IV. Malaria, Kenyan Refugees, and Goodbyes

Well I guess from the title you can tell this one's going to be a downer. Whether from my lack of vigilance with the cool mosquito zapper bat thingy (which seems unlikely considering my addiction to it), from the constant maasai traffic in and out of our house (for both social and practical reasons), or from the misapplication of bugspray (do not spray directly into eyes), an infuriatingly sneaky little mozzie managed to take a cheap shot at my darling Ayesha, and it just so happened that she (the biting ones are female) was carrying the malaria parasite. So now Ayesha is carrying the parasite home to India, where she'll be given proper treatment not avaliable in our little Tanzanian suburb.

For two weeks she battled with a lurking, insidious, just-on-the-cusp-of-detectable kind of malaria, which culminated in both of us just wanting her to be home and be better. It was very hard for her to leave the kids and me behind, but for about a week she had been unable to go to the orphanage because she was too tired, achy etc. She made an attempt one morning, in spite of her condition, and it required so much energy that she was out of commission for the rest of the day. An orphanage is not a good place to go for a quick, efficient visit, nor is it possible to spend time there without spending energy. Children see you as a jungle gym, as a source of boundless academic knowledge, and sometimes as a personal ally and confidante in the struggle of their lives. You have to match the enthusiasm of each one in order to go home feeling fulfilled, and there are 50 of them and only 1 of you.

Ayesha managed to go home feeling fulfilled last night I think, but it took a lot out of her. We went to say goodbye to the kids, and of course each one wanted some quality time with their favorite Indian before she left for home. We gave dozens of hugs, took at least 50 pictures (some of which just look like a pair of eyeballs and a set of rarely-brushed teeth due to the fading light, the strong pigmentation of our little friends, and my technological retardation), and exchanged the kindest words we could communicate with the kids who had welcomed us into their lives, knowing that we would soon leave. For Ayesha it was probably a permanent goodbye, the kind that leaves you wondering what will happen to these children, but knowing that you'll probably never find out. I'm sure she'll describe it herself when she's feeling up to a bit of blogging. For me, however, it was just a "see you monday," but nonetheless it was difficult because I knew that my time in Buswelu with Ayesha had run out, and that I too would soon be leaving these kids behind.

As we set out in the fading like to cover the kilometer or so between the orphanage and our house, we heard a friendly voice. It was Dennis, a 19 year old Kenyan refugee and former member of the orphanage, who had been kicked out for less than fair reasons (orphanage politics that I won't waste blog space on). I had wanted to get a picture of his honest face, his strong build, and the deep, slanting scar above his left eye, camouflaged in his dark skin. Ayesha had been very sad to leave without saying goodbye to him, but Dennis is a difficult guy to find, and for the saddest of reasons.

Let me say that Dennis is smart, that he is good, and that he is strong. He was once a very good soccer player, and he still has some skills, but his stamina and strength have deteriorated since he left Kenya a couple of years ago after the conflict that killed his family. My first day at the orphanage I drilled him with a soccer ball in a very painful spot during a hands of mercy playground game. He was hobbling around for hours, but he never let me see his face without a smile on it. Despite the language barrier I knew he had forgiven me before I had asked him to, and I was struck by his character immediately. That's when I realized he was good.

The next time I saw him, I realized that he was smart. We were struggling to control the nursery class, of which we were fully in charge at that time, when Dennis arrived on the scene. He took the kids through 3 full hours of ABC's and 123's without losing them to daydreams and distractions, and without resorting to physical punishment for control. He knew how to engage their minds, and he never missed a beat.

I realized that he was strong when he got kicked out of the orphanage. We heard the news and we couldn't believe that such a competent and helpful member of the orphanage community would be banned from its premises, but we had no way to contact him and get the story. Where could a Kenyan with no living relatives find shelter in Tanzania. Fortunately we bumped into him a couple of days later at the corner, where he told us the unfortunate story of his expulsion, and informed us that he was living with a friend of one of the other orphans.

A week or so later he came to our house (against the wishes of the orphanage director) where he sat for a few hours enjoying our hospitality, and humbly accepting our offers of food and water, trying not to look as hungry or thirsty as he was. He must have felt strange sitting there and listening to our banter, knowing that food and shelter was a given for us, probably trying to imagine what could possibly bother someone with family, friends, and a proper country of citizenship.

But I never detected an ounce of jealousy or self-pity from Dennis. He had not accepted our invitation in order to evoke our sympathy, or to manipulate us by tugging on our consciences with allusions to his own destitution. He had come to listen to some Bob Marley, and to share some food and water with friends, and that impressed me more than anything. "What's your favorite Bob Marley song?" I asked him. "Don't worry about a thing" he responded, but his accent was so thick that I didn't understand. When the song came on a few minutes later I realized why it might be a comfort to someone like Dennis. "Every little thing, is gonna be alright."

He didn't ask for a single thing all evening, but when he was leaving he took me by the hand, and I understood that I should escort him outside. I stood there in the dark, hand in hand with a man 5 years my junior who had lived through the slaughter of his family in Kenya, had suffered jail time in Tanzania for being an illegal immigrant, and had been evicted from his only refuge, the Hands of Mercy orphanage, and I heard him speak words of true humility, without even a tinge of the bitter entitlement I would have felt in his place.
"I have a question," he said slowly, looking me in the eyes. "Up to this point, I have been good?"
"Yes Dennis," I smiled back, eyes getting a little watery all of a sudden. "You are a good man. I know you are."
"Thank you," he acknowledged me before continuing. "I have told you that I am living with my friend"
"Yes Dennis."
"Last week he received a call telling that his mother had died, so he went to his village, so I have been alone for this week."
I replayed the evening in my head, remembering how immediately he had accepted the water I gave him and how quickly he had drained the bottle before he could disguise his thirst. I remembered how I had given him a smallish helping of the dinner that I had intended for only Ayesha and I, how I had been hesitant to give him the water that took me half an hour to boil and filter. Even in malnourishment he was a good 20 pounds of muscle stouter than me, and his appearance in no way betrayed his circumstances.
"I'm so sorry Dennis. Do you need anything?" I asked him, trying to figure out on the spot where I should draw the line and how I could help him out without inviting him to keep asking every day. But he hadn't asked, and he didn't even then.

"You see, Dennis, it's a tough position for a volunteer to be in, because we do not have much money, and we are not supposed to give things directly to others," I rambled awkwardly, trying to be smart and to be on my guard and to not cross that ever so precious boundary between friend and resource that we struggle with every day in our interactions with locals, but this was all in my head, and it went against everything my heart was feeling.
"As long as it's just this once..." I started to say, and then I did what I should have done immediately, and silenced my doubts, taking him quickly to the duka next door. I bought him a kilo of potatoes (less than 50 cents U.S.) and a bottle of water, and he accepted them gratefully. "Thank you so much" he said.
"Dennis. Forget what I said before. I want to help you. Here's my number. Please call if you need something ok?"
"Thank you so much. God bless you. God will help me."
And he went off smiling in the dark, leaving me in amazement that someone in his circumstances could be so genuinely, humbly grateful.

So this is who Ayesha and I met last night on the path back to our house, back to a mad packing session and a few hours of sleep before a journey we had booked that afternoon. Dennis and I walked to the corner arm in arm, and we took pictures with him, and he gave each of us a very warm, very strong hug. Someday I'll explain to him that I know a lot of people who are richer than him in material things, but not many who are richer in character.

Our meeting with Dennis was a nice final dose of Buswelu for Ayesha, and I'm sure she's glad that we got to see him. Our farewell trip to the orphanage was everything we'd hoped it would be (except for brief I suppose). All the children were there, and they were very happy to see her again, even if they were sad to see her go. They see many volunteers in a year's time, and I'm sure that after a while Ayesha and I will blend in with the rest of them, but I hope that we've left our mark on a few of them. At any rate, I'm going to give all I can in the next three weeks, as I am more aware than ever of how suddenly the end can come.