Funerals

Memorial cross to AIDS victims

Orphans' funeral dance for lost parents

Orphans calling out to their lost parents

Funerals, sadly, are an expected part of life in Tanzania. In fact today a funeral procession, one of three, left the nondescript block building next to the HIV center and passed through the Kilema Hospital gate, a cross like the mast of a ship erected in the back of the small pickup carrying the coffin. It was followed by a second pickup filled to capacity with musicians and brass, clearly a family of some means to afford an accompaniment of horns and music. Sasha and I and curious staff came out of the offices to listen. It sounded more like a wedding, with the bold and joyful African rhythms we’re used to hearing from musicians who weave through the streets of Moshi in wedding processions, until we realized this was a funeral. Rarely do we hear music on the mountain when pickups leave Kilema hospital for how many can afford the cost? Most often it is a quiet, sober exit perhaps with the cries of mourning women and murmurs from those watching another truck passing through the gates.

Last week word came that Deo, one of our supported orphans, had become what is known as a complete orphan; he lost his father. The man was brought to the hospital in the back of our OVC jeep driven by my colleague Rick who had slid through Ngangu clay to retrieve him. Though he died upon arrival the outcome of his illness couldn’t have been a surprise even to Deo. He had been ailing all year and, like many men, was resistant to follow-up. The rest of our day was spent discussing how the orphan program should respond to such circumstances. With so many aging Bibis and Babus, the death of caregivers is an inevitable worry though we all agreed we were not in the business of financing coffins. Still we knew that the remains of this family could not afford the 85,000tsh necessary to buy the simplest of board coffins, let alone one festooned with white paint and purple ribbon like those by the dalla dalla stand in Marangu. Over two days the desperation of the family increased and where they had not attended or contributed to other funerals in the community, now few were contributing to Deo’s funeral responsibilities. The wazungos of Kilema pulled together 85,000 shillings to get Deo’s father in the ground. No pickup left the nondescript block building. Only a boy on foot holding a cross, leading pallbearers and coffin from the morgue to the cemetery, and not by way of the cathedral.

We’ve had a spate of sad departures. Novati, some of you might remember, died of an AIDS related illness just over a month ago. Through your donations to the Kilema Support Fund, Chris and I had sponsored him to begin a mechanics program at Mandaka Vocational School just down the mountain from Kilema. He fell ill even before starting classes and failed to recover from Cryptoccocal menengitis. All the HIV center staff, Mama Nyaki, Mama Kessy, Mama Rosalia and our Dr.Chris felt the tragedy. Bistra, the pharmacist from Montreal, cried all afternoon and we all remained downcast for days. Even Satish Gopal, a young pediatricican working at KCMC Hospital in Moshi, paused sadly to remember Novati who he had treated as well.

Novati was a very determined and capable young boy who knew he was ill but his mother refused to tell him. Dr. Nyaki told me Novati’s mother had fled her office when she pressed her to tell Novati his status. The mother feared all the stigma and fought to retain deniability. Mama Nyaki pulled her back from under a tree and persisted, begging her to let Novati to take control of his own life and his mother eventually agreed. Novati proved to be very faithful to his treatment. But alas, he failed to make it.

So what is offered at end of life? Talking to Mama Nyaki about palliative care lately, I showed her an accounting of the clinical use of opiates in the world, with developed nations like Austria (No. 1 with 115 mg/capita) Canada (No. 2 with 64mg/capita) Denmark, USA, and Iceland showing the greater clinical use. The nations which use opiates the very least were all African with Tanzania at the bottom (.001 mg/ capita). Together, Mama Nyaki and I looked at a most graphic comparison. In the 1960-70’s the WHO recommendations were cautious and paranoid and the legacy of that has made Africans fearful about the use opiates. So for the people who come in late to Kilema with full blown AIDS, disastrous cancers and other life-ending illnesses there is little relief from symptoms. Little relief from pain, perhaps none from respiratory congestion or breathless which can be worse than pain itself. What did that chart say to Dr. Nyaki who sees how compassionately some people leave the first world? Perhaps how fearful we are of pain? I argued that maybe Africans are more familiar with the end of life, more accepting of the ‘beads falling off the string’ and for this medications are just never asked for. We both agree that things need to change. Dr. Nyaki and Kilema Hospital would welcome a year of voluntary service from any willing palliative physician.

The very day we received news of Deo’s father, further sad news came that HBC Alex Mtui’s elderly father had passed away. I work closely with Alex and was eager to represent the OVC(Orphan and Vulnerable Children) program at the funeral in Legho. So on the day a few of us including Mr Tem, a friend and HBC colleague, tried to navigate the village road and failed, fishtailing in a slurry of red clay. Abandoning the car we set off on foot and arrived like other villagers, wiping sweat from our faces and adjusting our clothes. In the well-swept clearing between pole and mud houses, an altar had been erected with frayed white and purple fabric. Father John presided over the glazed wooden coffin and a sea of family and villagers all dressed in their best shirts and kitanges, some of who I recognized. Mr. Tem passed me a note with the calculation of the elderly man’s age: ninety years. What a relief to consider not only a long life well lived but also this man’s amazing genetic fortitude in a land of such apparent and persistent natural selection. With heads bowed I had ample time to study muddy shoes, pants tucked into socks and calloused well-worn feet. Beautiful singing occupied the time needed for the family to bury their father on the shamba, behind their hut.

Later we enjoyed a extravagant plate of rice, cooked meat, bananas and a Serengeti beer and mindful of the coming rain, then paid our respects. Leaving got us only as far as the neighbour’s house, Leocadia herself just back from the funeral. Now this is the wonderful, wise woman who gave Lockie his chickens so we were easily pulled in for hospitality. Distracted by an exceptional view and the beauty of spoken Swahili and Kchagga, I was reminded by Mr. Tem that my drinking speed was a concern in light of the approaching weather. Leocadia gifted me a beer and avocado and lead us some way out of the village but again we were pulled in to another house, they too well into funeral celebration. And there was our friend, Albin! At the next and final house we were offered not beer but an umbrella for the winds had started and the drops were beginning to pound. Aware we played our cards badly yet unrepentant, we approached the return with an odd mixture of adventure and resignation and headed down with curtains of rain lashing from every direction. The road became a river and we looked for high ground and traction, just hoping to remain upright. We skirted torrents of red water rushing to the ravine bottom, cleared the flooded bridge trying not to get swept off, and marvelled at drama of nature, water coming from everywhere. With no regard for shoes now (Mr. Tem in his dress shoes) we sloshed in water running downhill toward us and began the climb up as dark arrived, passing children using cassava leaves for umbrellas. Only when we were on the level did a carefree step land me in the mud. From a small shop in the shadows came quiet laughter which I was helpless to resist…the mazungo’s down. Laughter all around. I arrived home saturated and very wet too, but also very happy ….for Africa is like that.

And hopefully I will leave you there….

Holy Cats and Dogs (or should that be Rhinos and Hippos?)

These days we are actually relishing a marvel of nature with the arrival of the long rains, in Swahili called Masika.

To see photos of our children revelling in tropical rain click here or go to:

http://picasaweb.google.ca/crrfraser/RainySeason

Here in the late afternoon, the swirling grey clouds have massed around the bulk of Mount Kilimanjaro, followed by blustering winds, a reliable precursor of the deluge to come. A grey curtain of water, unloaded from saturated clouds, limits the visibility and the sheer force of the downpour creates a thundering on the roof. Chris and Eva have just tumbled in the door sodden and laughing, caught by rain in the course of their run. Sasha and Eva head back out to be showered in it.

Every evening around dinner we look out from under the eaves as sheets of water cascade off the corrugated metal roofing, each trough spewing a thin ribbon of white water along the sides of the buildings, like zebra stripes. Under the roof, the sound of raindrops crescendos quickly from gentle tapping to an alarming rumble, causing us to both wonder and fret about the villages and families out there with much inferior housing. Flashes of lightening illuminate hospital buildings and surrounding hills and roars of thunder above reminded me of God at the bowling alley.

After dinner we all run home from Sister’s Private where dinner is served , splashing ankle deep in rapidly forming puddles and covering our heads with platters, plastic bags, coats and cartons. The smarter ones now arrive to dinner with an umbrella. Rushing water floods the path to our house, though Chris’ hand dug trenches are quite successful at redirecting the flow into the nearby vegetable garden. I’m reminded of the stubborn father in Poisonwood Bible who planted without consulting the local Africans only to have his garden washed away by the rains. Here too the Africans mound up the sides of the beds with soil but even still run off has broken through some of the mounds, uprooting plants and leaving a fan of debris. The remainder thrives and as Grandpa Ross, visiting here with Grandma Judy recently, commented, “I can see those plants growing!”

One damp night Eva heard a strange noise and in the morning we found a small slope had given way sending a mound of sod and dirt slouching up against the house, the walkway impassable. The curriculum that day was focused on erosion, the causes of landslides and the fine art of shovelling. A few days later we woke to a huge tree collapsed across the pathway to our house, requiring further detours. The fallen trunk missed the power line and our new chicken house (fortunately, I say, though not so sure about Chris). A worker with calloused hands and one sharp panga had it cleared by noon.

Beyond our village evidence of the rain is everywhere; in the swollen red rivers, in the deep cut gorges, and in the transformation of roads from day to day. I’m grateful to have made so many village visits in January knowing now how precarious the roads have become. This week we weighed the safety of a trip to Legho, a remote hilltop village, but chose to given it a try after a day of sunshine. Down the gorge and up the next slope we eventually lost traction and started to slide back, the clay filling in the tread until the tires were smooth. Briefly, of course, I looked at this clay and just wanted to get some on a wheel! But soon gunning it got us to the top where we quickly surveyed a village house for repairs all the while glancing at the skies for rain. While the sun shines the track will dry and the road will improve, but even a little rain and the road becomes slick like ice. Lately I wish for Canadian winter tires! Any other hilltop visits will require hiking boots.

Despite its hazards, the rain is celebrated. It is deeply engrained in people to plant during this season. Fields have been readied since January and maize is seeded just in time for the moisture. The rains have arrived amply and on schedule and the overflowing irrigation channels supply water to shamba plots all over the mountain. Early every morning a stream of village people, women with hoes balanced on their heads and men with them hoisted upon shoulders, head down to the fields. People have their own plots but larger farms employ village labour for about two dollars per day. There is a lot of work around and the pace and mood is upbeat. Working in fields, men and women, stained to radiance by the auburn soil, move between young maize plants, seeding beans and removing weeds with hand hoes. The young corn is iridescent. It’s really a vision, compared to the land that we arrived to in September which had one mediating on global warming, deforestation, overgrazing, and desertification all in one. The capacity of the land to recover seems boundless.

The rains have brought a dump of snow to Kilimanjaro as well. Yesterday, driving toward Marangu with Mama Nyaki she called the mountain “her beautiful girl”, all blanketed in whiteness with glaciers hopefully plumping up. One glance at that sparkling vista felt like a relief, a good news story. The rain is here and therefore so is the snow on Kilimanjaro.

At Home With Chickens

An early March Easter saw us in Moshi saying a sad goodbye to Bibi (Judy) and Babu (Ross), after a wonderful visit. For a photo album of their visit click here or go to:

http://picasaweb.google.ca/crrfraser/BibiAndBabuTZ

When saying good bye, the children, Lachlan especially, were craving eggs, but not of the chocolate variety. REAL ones!! Why? To understand why, click here or go to:

http://picasaweb.google.ca/crrfraser/AtHomeWithChickens or read on...

Our tale of two chickens begins some weeks ago: intrepid Lockie harnessed all his energy for a hike to Lasso village to help install solar lights but did not know then what it would lead to. Accompanying a team of eager Rotarians, local Home Based Care workers and his mother, he was reminded to be tough, helpful and stoic. No complaints. He suffered in silence the treacherous ride down the ravine and up the other side to Lasso, noting only that the road was more like a dry river bed and was as cheerful as his mother was pale and perspiring. Over the course of the day he marched along red clay paths up and down, carrying boxes, learning the intricacies of solar lights, greeting the elders with a “Shikamoo”. No complaints. He chatted with Leocadia, a stalwart Home Based Care worker who climbs around her district checking on vulnerable families and children and who guided us to each of the orphan homes, some in deep ravines, some on hilltops. She was so impressed by Lockie’s fortitude that day, especially when he hurled himself up slopes that winded the rest of us, she promised, “I’m going to bring you a gift; chickens. A boy should raise his own chickens.”

A few weeks later, echoing the calls of local children for various presents, Lockie called to Leocadia, “Where’s my chickens?” The next day she arrived with a box closed tightly with a string. Scratching could be heard and as Lockie peered inside he let out a squeal that transmitted to all children present. A young male chicken leaped out and I helped the hen (who had quite sweaty underwings) and with all the flapping and noise from children, the chickens hustled for various corners of the house leaving an abundance of droppings in a very short time. Lockie’s bed was quickly affected followed by the sitting room and the kitchen where we caved in and left them overnight, lacking a ready chicken house outside. Leocadia gave us a brief orientation to chickens saying these were four months old and if we didn’t lose them we might produce chicks by six months and that chickens like rice, corn and table scraps. We interviewed everyone, including the chief of medical staff, Dr. Massawe, on care of chickens. He reflected with a smile, “Oh, yes my children were quite busy with chickens…..”

Next morning we were under instructions from Father John. Get the chickens out of the kitchen and into a cardboard box, give them frequent outings for water but contain them so they don’t run away because these chickens are too young to know where they wander and will get lost easily until they learn where the food is. Once let out of the box, the rooster hopped the railing and was gone happily into the bug saturated garden, followed by the hen. We watched them, out on the lamb, rapidly losing faith that we might have chicks for Easter or an income generation project in the future. Hollering, Lockie set off joined by Eva and other recruits to flush them back toward the house but in their zeal the kids only frightened them into hiding. Regular patrols during the day came up empty handed until late in the afternoon the rooster, having had only a short stay at our house, managed to find his way back. He was plucked by an experienced local as was the hen, who later turned up wandering aimlessly. Both were back in their box by the time Chris and I returned from our ‘pre-dinners’ on the top of Ngangu Hill.

So we began to tie the chickens up by the leg to keep them out of the garden and Maternity Ward and eagerly awaited the construction of their “house”. The first temporary structure, built by a local boy named Raziki, was a tragic affair with sacking for walls, a cardboard door and old roofing pinched from the doctor next door. The housing and the persistent tangling of the chickens was a daily concern for Grandma and Grandpa, who fought the urge to report us or sell them off. The chickens often managed to escape at daybreak through the sodden cardboard for greater happiness in the garden, eating various animal, vegetable and mineral combinations before reliably returning home at dusk.

The new house is here now and resembles a work/live condo with loft. It retains some of the charm of the previous house with a cardboard front door that we now barricade to keep the chickens from wandering. We remind ourselves to buy a hinge in Moshi to make a truly upscale entry. Lockie, Eva and Sasha serve maize, rice and leftovers with devotion to the chickens morning and night and except for the rooster’s exceptional crowing at sunrise these animals are quite sweet. No eggs yet but we live in anticipation. Does anyone know about the chicken bylaw in Oak Bay?