The title of this entry can be taken quite literally, because we didn't bring gumboots, and it's the beginning of "the long rains" in Buswelu. What was previously a rollercoaster of a road is now a series of small ponds for kids to play in, cars to splash through, and mzungus like us to fall into unexpectedly at night. We may not have galoshes, but we recently saw a Masai on a bicycle wearing a nice shiny blue pair, which tickled our fancy. The Masai may be fierce, towering warriors who have to kill a lion with a spear to be initiated into their tribe, but they're not afraid to act like a bunch of jack russell terriers once in a while.
N.B. The bit about the lion is for real. Each Masai man, at around 19 years of age, goes into the wild and faces a lion alone. He wraps his colorful Masai blanket around his arm and waves it at the lion, provoking it. The lion, if all goes according to plan, then chomps down on his blanketed arm, at which point he lifts the head of the jungle king, and reaches under it's flesh-shredding maw to slit its throat. Pretty foolproof plan right? I mean, what could go wrong?Aside from playing velcro throw and catch, they have been known to clip little stuffed animals just above the gaping holes in their earlobes and pose for pictures, and occasionally to sit for hours watching video clips on people's cameras, laughing like a bunch of giddy children at the images of themselves. The lion thing is no joke by the way. Laser showed me the thumb's-width scar on his knee last night, from when the second lion he killed got a little too close. He's a Masai chief, so I guess he's killed five. And about the giddy laughter, I think they just get a kick out of seeing what they look like. There aren't a whole lot of mirrors around Buswelu, and I personally haven't seen my own ugly mug in a week.
The kids at the orphanage are also quite fascinated with their own appearances. Whenever someone has a camera they are happy to pose with a goofy face or a big smile, and they sometimes even lick tables and recite gibberish (Swahili?) on video for our entertainment, provided that we show them the pictures and videos afterward. Kids here have a different kind of self-awareness. They live inside their own skin entirely, unlike American kids who, at a certain age, seem to objectify themselves, and scrutinize themselves from the outside. While American kids glance at the mirror to assess their looks, their build, what kind of clothes they wear etc., the only mirror for these Tanzanians is the eyes of their peers. There is no universal standard for hair length or body type, no trendy brand name or logo to sport proudly on a t-shirt or backpack. There's just a bunch of kids, and usually enough clothes and food to go around, and nothing to judge but strength of character.
Before Sarida showed up at the orphanage last weekend, I didn't realize how honest and true the eyes of these children could be. I didn't realize how powerfully their accepting, non-discriminating gaze could affect the lives of others, cutting through the superficial barriers of skin and clothing and recognizing, innately, that they are all children of the same, bizarrely large family.
Have you ever had a conversation with someone close to you, during which you asked "What if I was burned in a fire, and horribly scarred for life? Would you still love me then?" Have you ever wanted to test your loved ones, to know if they would treat you with respect and dignity regardless of your appearance? Well the children in the orphanage passed the test, without even knowing they were taking it, by the grace of childlike innocence in the isolation of the orphanage, or by some closeness to God that only the very young can understand.Sarida is six or seven, and over a year ago she was pushed into a fire when she was playing with some friends, unsupervised and out of control. The children didn't know what to do, and left her there when they ran for help. When the adults showed up about two hours later, Sarida's face, arms, and torso had been very severely burned, with much of her skin melted to the hot coals. Her father drove her five hours to a hospital, where she couldn't be helped, and then many hours more to another hospital in Mwanza, where she was finally given some treatment. Miraculously, her five senses were intact, and her lungs were not destroyed by the incident. She was in the hospital for about a year, receiving skin grafts and getting whatever help could be offered. Her hands were amputated, though they might have been saved if she had been treated sooner. Leah, the volunteer director at Hands of Mercy, petitioned for a renowned doctor who invented "spray-on skin" to come to Mwanza, and he has helped with Sarida's recovery, pledging to send doctors back for two weeks each year to train local surgeons in his spray-on technology.
Sarida was let out of the hospital very recently, and when I saw her for the first time at the orphanage she was as happy as any child would be to play outside after a year in a hospital bed. I entered the orphanage and saw her multicolored face in the dim light. "They've been face painting," I thought. I looked closer. "She's wearing a mask," I thought. I looked closer and finally realized that I was looking at the actual face of the child. I tried to hide my shock, but I was looking at the face of a survivor, and the story of suffering that its scars and scabs and streaks of color told was impossible to ignore. I was immediately, and deeply disturbed, but as the day wore on I was able to look at her for longer and longer periods of time. I lifted her onto my shoulders and she sang a wandering, childish song, as aimless and carefree as the song of any seven year old. She dribbled a basketball and even managed to throw and catch it with the stumps of her arms, she wrote with her mouth, and with the two stumps working together to guide the colored pencil. She wanted to be involved in everything, but she could only sit in silence when the children clapped along to a song, or swung on the monkey bars. She had a fighting spirit, and all the heart that was necessary to continue living after such a tragic incident, but she was clearly in need of help.
She needed a lift onto the monkey bars, where she could sit or stand for a short period of time with support. She needed help turning pages, and picking up pencils. She fell asleep on my lap, and as she was fading off she made some noise and gestured with her arm. I finally understood that she wanted me to cover her legs with her dress because she was feeling cold and she couldn't do it on her own. But most of all she loved riding on my shoulders. She stayed up there for half the day, singing her meandering tune without self-consciousness, and gradually giving me neck problems with her shifts in weight. At first I flinched when a stumpy arm of scabbed, grafted, strangely shiny, peeling skin would brush against my face. I found it difficult to accept that this was her body, that there was nothing scary or contagious about it, and that I had to love her for it and not in spite of it.
But Sarida had already accepted herself, and I credit the kids at the orphanage for that. To be played with, taught, and treated just like everyone else during her first days out of the hospital must have been a huge confidence builder for Sarida, and when she asked to look at a picture of herself on our camera, she was prepared for what she was about to see. I don't know if she had seen a mirror during her year in the hospital, but when she saw the scarred face on the screen and realized it was her own, she flinched a bit. In seconds though, she had recovered from whatever she was feeling, and she was asking for more pictures as shamelessly as the rest of the technologically enchanted little ones. I say for sure, but I think the kindness that was shown to Sarida by the volunteers and by the other children gave her the strength to accept the image before her, and that is a wonderful thing.
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