Water Like Gold

Ole Kukan sat on our porch yesterday morning and, in the process of chewing the news, let us know that women in his village are walking 2 hours each direction for water these days. They fill jerry cans on the backs of donkeys then begin the 2 hour journey home again. Over the next couple of days, the water is doled out like the precious commodity it is. Not a drop is wasted.

Have you ever seen how dirty your hands get milking a cow? Or handling a goat? Or just living life in a place where water doesn't flow out of taps on-demand?

I wonder how many times I wash my hands in the course of a day...

I'd like to think I'm pretty careful with water. I consider myself aware. I'd like to believe I'm good about electricity, as well. We don't leave lights on that don't actually need to be on. We've changed most of our bulbs to energy-savers.

Still, I've never walked 2 minutes for water, let alone 2 hours. It's there. I take it for granted. It's a basic human right, right?

Actually, no.

These days, when I'm brushing my teeth, I'm more aware than ever about not letting the water gush down the drain as I stand there luxuriously working on oral hygiene. I turn the water off quickly, not just because billions of people are without the basic provision of clean water. I turn the water off quickly because I know these women. I know their names, not just their faces...

I turn my tap off as an act of respect.

Thank You! (or Africa was good for Tehur and Tehur was good for us!)

Having Tehur with us for the last 6 weeks in Tanzania was a huge gift to our family.

After mornings of school, the creative stuff flowed. I loved seeing Tehur and Heather writing fairy tales, reading poetry, knitting, making up dance routines, playing the piano and talking about great books they've read.

We had some lovely adventures with our Te and we are very happy that Africa was a big blessing to her in the midst of them all. I loved watching her unwind from some of the stress of her last 6 years and embrace all kinds of new things.

Tehur, our European city-girl, hiked for hours in buffalo and elephant country. She camped away off yonder where there are no city lights and where we could hear hyena, baboon and zebra at night. She rode on the roof of the car and got dustier than she probably ever imagined was possible. She bathed in the stream, ate new foods, drank tea with Maasai friends, and was touched by the faith and joy of Tanzanian women. Tehur drove the big Land Cruiser over bush roads like she was Kathryn Hepburn. Go, Te!

I think my favorite part of Tehur's adventures was the confidence and joy I saw emerging as her new experiences showed her that there are whole parts of herself that are yet to be discovered. I loved hearing her declare herself "The New Tehur." I loved that the simple lives of Josephine and Eva, (the women who work the fruit drying business out of our kitchen) changed Te's perspective on just about everything and showed her again that joy comes from something quite other than where most people think it comes from.

I love that Josephine and Eva taught without teaching and that they cried when Tehur left. And I loved all our evenings together; laughter, tea, mosquitos, power cuts and all.

So... THANK YOU to all of you who participated in getting Tehur to Africa. You blessed us deeply. And THANK YOU, Tehur, for boarding that plane and sharing yourself with us.

We love you.

Musings for Women's Day

This past Sunday was International Women's Day. It's funny... I know women all over the world, yet the woman who stands out to me is Ngoto Milai.

I don't have a polished piece on this "traditional Maasai." I just have some rambling thoughts about this lady I love.

Ngoto Milai doesn't have huge aspirations. She lives a simple life in a simple place, void of pretense, focused mostly on getting through each day. She collects her firewood, carries her water, repairs her house.

I can't really say how old she is. Her ID card gives some estimated year of birth. We sat and tried to work it out once. She wanted to say that she was as old as my Mom, but I knew that wasn't right. I can say that she has a number of married children and a growing number of grandchildren. Her youngest is the same age as Trevor, my 2nd born, who is 19. I know this because Kanunga was 8 mos. old when we moved to Loita and so was Trevor. So... she's older than me, and younger than my Mom. That's helpful :-)

Ngoto Milai lives in a traditional bread loaf house. That's what our family calls the low, rounded houses of the Maasai. She wove her walls of sticks and then plastered the whole thing with mud and dung. Like many in Loita, she has improved the roof by pitching thatch over the "crust" top. It's dark inside, which helps keep the flies from buzzing around the whole time. The little calves and smallest goats stay inside with her at night.

I know how the nights go there. I've slept in her house before. It starts out warm, too warm, kind of hot. Lying on the stick platform bed that is covered with a cow skin, my thin plaid blanket isn't even really needed because the fire in the earthen hearth is cranked up to heat the house up. But round about 3am things can start to feel pretty cold. July and August are particularly cold during Loita nights. The fire has died by those early hours and it's pretty miserable, really. Yet it won't be long before Ngoto Milai (and every other Maasai woman) will get up and start it again. She'll be up before dawn to tend the fire and the herds, milk the cow (assuming she has one) and make some tea.

The village Ngoto Milai lives in has tried to cultivate maize and beans during the last 10-15 years. It's a constant battle. The baboons raid it brazenly in the day while every critter from bushbuck to porcupine pillages it at night. The most destructive visitors are the elephants. They aren't too bothered by the thorn fence and they have a healthy appreciation for fresh maize. Sometimes in the night, they pass so close to the house that Ngoto Milai can hear their stomachs rumblings as she lies on her bed.

Some time around 15 years ago, we bundled Ngoto Milai into our car early in the morning and drove a couple of hours to the village she grew up in. She hadn't seen her mother in years and years and years. They cried as they greeted each other. It was a pleasure for us to simply facilitate a little family re-union.

Ngoto Milai has the same hopes and dreams that I do. She would like her children to do well in life. She hopes that her grandchildren will get a decent education. She wants to grow into her quiet years with peace. But her desires are also much more immediate and basic than mine. When she came to visit me in camp a couple of weeks ago, she sat and chewed the news with me for a long time. Finally, before leaving, she made a very simple request. "I need some food because everyone at home is hungry." I knew that she was not exaggerating. For her to ask me straight out on the first day of our visit revealed the gravity of the situation. I guess "economic downturn" looks like hungry people in her world.

Ngoto Milai has always been skinny as a rail and stubbornly upbeat. She works harder than most people I know. She faces life with grace and she prays like there is a God who hears. She'll probably never see more of the world than Loita.

Random memories:

Many breakfasts at our table. How do you say "waffle" in Maasai?
Running a deep hot bath for her when she was sleeping over and explaining to her what to do. (She loved that bath!)
The day she saved Colin from a puff adder.
The time she found me lying on the bathroom floor, too weak from vomiting to move, and she stayed and cared for me and the kids till Byron came home late that night.
The red dress my friend, Heather, made for her. She still asks after Ngoto Grace (Mother of Grace is Heather's name in Maasai.)
The day she took a red hot poker and burned a hole in the top of Byron's ear so he could wear an earring up there.
Teaching her how to scramble eggs.
Making popcorn for her kids over the fire at her house.
Crying with her when I saw her for the first time in 5 years.

Ngoto Milai is the oldest of 3 wives and has long been neglected by her husband. She cannot read or write. When she chewed the news with my Dad last month during our visit, she told me this:

"Tell your father I have something from God's word for him. Proverbs 3:5&6 says, Trust in the Lord with all your heart and don't rely on your own understanding. In all your ways, acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight."

I love that lady. I pray safe paths for her. Happy International Women's Day, Yeyo-lai.



(Photos by Jesse Borden)

Fragile

Life in Africa is so fragile.

Yet as soon as I write that, I think of the hardy life that I know here; people who survive in the most difficult of circumstances. Resilient, stubborn, odds-defying survival is normal.

Like Tait's friend, who shall remain unnamed, who lives around the corner from me in a tiny building that is a bar of sorts. Her mom sells beer to make a living and she lives behind a thin partition, a veil that may or may not protect her from the night. And yet, every morning she dresses smartly and walks proudly to the school where she is training to be a secretary.

On the one hand, then, life is not easily crushed here. Like indigenous plants, it finds a way to beat back against the ravages that come against it. When over-grazing strips the earth, the tangled weeds eventually come up and make the land unusable until the grasses have a chance to return. It may take 50 years, but it will happen, (if we don't interfere, that is.)

But conditions are harsh. Not for me, particularly. As I have said before, we don't live at a hand to mouth level and so we are not held by the whims of condition. Poor harvests may increase my grocery bill, but I will still put food on the table for my family.

Conditions are harsh for my African friends because life is not padded in any way.

Last week a man I know lost his sister; a family lost their 37 year old mom. She was working outside their home, where she has been working every day. She was going about the business of splitting rocks into smaller rocks, to be sold for use in construction. The family land is on the edge of a gorge; a dramatic gorge that provides good rocks for splitting.

But she slipped. And she died. And that was the end of that.

I suppose that her work had her in danger every day. But she likely never thought about it. What where her choices? This was an available job that she could do. This norm of people working jobs that put them in danger is accepted. Providing for your family may just simply require that of you. So she broke rocks with a hammer on the edge of a cliff every day.

I know that accidents happen all over the world. But when I consider that this will be the third funeral that many in that community will attend within the span of a month, I do pause. A road accident... an infant succumbing to disease... a fall... Even after all these years here, I remain disquieted by the fragile nature of the hardy life I see around me.

Little Rays of Hope

Mr. Ndetu is our night guard. I like him a whole lot.

I like him a whole lot and wish, for his sake, that he had a better job than guarding our house at night.

That's how security works in many parts of Africa. There is no 911 or 999 to call and security is the responsibility of the private citizen. We hire Mr. Ndetu. He arrives on his bicycle to our house at about 5:30 p.m. and he leaves again next morning some time between 5:30 and 6:00 a.m.

During the hours between, he hangs out. He visits with Byron if Byron is puttering in the veggie garden or in the work-shop. He helps us feed the dogs and rabbits and is generally a pleasant, if very subtle, presence. He brings his pack dinner and every night, before I go to bed, I make him a thermos of chai. I'm sure he dozes off from time to time. He also tells the dogs to stop harassing hedgehogs.

Ndetu takes his work seriously. When Byron and the kids were away and I was home alone, I got a bad flu that knocked me out. He knew I was sick and so he didn't leave in the morning till he saw that I was up, even though that was about 3 hours later than when he would have normally headed for home.

"Just wanted to know that you were alright," he told me.

Ndetu's daughter just passed her exams and has been admitted to secondary school. Surprised, he went to see her teachers. A pass is, truly, no small accomplishment and her teachers shocked him further with the news that she passed easily. She's a strong student. He just didn't know it.

Secondary school will cost him. There are all manner of hidden fees that seem small to us, but are overwhelming to a family like Ndetu's.

Byron asked Ndetu if he wanted this for his daughter. We know that Ndetu's own father did not sent him to school because someone needed to herd the cattle. He has told Byron that, sadly, herding didn't take him very far in life. The cows are gone now and here he is, staying up all night to make a living.

"I'm a good worker, " he said.

"People like me. I could have a much better job in life if I could read and write. Yes, I want this for her."

Together, they worked out a way to make it happen.

"You're giving your daughter what your father couldn't give you," Byron told him.

"You're a good dad."

So much struggle in Africa.

One young girl I know is taking a step forward.

Little rays of hope for tomorrow.