Friday, July 3, 2009

Our First Visit to Shimbwe, and a Promotion



Jake:
For the first time on this present visit, Sam and I went to Shimbwe.

Checking whatever jet lag remained at the flaps of our mosquito nets, Sam and I sprang out of bed at 7 am and made our way to Duma's meeting spot at the YMCA at 730. Duma was hosting a blood pressure clinic for elderly Shimbwe residents. about twenty European, American, and Australian volunteers and guests of volunteers greeted us on arrival. Last year, Frida and I traveled to Shimbwe in dala dalas packed with native early-morning travelers. Now, on at least some days, volunteers are capable of filling a public van themselves. This speaks to the organization's sustained growth through increasing popular awareness. The rest of the day would confirm my predilection that our numbers were uncalled for. I don't mean to toot my own horn: aside from introducing Sam to community members and village leaders, who will play a key role in our project, I counted us among the expendable majority.

Outside the blood pressure clinic, which was held in a daycare center that Duma furnished, about ten local workers laid the cement foundation for a new health center the government is erecting in Shimbwe. Shoeless, they shoveled gravel and lugged dirt in buckets through a light but chilly rain. Almost The clinic itself was was a medical assembly line consisting of various stations through which patients passed on their way out the door. Canadian medical students took blood pressures, Sam and others measured BMI's, and a Tanzanian physician saw individual patients, made recommendations, and prescribed treatments. Fumbling aimlessly for a task, myself and some travelers who were visiting Duma agreed it might be best for us to leave. Confirming our suspicions, Lauren, the volunteer in charge of the clinic, discharged five of us to find some food. We climbed Shimbwe's central road until we arrived at a small bar. Corn and wheat flour patties called chapati where the only nourishment available. We ordered two rounds. Stale margarine leaked from the first stack. The next five still trapped heat, but I'm still waiting for my first chapati hot off the stove.

I also told Freddie and Clementi, two government leaders, that Sam and I had arrived ready to execute some of the plans I had discussed with them last summer. I did it in Swahili and like to think they were impressed my new Swahili prowess. Mostly, they just seemed excited to kick-start the project. Freddie also told us he thought it would be safe for us to live in the village, and that he would be willing to watch out for us should we choose to move there.

Until yesterday, our project was barely more than a well-informed concept. Now, the physical layout of the farm, the kinds of financial products it is going to offer, and the social machinery necessary to run the farm and deliver the loans are necessarily coming into view. I envision this as involving two weeks of intensive research on gestation periods, upkeep costs, and profit margins for the various species of farm animals under consideration. We hope community members will ultimately dictate the animals available on the farm. We will elicit their opinions through focus group discussions and village forums we plan to schedule over the next two weeks. By next Friday, we are responsible for submitting a report outlining the "ABCs" of the plan.

Sam:
Jake and I took the first of what will be many trips to Shimbwe, waking up at the crack of dawn though not earlier than our roommate, who has taken to drinking and snoring less.

Hopping into a dala dala packed with other mzungus, we began the journey up Mt. Kili. Dala dalas, like taxis in Uganda, are medium-sized vans that follow specific routes at which you disembark. Dala dalas are like taxis in Uganda but on crack. Whereas in Uganda, taxis were filled to the brim, they still followed strict occupancy limits, which police officers enforced stringently. The dala dalas, however, are more like clown cars in a Chinese circus. When we picked up two Tanzanians at the foot of Mt. Kili, the conductor (who collects fares) took to riding outside the dala dala. Besides Ugandan boda bodas (motorcycle taxis), dala dalas have to be the least safe method of transportation in existence. Oh yeah, our cargo included gallons of gasoline, just for kicks. These vans are literally moving firebombs.

The road up to Shimbwe is beautiful with corn, banana trees, and other flora lining the roads. As we went higher, a small divot by the side of the road was all that separated us from a deep valley. Riding up, volunteers waited anxiously to see whether we would make it beyond one stretch of road that becomes impassable during the rain, which it was. Duma volunteers recalled stories of walking up to Shimbwe on rainy days when the dala dalas couldn't make it beyond the initial ascent. We were happy to make it all the way to the top and even happier when the jugs of gasoline were removed from the trunk.

We set up shop in a day care center built by past volunteers. A rival day care, recently built and managed by Tanzanians, has left this one empty. Some volunteers were upset and felt that their hard work had gone to naught, but others optimistically saw the rival center as evidence of development and the kind of competition that gives rise to a robust capitalism. The residents of Shimbwe may have realized the demand in the market and figured they could do just as good a job themselves. I agree. The flaw with so many NGOs and development agencies is their false presumption that progress means providing more services. On the contrary, a good development agency should see success as a continuously diminished role.

Community members had their blood pressure measured by three Canadian medical students, who didn't look a day older than 13, and then had their height and weight taken so we could measure their BMI. Based on the numbers, community members were referred to an adjacent health specialist and doctor, if necessary. Duma was able to provide discounted medications, courtesy of a government program, to help community members lower their blood pressure. Apparently, Americans and Tanzanians both share a desire for a pill rather than preventative care.

Adjacent to the day care center, laborers were breaking ground for the construction of a new health care center. One of the workers was an albino, a sight not uncommon here. In Tanzania as in Uganda, albinos in rural areas are often in danger because their body parts prove valuable, macabre commodities for sale to witch doctors.

The rain meant that fewer people came and those who did more slowly. Jake and I, along with three volunteers from North Carolina, walked further up the road and dined on chapati, a tasty bread that I hadn't had since Uganda. Packing up, some of the volunteers started the long descent down the mountain with hopes that a dala dala would pick us up. We made it halfway down the mountain before one passed us and was too full to take us. By the time a second one came, we were close enough to home that it wasn't worth it. After the two hour hike ravaged our calves, Jake and I felt comfortable skipping the day's run and treated ourselves to a Tanzanian beer called Safari, which our roommate told us was a "gangster beer." Though delicious and cold, I still have fond memories of Nile Specials and their above average alcohol content.


Both of us:
After the beers, we retired to the chairs in front of our house for some easy reading. Jake continued War and Peace, and Sam, finishing Dead Aid (expect a review shortly), embarked on Bill Clinton's My Life. We were interrupted by a string five text messages sent to both of our phones. The message, from Duma head Francis, let us know we had been officially instated as Directors of Duma's Economic Department. We are to replace Lexi, a young Brit who is continuing her travels in Vietnam. Besides the resume builder, the position puts us in charge of another animal loaning project with distinctly different financing methods than our own. We accepted the position intending to dispense of our responsibility for the pig project using our new found powers of delegation. In addition, Francis requested a detailed report on the fundamentals of our project to be submitted to Duma's management team and for use in creating a memorandum of understanding with the Sia School staff. Using the diplomatic skills we perfected during our four years at Bates College, we got a one-week extension that will allow us to do much research.

Today, we were off. Voluntarily waking up at 8 a.m., we hit the 3.5 mile point in our pursuit of ten. Runners, please advise as to how to train. We have six months, unlimited ambition, and almost as much dedication to match. We've enjoyed a relaxing day and following our morning trek, have replenished our bodies with healthy portions of rndizi (bananas) and mshikaki (cow) roasted on a busy street corner. We have since taken refuge in what seems to be a whites-only coffee shop with western-style toilets (read: plastic seats intact) hedging against likely cases of indigestion. We will continue to run to work on our abs, but thus far the evidence shows that at least our intestines are cut from iron.