I sit here this Sunday afternoon
trying to write my weekly letter home. Unfortunately, in stark contrast
to the storybook sky above me, my mind is shrouded in a dense fog
similar to that found in Scotland's West Highlands (My dear friend
Sara Flounders coined the term "Storybook day". She uses
this term to describe only the most beautiful days - ones in which
white puffy clouds gently glide through the sky in rhythm with a
gentle breeze. The breeze is cool, tempering the brief but frequent
periods of sun. Today is indeed such a day; which, I think is fitting
considering that today is also the summer equinox. As I am very
near the equator, these means that I will experience a perfectly
balanced day of 12 hrs of light and 12 hrs of darkness). If only
the
rules of economics here in Tanzania, and I suspect along much of
the equator, could follow this beautifully balanced day's example
-perhaps then the mist that shrouds my thoughts would dissipate.
Austin House, the house in which I am living is located in Njiro,
one of Arusha's most affluent areas. It contains compounds that
even American standards would deem decadent. And yet, next door,
across the street,
and just around the corner exist equally beautiful but tragically
poor villages containing twice or three times as many people.
The affluent of Arusha build walls around their compounds and
higher the poor as their cooks,
gardeners, and night watchmen. We pay our highered staff $50 a
week and those with whom I have spoken consider this, comparatively,
a good salary. Every couple of days as I walk to and from work
at least one person will say to me, "Give me money".
I regrettably shrug and say that I have none (I never carry around
money if I do not need to). I would like to carry on a conversation
with these people, but my Swahili is still very poor and "Give
money" and "good morning" are typically the only
English phrases they know (I can not tell you how many times I
have been walking home at 5:30 pm and someone will greet me "good
morning". I
respond "Jambo" and carry on). On Thursday afternoon,
following an exhausting game of football (soccer
for you Americans.I should add that African football makes me
feel old. A combination of not having exercised for the past month
and the altitude has sent this Mazungu (white man) gasping for
air) a housemate introduced me to alternative rout home from work
through one of these villages "just around the corner".
This walk has weighed heavily on my mind over the past few days.
Michael and I strolled rather slowly through the village, as
my muscles were unwilling to move very quickly (they were voicing
their discontent at three consecutive days of heavy physical activity).
It was a beautiful walk. The residents, taking advantage of the
areas high water table and the run off from the adjacent hills,
have fashioned irrigation ditches to nourish groves of bananas,
maize, potatoes, shrubs, and shade trees. The sound of running
water through these open channels coupled with the lush greenery
that these ditches support create a serine environment. The trees
ward off the harsh afternoon sun while the flowing water masks
at least some of the days busyness.
Unfortunately, the village's aesthetic beauty does not indicate
equal access to wealth and social services. Instead, it acts only
to soften the injustices that exist throughout Arusha. It makes
it easier for people like me -
people with at least modest wealth, people on the other side of
the world's inequality - to walk through this village. I can marvel
at its beauty, at the flowers, at the trees, at the signs of life,
while remaining blind or at
least in denial of the village's other, less attractive, attributes.
As Michael and I were walking through the village, a group of
young children ran to us. While Michael was speaking to a group
of them in Swahili, one of the younger members, I would say about
four years old, reached for my hand. His tiny fingers closed around
mine and her large round face (large in proportion to the rest
of his body) filled with joy - a grin graced his lips and his
eyes filled the sparkle only a child's eyes can fill with (a shaven
head is typical of both boys and girls. I suspect this has something
to do with hygiene, perhaps lice, but I am not sure. Regardless,
this unisex haircut makes it difficult to distinguish between
boys and girls. This is why I alternate between feminine and masculine
pronouns). It was a precious moment, again illustrating the beauty
here and I suspect anywhere in the world children are present.
Yet, a closer look at this beautiful face revealed some of the
other realities many of Africa's children experience. The child's
bright eyes and
contagious grin filled a face streaked with dirt - dirt possibly
from a day spent with her older sister minding his family's grazing
cows and goats, or possibly dirt from the previous few day's activities
- dirt that remains because the water his mother brings from the
community spigot is only enough for cooking and drinking. The
cloths this child was wearing are also telling. They sport faded
and tattered American logos - the leftovers of what even a less
than affluent American child has replaced with something newer.
It is easy to walk through life enjoying this village's beauty.
As my time in Mexico and now in Arusha illustrate, even the most
impoverished of places - where food is scarce, medicine unaffordable,
and water dangerous to drink - possess beauty. This perhaps speaks
to a powerful and hope-giving component of
the human spirit. The resilience of beauty - that regardless of
our predicament, we can create something that conveys hope, peace,
joy, serenity, comfort - leaves me with faith that the future
will be at least tolerable - that despite the quagmire we humans
create for ourselves, some sort of beauty, some reason to live
will persevere.
Unfortunately, focusing only this beauty and the perseverance
of the human spirit does not expose us to all of life's realities
therefore weakening the possibilities for the future. If I were
to look at the face of the poor child
who shook my hand and simply revel in her beauty, I would be acting
only to perpetuate his poverty. Yet, ironically, when I immerge
from my mystification, when I truly try to acknowledge this child's
life (admittedly, in one brief encounter I have not adequately
done this), my mind becomes muddled by a thick West Highland fog.
It reveals both my privilege and my helplessness.
This afternoon I was looking over an Anthropology book. The author,
Clifford Geertz, in exploring the morality of the social sciences,
paraphrased a quote from Francis Bacon. Bacon with the help of
Geertz said, "Knowledge - at least the sort of knowledge
I have been able to dig up - does not always come to much in the
way of power" (Available Light 24). I think that this quote
adequately describes the source of the cloud that currently hangs
over me. I can acknowledge the poverty, I can see the beauty and
at least some of the
hardships many Africans must endure. I can try to come to a more
complete understanding of what their "life" entails
(I do not want to delude you, I am still in the infantile stages
of this discovery). But what can I do with
this knowledge? It is sometimes better to remain above the clouds,
to simply see the beauty that exists in things. For when we sink
into the clouds - when we begin to see things more completely
(and I want to stress begin because I do not think that we can
ever truly see things completely), we often see how powerless
we are. Fortunately the clouds, even in the West Highlands of
Scotland, dissipate from time to time. Sometimes the clouds do
recede and people can make a difference. The challenge is entering
the clouds and remaining in them long enough to find your way
to the surface.
I am sure that this dilemma will be with me for a life time.
From Arusha,
Tim
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