involved in was 28, as much as I could see.  There is the driver up front and the conductor at the sliding door, who is usually a young man hired by the driver to get the van as full as possible in the shortest amount of time.  I have seen them physically drag a man resting under a shade tree on the side of the road into the vehicle while convincing him he wants to go wherever we are headed.  And somehow he obliges them.

The conductor is at least lucky enough to able to keep half out of the dala dala for  fresh air.
The guy in the back is one finger short of the peace sign.

There appear to be little if any safety standards imposed on dala dalas aside from the seemingly random regulation that they must have a fire extinguisher present somewhere inside.  If it works or has any juice left is a different story.  The drivers will literally drive these things until the tires fall off as I witnessed while waiting for one when the last bolt on a right-rear tire decided it couldn't hold on any longer and gave the passengers an abrupt jolt as it let loose and sent the tire down the road continuing its journey while the van came to a slow stop with sparks shooting from the axle.  Hence the fire extinguisher doesn't seem so random at this point.

Once inside, the seats and interior are arranged however the driver thinks will produce the highest occupancy.  This means that there are lots of sharp metal edges from modifications both new and old the least of which can slice clean through a vein or at worst impale you.  If you are lucky enough to get a seat, however unlucky enough to be a tall foreigner, your knees will spend most of the time in the volume of the back of the seat in front of you.  Sometimes they may actually go through.

It is important to hold your ground while the dala dala is being loaded and keep space for a pocket of air to breathe.  Hopefully it is not near someone's face, underarm, crotch, or rear but don't hold your breath because chances of this happening are rare.  On second thought, holding your breath until you pass out is a completely viable option and may make the entire experience less painful.  Once everyone is packed in, the conductor also presses in, slides the door shut if able and gives a click on the roof to tell the driver we are ready to proceed down the bumpy road ahead to our  next stop.  This doubles as good preparation in the event you are trapped in a collapsed building on a boat in rough seas.

More often than not the person who needs out first is the farthest in the back which means everyone has to get out and then re-jostle for position when getting back in.  The conductor usually waits to collect fares until the mess of human origami cannot move any more.  I think they do this for their own amusement.  Of course my wallet is in my back pocket.

Heading out to Msafiri's village, we had a total of eight going and one car that could fit five, with actual seats.  I drew the short straw and was left to take the dala dala.

Everyone's obviously excited in anticipation for the ride and we aren't even half-full yet.
I snagged a seat in the back.  I only hit my head on the roof 17 times.

Dala dalas seem to only travel on one road, back and forth, all day.  If you need to turn, you must get out of the dala dala you are currently in and wait at the intersection for one heading in your new direction.  So the more turns you need, the longer it takes.  We, fortunately, had only one turn and it was at a junction with an extremely busy market.  It appeared everyone was out to prepare for an Easter feast.

After we bought our vegetables, we headed across the street to pick up a couple of chickens.  Since power is sparse to non-existent in the rural areas, everything is sold live and butchered when needed.  The chickens are brought to the market in baskets on the backs of motorcycles, in boxes on peoples heads, or stuffed inside jacket pockets.  Their legs are tied together usually in series with other chickens making for a very uncoordinated chain gang.  One wily rooster somehow escaped temporarily from his 'shackles' and it took a group of about ten grown men and a few times across the highway before they cornered him and got him back in line.

An ideal place to use the 'Chicken Farmer' pick-up line on the correct lady.
For those who don't know it, my cousin would be disappointed if I didn't share:
-  Are your parents chicken farmers?
- No or Yes.  Why?
-  Because they sure taught you how to raise a cock.

I could insert another bad joke about a chicken crossing the road but will refrain.

In the end, they weren't willing to bargain on the two chickens we wanted, most likely because we were mazungu (the Swahili word for white-skinned people).  Msafiri said not to worry.  He had a friend in his village who would sell us a goat for cheap.

We loaded back into a new dala dala and went as far as the road would take us.  It had been raining the night before and the vans couldn't proceed any farther.  Thus we now hopped on the back of a boda boda or piki piki which is a motorcycle taxi.  We had to wait a few minutes until enough drivers and bikes could be rounded up to take the three of us.  My driver was the last to show up and appeared to be the most drunk or high or a combination of the two out of the drivers, which made for an adventurous ride over slick muddy roads, through herds of goats, and across flooded streams.  To make it more exciting, I decided to film with one hand for insurance purposes in the likely event of an accident and held on with the other:

Majimoto
Some groups of Masai have settled more than others.  Majimoto is like a large neighborhood with plenty of space between each house for the family farm.  There are permanent houses made of concrete but still very primitive.  It was easy to spot Msafiri's house since his brightly hued paint scheme stands out among the other drab colored houses but the inside is like most houses there.  They have a main front room for guests then four smaller rooms down a narrow hall.  One for storing goods and the other three are bedrooms for him, his wife, and three children.  There is no electricity nor running water but everything is kept clean, even the dirt outside is swept.  The one drawback is the outhouse.  It is around the side of the house and I was told it is occupied by very large cockroaches after sunset.  Luckily I never had to verify their existence.

More important than greeting the elders when you arrive is bringing candy for the kids.

Life is simple and most things you need are right around you.  The fence to protect the goats and cows at night from hyenas is assembled from thorn tree branches.  Cooking is done by digging a hole in the ground for a fire and setting the pot on top.  Hot pads are quickly plucked large tree leaves when needed.  Kids fill an old sock with small rocks and old seed to make a ball.  And if someone slips in the mud on the way to church in the morning, you just walk to the nearest puddle of water and clean off.  This may have happened to me.

Msafiri's daughter, their two cows, and pen for their goats.

Once settled in and unpacked, we had a bite to eat and then headed off for a tour of the village with Msafiri.  He showed us his brother's place who is a veterinarian and working on breeding a certain line of goat that produce chocolate milk.  (The chocolate milk part is a complete falsity but maybe someday dreams will come true.)  After his brother's place, we went to his other brother's place, his father's place, his cousin's place, his other cousin's place, and one more cousin's place before ending up at the local pub.

The local watering hole.  No line, dress code, or cover charge.

There were already a few gentlemen drinking on this Holy Saturday afternoon so we decided to join them for some warm beers.  I ended up sitting by the eldest of the group and somehow we hit it off even though my Swahili only got us to "How many daughters do you have and what are their ages?" and his English got us to "Hello".

He turned out to be the pastor of the local Catholic church and invited us to his mass on Easter Sunday.  I asked him if he always drinks on Saturdays before mass and he said just one packet of K-tan.
[Side Note:  The local drink of Tanzanians, aside form beer, is Konyagi which is a really bad gin.  K-tan is the off-brand Konyagi if that tells you anything.  They are both served in bottles or for those on a smaller budget, in clear packets similar to a large ketchup sachet.]
After he told me had just one, I asked him about the three empty packets on the ground by his feet.  This caused everyone to laugh out loud for the next five minutes and give the pastor much ribbing.  Once we settled back down, he told me he wanted to come to America, emphasizing just for a visit, not to stay.  I told him if he bought an airline ticket I would be more than happy to host.  He didn't quite understand how much it cost in US dollars so we converted it to goats and told him it would be about 16 goats to which he responded that he could have that many for me in 3 weeks.  Still waiting.

The pastor locked onto my arm after one to many.

Anticipating the taste of warm beer.

While we were there, Msafiri had called his friend with the goat to sell.  They brought it to the pub, of course by motorbike, so we could have a look at it and approve our transaction.  The goat seemed to be enjoying the field trip unbeknownst to him it would be his last.

It looked like a swell goat to us, so the gentleman drove the goat to Msafiri's house where we found it tied to the tree enjoying the shade without a care in the world.

For those who have never butchered a live animal, this maybe a bit much so close your eyes.  We gently lead the goat to the back of the house before grabbing it by its legs and flipping it on its back.  At this point it figured something was wrong and struggled quite vigorously.  Msafiri took his long Masai knife from the sheath on his hip, held the goats head still, and quickly slit the goat's throat.  It didn't take long for the goat to pass and as soon as he did the men deftly skinned him out and not a part was wasted.

From alive to skinned and butchered in less than 15 minutes.

Now you think you are a really funny guy when they ask you what your favorite part of the goat is and you say "The face." and they in turn reply quite seriously "Ok."  Before I could express that this was a joke, I was handed the goat's head and told to go start cooking it on the fire.  The kids could see I had not the slightest idea of what to do next since I was just standing there staring at the goat while it stared back at me.  They took me over to the fire and broke off a couple of sturdy branches that we shoved up the goats nose to use as handles.  The process was to place the head over the fire to burn the hairs, scrape them off with a knife, and repeat until most of the hair was gone.

This picture would seem pretty normal except for the fact that I am holding a goat's head on the end of a stick.

After I had perfected this process and was covered in burnt goat hair, Msafiri came and split the head with his knife and tossed it in the pot to boil.  While we waited, nothing draws a crowd in a Masai village like the smell of a goat roasting over an open flame.  Friends and family started filling in with drinks in hand until we numbered around 20.  As soon as something was ready, it was taken off the fire and passed around so everyone could have a taste.  The menu included kidney, liver, intestine soup, cooked blood, and of course the face.  As soon as the head was ready Msafiri passed it to me to do the honors but again I was a bit unsure of where to start when eating a face.  With the help of a few others we dug in quite well and I ended up eating some of the cheek and an ear.  Wasn't too bad but think next time I will say the shank which was delicious.

Eating order is adults, children, dogs.  That is for who gets to eat not who is eaten.

Once the goat was finished, the drinks began to flow a bit more liberally.  The clouds moved in as the sun set and turned the night completely black.  Msafiri began to lead the men in their traditional songs.  They are sung in a low throaty style with high pitched yelps thrown in.  Each person plays a different sound as they take turns jumping in the middle of the human ring while everyone around them dances a calm, stuttered bobbing of the head and body.  The women join in as well and have us all on our feet dancing with them.  Being out in a Masai village, dancing on the damp earth, listening to centuries old tribal songs while barely being able to see the person next to you was quite surreal.  After at least an hour of celebration, the skies opened up and the rain began to pour down.  We headed for the porch while the others scattered to their own homes.  The noise on the tin roof was deafening and the lightening brilliantly lit up the surrounding countryside for just mere glimpses at a time.  I have never seen it rain so hard for so long.  Eventually we all settled in on the concrete floor in the living room while the rain on the roof became a background noise as we drifted to sleep.

Surprisingly, in the morning everything was still there.  The cows and goats looked like they had had a rough night but they survived.  We had a quick breakfast, washed up in the rain water that filled all the buckets to the brim, and began our walk to church.  On the way, we ran into Msafiri's brother, the vet, who was elbow deep in a cow's vagina trying to help a calf out that was wrapped on the umbilical cord.  After a few minutes, the calf was out albeit a bit exhausted as well as the mother but both were healthy. His brother washed off his arm in a puddle (not the same one I used), rolled back down the sleeve of his button-up shirt, and walked with us to the church.  Just your standard Sunday morning.

Although Masai have their own traditional religion, many of them have folded it into Christianity.  The women showed up in shiny brightly colored dresses while most of the men have button down shirts and slacks.  They all seemed to have managed the slippery mud better than me.  Msafiri's wife sang in the choir and his daughter sang and played the drum.  The choir's enthusiasm and singing put most choirs I've heard to shame.

Waiting for the crowd to fill in and mass to start.  The children use the free time to stare at the mazungu.

After mass, we were snagged by my friend, the pastor, for one more quick chat before saying goodbye.  We had lunch and headed back to Moshi.  This time I got a seat in the car and for a ride that took 4 hours getting there by public transport, it only took 1.5 to get back.

Once back home I am sure we all thoroughly enjoyed our Easter weekend but also appreciated the shower and comfortable beds we slept in that night.  I had to shave my beard to get the goat out.

Hope everyone is well.
Cheers,
Jb