A Personal Essay by Boyd Lemon
I stumbled out of my tent at our lakesidecampground in Malawi, Africa and headed for the black iron gate. Several monkeys followed me. I waited at the gate, greeting my 12fellow tour group members as they arrived in groups of two or three. Shouting and laughter of young maleAfricans reverberated from outside the gate. I wondered aloud if they would swarm around us to try tosell their crafts, art or trinkets, an experience tourists in Africa commonlyencounter.
The gate opened, and we bracedourselves. A young man stepped inand closed the gate behind him. Hesaid hello, shook the guard’s hand and waived at us. He shouted his long African name above the din, but I didn’tget it and forgot to ask him. I’llcall him Kea, the name of a Tanzanian man I met later in Zanzibar.
“I will be your tour guide,” Kea said, as the voices outsidequieted. “The name of the villagewe will visit is Mbamba.” (The “M” is silent.) Keacollected $5.00 each for the tour, then opened the gate and asked us to followhim. In a flash the men crowdedaround, then disbursed among us as we walked. Two of them walked on either side of me. One, a tall, chunky man with short hairintroduced himself as Cisco and asked me my name. I told him, and we shook hands. The other said he was Bush Bebe (phoneticallyspelled)—unlikely, I thought, as I shook his outstretched hand. “Glad to meet you,” he said. His head was shaven, and compared toCisco he looked about four feet tall. Cisco said he lived in the village with his grandmother.
“I live in the village too,” said BushBebe. I noticed that two young menflanked each of the other tour members. Everyone chatted as we walked.
Neither Cisco, nor Bush Bebe, mentionedselling anything, but I was certain they would. At the end of the tour my prediction came true. I bought at-shirt that we designed together. As we stood outside the campsite gate, we agreed that on the back itwould have a map of the five east African countries we planned to visit andpictures of a fisherman and women grinding cassava into flour. The village name, Mbamba, would be onthe left front. I chose a blackshirt and said it was up to them to choose colors for the graphics. They said it would be ready outside thecamp gate at 6:00 o’clock. Obviously, their sales technique was effective. I probably wouldn’t have boughtanything, certainly not a $35 t-shirt, before we became “friends.” I handed Cisco the money with only afleeting thought that I might never see them again. About five hours later, at two minutes to six, the guardwalked over to our camp and told me Cisco was waiting for me. The shirt is beautiful.
We walked along the dusty path—it hadn’trained in a few days--toward the village, surrounded by the lush foliage andred and yellow flowers sprinkled about the jungle-like terrain. I recognized mango trees, cassava andgroves of banana plants. Ciscosaid he was 19, had gone to secondary school and hoped to go to theuniversity. His English wasclearer and more grammatical than most of the Africans I had talked to. He said the villagers usually spokeSwahili among themselves. BushBebe said he was in secondary school. They both said they had lived in the village their entire lives andintended to stay.
We began to see thatched roof huts nearthe path. In about a mile wereached a small outdoor market and a water pump surrounded by thirty or sohuts—the village center. Smallwooden tables and brightly colored cloths draped on the ground were coveredwith fruits and vegetables—tomatoes, corn, potatoes, avocados, beans, bananas,fruit I didn’t recognize; and arts and crafts--paintings on animal skins oftraditional dancers, animals, warriors; and wooden carvings of the wild animalsof Africa--elephants, zebras, wildebeests, giraffes, monkeys, lions andleopards. There were handmadedrums and local woodwind and string instruments of various shapes and sizes,and CD’s of African music. I doubtif anyone in the village had a CD player.
A line of women waited at the water pump chatting with eachother and their children. As achild worked the pump handle, a woman filled a plastic tub. When it was full, she hoisted it up toher head, took the child’s hand and walked down a path with the heavy tubbalanced on her head.
Kea asked us to gather around. The scene at the water pumpcontinued. Kea said that mostpeople in the village were subsistence farmers, growing cassava, tomatoes, beans,corn, rice, bananas and mangos. Some kept chickens. A fewearned a living from tourism. There was no other work for the villagers. He told us that the well and pump had been provided by acharitable foundation, that it was the only source of potable water for thevillage. People who lived on the outskirtshad to walk miles for water. Heled us over to the outdoor market and said what we saw was the surplus producethat the villagers grew and arts and crafts the villagers made. He didn’t mention the CD’s. Nor did anyone try to sell usanything. He said there were nomangos or cassava flour at the market, because everyone grew cassava andmangos.
Kea said he would take us to visit thevillage school and the hospital, and then we would come back to the villagecenter for lunch. He asked us ifwe would like to visit his home. We all said, “Yes.” Our individual guides left us. Cisco said they would rejoin us when we came back to the village.
We followed Kea for 50 yards or so. He gestured toward a hut made of mudbricks and a thatched roof. “That’s my home.” He said matter of factly that the thatched roof leaked. “I wake up with water dripping on me. Needs lots of maintenance.” He laughed.
The 13 of us couldn’t fit in the smallhome--a living room with a smoldering fire on the dirt floor, about eight feetsquare and two other tiny rooms with openings in the interior mud walls. We took turns, entering in two compactgroups. He said they cooked over thefire. He pointed at a small tableand two chairs. “This is where weeat,” he said, as he pushed them to the side to make more room. It was the only furniture; the househad no plumbing or appliances.
“Two bedrooms,” he said, pointing again,“mine and my grandmother’s.” Thebedrooms were just large enough for a single bed sized pad on the dirtfloor—nothing else.
He said one in five people in the villagewas infected with HIV, more women than men. He didn’t say, but it occurred to me that was why he andCisco lived with their grandmothers. Probably, their mothers had died of AIDS. In answer to a question, he said that the average age forgirls to marry was 15. Men, womenand older children all worked on the farms.
As we left Kea’s home and headed up thedirt path for the school, 25 to 30 children appeared from somewhere. They looked as young as 3 or 4 andprobably as old as 10. A boy on myleft and a girl on my right grabbed my hands. They chattered away, always smiling. I couldn’t understand a lot of whatthey were saying, but they asked where I was from. They smiled broadly and shook their heads up and down when Isaid the United States. The girl,about 10, wore a dirty beige dress that was too big for her. The skirt almost touched the ground. The top was torn and top buttons weremissing, exposing most of her chest. Many of the children were dressed in near rags, likely hand me downsfrom long ago. Only a few hadnewer, brightly colored clothes. Most of the girls wore dresses. The boy who held my hand, about 7 or 8, dressed in redshorts and an oversized yellow t-shirt, had a mango partly in his mouth,covering most of his lips. Hishand was sticky. Several of thechildren picked up ripe mangos that had fallen from the trees, split them openwith their hands and shoved them in their mouths.
As we walked, although it was just past9:00, the humid heat closed in. Sweat covered foreheads and dripped from noses. We passed cassava fieldsand mango and banana groves. Eachhut had crops growing behind or beside it. Those working on their small plots of ground were either cultivatingwith hoes or planting by hand. Keasaid that they harvested by hand. We walked by dozens of people working, and many walking, usuallycarrying something on their heads—no vehicles or animals, except chickens. A girl, probably no more than 16, batheda protesting baby in a plastic tub. I commented that babies the world over disliked baths. Cisco smiled and nodded.
In our travels in east Africa, except inthe cities, we saw few vehicles or animals. Occasionally, people cultivated with a hand plough. Only once did I see an ox pulling aplough. There was no irrigation. Usually, there was enough rain, I assumed.
As we continued to walk behind Kea, Iwondered how far the school was, but I didn’t ask. The children sang, firsttogether, then by themselves. Sometimes they skipped in the sweltering heat. They were almost always smiling, chattering or laughing whenthey weren’t singing. The olderchildren looked after the youngest. No adults came along, except Kea.
The two children holding my hands pulledme up to the front next to Kea. Hesmiled and asked me where I was from. “United States,” I said. Hesmiled broadly. “Obama,” heshouted, raising his hand in a fist. I smiled back, nodding.
“Yes,” I said. I voted for him. “Good. He’s a good man,”said Kea.
I asked if the people of the village hadenough to eat. “Yes, usually,” hesaid. “We take care of eachother. If a family is in need, wehelp out. We look after eachother.” I asked about crime in thevillage. “Crime? No, none,” he said. We kept walking. Most adults and children near the pathwaived at us with big smiles as we passed. A man standing in front of a hut walked up, patted me on theshoulder and said “Welcome.”
After walking more than a mile from thevillage center, we finally arrived at the school. It was made of the same mud bricks as the houses, but with asheet metal roof. I counted tenclassrooms. It was a Sunday, soschool was not in session. Wefollowed Kea into a classroom. Thechildren stayed outside, laughing, playing, shouting, much like a group ofAmerican kids would have done. Theclassroom floor was concrete.
One of the teachers started hispresentation. Kea shushed thechildren outside without much effect. The teacher told us there were eight grades and ten teachers. They taught math, English, Swahili, artand music, he said. I thought ofour schools in the United States that were eliminating art and music from theelementary school curriculum. Music and art flourished all over east Africa. Are art and music more important to the poor?
The teacher told us there were about1,500 hundred students in the school. For most it was all the education they would get. Some went to secondary school in a largervillage that required them to leave their parents. A few went to the university. He said that the school was built by charitable donationsand it survived because of charity. He pointed to a plain wooden box with a slit in the top and asked us todonate. Most of us did.
After the teacher’s presentation, welooked around the classroom. Thebooks on shelves in the back, except for math and English, seemed almostrandom, donations, I assumed, including many novels, some classic—Ivanhoe—somenot so classic—Danielle Steele—for children? I saw no children’s books. The children’s art hung on the walls, much like anelementary school in the United States. They depicted mostly village and family scenes.
I asked the teacher if the school had acomputer. He said they would liketo have one, but they didn’t. After I got home, I read an article in the about an organization that was dedicated toproviding computers for all African children by 2012.
When I trudged out the classroom door,sweating, I thought of the children that would be sitting in the swelteringclassroom on Monday. Our childcompanions rejoined us, shouting, “Hi,” laughing and holding our handsagain.
We walked about a half-mile down anotherpath to the hospital, a brick building, smaller than the school. It had a main room with a concretefloor, where we congregated—again the children stayed outside—and two otherrooms in the back that we didn’t enter. I didn’t see any x-ray machines or other medical equipment that youwould expect in a hospital. Maybeequipment was in the back, but then where were the patient rooms?
The hospital administrator, a tall, thin,young man, who spoke excellent English, told us that care at the hospital wasfree. Like the school teacher, heasked us for donations. Nobodyasked any specific questions about the care that was given. I can’t imagine that it was much beyondfirst aid, but I don’t know. Nevertheless, the man spoke to us with a sense of importance and anurgency and pride in what he was doing.
By the time we went outside to join thechildren, it was even hotter. Theystill laughed, skipped and chattered as we took the long walk back to thevillage center. Different childrenheld my hands this time and asked me questions—where was I from, was it hotthere, did I like living in Boston, how many people lived in Boston? Sometimes I couldn’t understand whatthey asked. Kea had told us thatEnglish is their second language. A couple of times they skipped off for a moment, and then came back andgrabbed my hands.
When we got back to the village, ourindividual guides rejoined us. Atthe village center near the water pump, a large blanket was spread out on thedirt. About 20 yards back a fireunder a grill flared and smoked. Kea asked us to sit. Menand women set down large bowls of food and brought plates, spoons andforks. Others handed us bowls ofsoup--sweet potato, Kea said. Thewomen dished chicken, beans and rice from the steaming bowls onto ourplates. The food was spicy,similar to the spices in Indian food. We were served bread made from cassava flour. It all tasted good. The portions were huge. Ifeared embarrassment from wasting food I couldn’t finish.
The children stood behind us talking andlaughing. Someone asked why thechildren were not eating. Kea toldus they would be given what we did not eat. They were excited, he said, because they didn’t get chickenvery often. We all left a lot onour plates, especially chicken. When we finished eating, adults handed the children our plates. They gobbled the food quickly.
I gave a few children coins. They grabbed at them with gusto. Others gave them pens and paper. Children in towns and villages we hadpassed through begged for pens and paper when we stopped. That was usually their first request.
The children who had pens and paper satdown in the dirt and started drawing immediately, but Kea interrupted them, putaway their pens and paper and organized them into a line. Drummers appeared and started playing. The children danced and sang and invitedus to join them. They tried toteach several of our women how to do the traditional African dance. The village men laughed and beat theirdrums. Whether they were dancing,singing or just talking, they reverberated a vibrant energy. The joy was contagious. We danced with them.
It was easy to focus on what the peopleof Mbamba don’t have. They don’thave vehicles of any kind, either personal or for work; washing machines,dryers, refrigerators or any other appliance; electronic entertainment, such asradio, TV, Walkman, IPod or computers; showers, bath tubs or toilets; animalsor machinery to help farm; diapers; modern toys; telephones; air conditioningor heating; make-up; deodorant; tissues; glasses; dental care; flooring;curtains; electric lights or any means of irrigating their crops. Instead of lawn mowers, they usemachetes to “mow” during the wet season when the grass grows high. As best I could tell, they had nounderwear. At least, the childrendidn’t. The list of what they didnot have seems endless.
What they have is less obvious andconcrete, but defines their lives: joy in their everyday lives; a sense ofcommunity; the pleasure of helping someone in need; the gaiety of lives filledwith music and dance; the fulfillment of creating music and art; thesatisfaction of eating what they planted, grew and nurtured with their ownhands; the natural peace of connection with the land; living surrounded by thenatural beauty of the landscape and wild creatures of Africa; the love of anextended family and clan; small, simple pleasures; the accomplishment of makingwith their hands things they need to live; the time to enjoy the company andcomradery of each other and their children; real human communication with thosethey care for; respect for and from each other; the incomparable enjoyment ofwatching and nurturing children; knowledge of what is really necessary; Isuspect, the joyfulness of sex without it being promoted endlessly by media;the ability to distinguish the important from the unimportant; acceptance oflife; acceptance of death; thankfulness for what they have. These people, desperately poor by ourstandards, lacking every comfort, convenience and entertainment that we deemnecessary, are alive in the most human sense of the word.
In every village, town and city wevisited or passed through in east Africa, most people we came within hearingdistance of waived, smiled and said hello. Many said, “Welcome,” asked where we were from. Some tried to sell us something, andsome did not. Everyone, selling ornot, was unabashedly friendly. Never before in any other place have I had so many conversations withstrangers. They were curious, aswell as extroverted. They askedquestions. They wanted to knowabout us. They were interested in other human beings, and they took the time toshow that interest, and to try to relate to all of us.
When they found out I was from the UnitedStates, they often invoked the name, “Obama.” Many asked if I had voted for him. A few asked if I knew him. Most said something positive about him. Pride showed on their faces, not justin Kenya, but in Mbamba and everywhere between.
I remember a similar openness,friendliness and zest for life when I was growing up in a small town inCalifornia in the 1940’s and 50’s. It no longer exists in the America I know today.
It has been said that all other thingsbeing the same, it is better to be rich than to be poor. I suppose that if you isolate those twoconditions, that is true. But lifeis more complex than that. Itcannot be isolated into rich or poor. Life involves a complex set of conditions, relative wealth being onlyone. The villagers of Mbambataught me that wealth is not the most meaningful condition and may evendistract one from real human fulfillment, as it has many Americans. Of course, if you do not have enough toeat to quell hunger or to maintain health, or are sick with no means to obtainmedical care, or have no shelter, life cannot be fulfilling.
I don’t mean to imply that the people ofMbamba do not suffer or to minimize the hardships they endure. If I thought their lives were nirvana,I would give away all my assets and move to Mbamba to be a farmer. But many Americans could learnsomething valuable from the way they live with what they have.
The people of Mbamba taught me that ifyou have those necessities, you don’t need anything else. You don’t need what Americans strivefor, so desperately that if we don’t have enough of what we seek—and we neverseem to have enough—we numb the effects of our perceived failure with pills andalcohol; we don’t experience either the pain or the joy that life brings. Many of us never realize what we havedone to ourselves.
When the singing and dancing in Mbambaconcluded, the children who had accompanied me on our tour ran over, saidgood-bye and hugged me. I huggedthem and turned my head away so they couldn’t see my tears. My tears were not for them.
