Today we went to visit the "Disabled Village." This was our original target village, but we could not get permission to work on the houses there. It is known as the Disabled Village because the government gave 400 acres of virtually useless land where disabled people could go and live on free of charge. I can't help comparing it to a leper colony where the undesirables of society are deposited out of the way. The village is in an area known as Kisarawe (be sure to role the r).
Kisarawe is our destination, but there is no point in going anywhere in a van that is only at 150% capacity. Certainly we can squeeze in another person or two, so we make several stops along the way to pick up a number of folks. I don't know who they are or why they want to go with us usually. We just pull over, a few people get on smiling and babbling in Swahili, we squeeze together or double up to make room, and this process continues until we arrive at our destination. Today is slightly different. We still stop to pick up folks, but the reasons are more obvious. Our first stop collects three men whom I assume will be working on the houses (fundi - remember?). The second stop, the door opens, but I don't see anyone getting on, I just hear a lot of commotion. A minute later a woman emerges on the floor of the van, dragging herself by her arms - she has no legs. She vehemently refuses all assistance and pulls herself into a seat (we give her one by herself. Given her feisty nature and upper body strength no one wants to mess with her. Next comes Mr. Jackson. He has legs, but they are small, withered and useless so he drags himself on the bus next wearing flip-flops on his hands; a novel concept, but rather practical when you think about it - His disposition is more pleasant than the woman's and he squeezes in with us.
Kisarawe is about 30 miles away, but it takes us two and a half hours to arrive due to traffic and all the stops we make. We are pleased to arrive, but learn we are only at the government building where we must now plead our case to do volunteer work and hopefully get permission. We are all required to file into the office of the magistrate, or governor, or queen of the region's office (I obviously don't know her official title) where we are grilled on everything from how much it is costing us to do this project to which cities and states we live in. As our leader, Chris took the brunt of the interrogation. The magistrate (we'll just stick to one title) is an interesting type of bipolar individual. She would be sweet as syrup when asking us where we are from or while discussing personal matters about us, but would turn into a pit bull when one of her staff was slow at carrying out a command or when someone used Swahili in front of us. She required everyone to speak English in front of the "guests" and heaven help the person who forgets and slips into Swahili. It turns out that her refusal to give permission for work and tight control over volunteers is her way of protecting foreigners from swindlers. She makes sure that every dollar we donate goes to the building projects necessary and not to the pocket of a less than honest pastor or charity worker. She requires accountability at each step of the process, which is good. To make sure we don't stray from stated goals she sends two men with us to supervise the work. Why not, we have a van so what is a couple more people. (The legless lady still got her own seat.)
We now head out to the village which is just a "few more kilometers." However, those kilometers are down a bone-jarring path in the bush, which eventually is impassable by our van, and we have to walk the last kilometer or so. Walking through the bush is a fascinating experience. We follow a path through grasses and shrubs that are taller than us under an equatorial sun that leaves almost no shadow. You get the sense that you are the only people on the planet. That is until you feel the urge to send an email, which was the case for me. I allowed the group to get ahead of me and around a corner so I could have ample privacy. As soon as I started to transmit my email I began to hear the voices of villagers running down the road (no, not the legless people) to see the muzungus. And see us they did, as I became the center attraction of local entertainment. My email had to be ended med transmission so I could catch up with the group.
The entire village is waiting for us when we arrive. This is not a surprise because I have become accustomed to the practices here. Every project starts and finishes with speeches and a prayer. Chris and I both usually have to give a speech and I am almost always elected to offer a prayer. Careful not to offend anyone perceived as an authority or honored person gives a speech - usually brief, but not always. Today, five speeches seem to be sufficient to get the work started, but after the speeches a tour of several of the homes is in order. One of the homes we visit belongs to Mr. Jackson, the man with the withered legs. He built the home himself! Even for a mud and stick hut, this is an amazing feat for a man who must drag himself around on his hands. The house is much smaller than my bedroom at home and only 4- to 5-feet tall. He is extremely proud of his accomplishment and so am I. The people of the village support themselves by growing cassava (a root ground into flour) and maze (a strain of corn we would use for livestock feed). They both eat and sell these two products, which is about all the land will support. Their diet contains no protein, which is evident in the children, and they have no clean drinking water, which also contributes to their health problems.
We left home at 8:00am and it is now three in the afternoon and we haven't dug, hauled, or pounded anything. We have about an hour to work before we must head back so we can be out of the bush before it gets dark and the driver can't find his way out. We make the four-hour trek home realizing that we had a one-hour workday and an eight-hour commute. However, we remind ourselves that physical labor is not the only work we are here to do. We are also here to listen to the stories of people and love them just as they are - and that we did.
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