JL | journal

Having departed from paradise only that morning, the 12 hours in the ‘1st class cabin’ of the cargo ship Spice Islander was twice as close to hell as it already was.

As we arrived at the ship that evening, the loading dock was already flooded by the flesh of men, women and children. Children below our waists were being crushed; old ladies unable to move in any direction were desperately screaming for help; the police with wooden sticks furiously attempting to create some sort of order; and the rest of the people tenaciously resisting those attempts. In short, it was just like in the movies: as if the island was sinking, or aliens coming from right behind, everyone was fighting with their lives to board the last ferry.

The first class had tables, air conditioning which was as good as absent, and a population density of about 8 people per square meter. The floor was covered first with a layer of luggage then another of bodies. It was nearly impossible to move in the cabin. Fighting our way to the bathroom required stepping on things we would usually avoid; returning to our seats after using the bathroom, with our sole still moist, made us feel extra guilty. The benches had small cockroaches crawling around occasionally, which I had to kill and vaporize swiftly before Sandy would notice them. It was a suffering even for the Tanzanian standard.

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The lady at the booth of Sea Express –the most recommended company for the Dar Es Salaam—Zanzibar route– was too uninterested in dealing with me that she somehow ignored my (certainly audible) signals for almost a good minute before looking up. That was enough for me to decide to travel with another company in that sea of competition. For half the price (but also at half the speed), we went with Flying Horse. Trip duration was 3 hours, as written on the board outside the tickets booth, although the sales person insisted that it would only take two, at most two and a half, because the company had just installed a new engine on the ferry. Sure.

The three hour spent inside the 1st class cabin was our most comfortable travel thus far. A/C, wide cushioned sofas, static-free television, and a comprehensible conversation in variously accented English. It was a fitting appetizer for our destination— the other-worldly Zanzibar.
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I have known that I have Psoriasis since a young age. It is believed to be inherited - both my father’s parents had it, my father has it, and some of my cousins on my father’s side, too. But that is all I know about Psoriasis – that I never had a chance to avoid it, it is simply bad luck (in Swahili we say Bahati Mbaya) that I am the only one among us three siblings to have inherited it.

At least that was how I felt when I first got those shiny white patches all over my back during primary school age.
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Deserve (v.)
—do something or have or show qualities worthy of (reward or punishment)

Last night, most of the volunteers were told by the director of OHS that they do not deserve to be here. I was not present at the meeting, but only heard about it through second-hand account. Had I been, I would most likely belong to the not-deserving group. Either way, I think it raised a worthy question.

What happened was that a few of the ex-street boys-who now have apartments paid for by OHS-were voluntarily working on our construction site, shoveling and wheel-barreling dirt for around 4 hours in the morning yesterday. During that whole time, all but 2 volunteers helped out with their effort. Moreover, most of the daily chores were not performed, or only by a few volunteers. Some were already consuming alcohol in the morning.

The situation was observed by the director, and, in the evening meeting, some distaste was shared.

As young and immature and unprofessional as we are, we are all coming out here, investing great amount of time, money and effort, trying to solve a situation which is only so slightly and indirectly connected to our lives back home. I find the use of the word ‘deserve’ quite unintelligible.

I believe what the director meant by here is not east Africa, or Tanzania, I think he meant the OHS site in Mateves. Maybe he meant they should have picked ‘better’ volunteers, more worthy ones to be on the sacred piece of 2.5 acres OHS site which, of course, is bought and with houses erected with the volunteers’ money.

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Here in Tanzania (reasonably the whole Africa) everyone endorses Obama. Kenya made the day after the election - Happy Obama Day - a public holiday. T-shirts with the word Obama floods the streets of Arusha.

The world, at least the one around me, celebrates this historical event. And of course, now we all look forward to what kind of change this next president of the United States could do…

Today, when I was driving down the street in Suzi, a police officer pulled us over. He ordered my passenger to get off the car, and climbed into it himself - a clear sign of bribe-seeking. He told me that Suzi’s hand break was not working, before he even examined it (and, to his disappointment, the hand break does work). He asked for my driver’s license, and I gave him my Californian one (for lacking an international one).

“Obama!” Cheered the police officer. A little handshake. “I can find other mistakes in your car if I want, but for Obama, I’ll let you go.”

Before entering his office in January, Barack Obama is already easing the corrupt situation of law-enforcing officials in East Africa.

Yes, we totally can.

Once a upon a time, a boy named Bahati - blessing, or luck - lived on the streets of Arusha. He was invited into a program called Nafasi Nyingine - Another Chance. There he was taught English and fed food, three times a week.

One night Bahati was found on the street with a bleeding head. It was a friend of his whom he told he is not going to be friends with anymore that got angry and hit him with a rock. When found, he was taken to the hospital directly by a nice lady, and later to her home. They watched football together at home, and they bought some nice clothes together.

With his nicer clothes, he showed up at the Nafasi Nyingine with his chin high. The friend who hit him with a rock was still his friend, after all.

A week later, the nice lady decided to visit his home together with him. For all that time he told everybody that his home was in Moshi - a nearby town to Arusha. On the way to Moshi, he asked the lady where were they going.

“To your home, of course.” said the lady.

“My home is not in Moshi.” said Bahati, “It’s in Arusha.”

So they turned back and took him to his home in Arusha. Upon arrival, they see a nice cement house occupied by a couple. They were Bahati’s father and step-mum. They were really happy to see him, in fact, they have been sending people into the streets looking for him.

There’s a long burnt scar on Bahati’s thigh which he said was done by his abusive father.

“It wasn’t me, it was my brother. He was trying to punish him for stealing his money.” Said Bahati’s father. “I filed it to the police at the end and you could check the record to prove that it wasn’t me.”

Bahati’s step-mum is not Bahati’s favorite, not like his passed-away mother. Although she seems to care for him a lot, too.

“He keeps running away into the streets and we simply don’t know what to do anymore.” His parents admitted. “Perhaps we should just give you the custody of him if that is what he wants.”

No, that was not possible. He was to stay with his family. His picture was to be shared by police officers so they know where to take him when they ever find him on the streets again.

“His name is Solomon, by the way.” His parents pointed out, “Not Bahati.”

A rather disturbing news article shed light on yet another issue between the two colors.

Albino girl murdered in Tanzania

*Thanks Wendy for sharing.

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Maji ya Chai - in Swahili Water of Tea, which describes the milkish water that flows through the village - is a peaceful, tranquil, harmonious place.

It is home to the original CCF center. When German founder Peter Cool used to carry supplies on his head six-foot six above ground, walking up the hill on rocky paths, this new home was a promising new hope for many street children. When Peter departed from this country, and soon after, this world, so have much of his hopes for this organization which he so dedicatedly founded.
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In “Development Aid: End It or Mend It” (International Center for Economic Growth, Occasional Papers No. 43, 1993), Bauer railed against calling it aid because “it promotes an unquestioning attitude. It disarms criticism, obscures realities, and prejudges results. Who could be against aid to the less fortunate? The term has enabled aid supporters to claim a monopoly of compassion and to dismiss critics as lacking in understanding and sympathy” (p. 2).

End it or Mend it, any ideas?

Stuffed with street kids who have just finished our street teaching session, the daladala reeked of sweat, dirt, spit and glue – that they sniff to get high.
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