We were walking down a typical dirt road, both curbs lined with aluminum storefronts selling the routine fruits and vegetables, fried goods or Vodacom minutes. Nothing surprising, and nothing remarkable… Until we turned the corner. It was what I had been expecting, but lost in the four weeks of having been here and not having seen it – I suppose I had simply forgotten. I almost lost my footing when I took my next step. The stench was raw and potent. People were everywhere. The houses sat side-by-side like townhouses but were obviously not meant to. The only source of water seemed to be a greenish-black river that chunkily made its way down a few rocks by the perimiter of the slums. It was simply unlike anything I had ever seen before, but everything I’d watched on the seemingly overdramatic television commercials for child sponsorships and community development projects. To say the least, I can confirm the fact that those tv ads are anything but overdramatic – but I’ll save my thoughts on desensitization for another blog. The moment we turned the corner, I felt my heart sink into my stomach, and I almost felt sick.

Jeff, a friend from Children of Kibera had taken us around these Kibera slums – otherwise referred to as ‘home’ to its 1.5 million inhabitants. The issues he explained are ones that hit me inexplicably hard. The land in Kibera is all government-owned, causing a lot of trouble for home’owners’. The civilians are unable to build permanent housing, or develop their land for business or crop use. Furthermore, the government refuses to enter the slums (God forbid they stink up their nicely ironed suits and scuff their newly-shined shoes) to do anything about the growing population and diminishing space. Thus, school-building is extremely slow, business-development and employment are inconsistent, and personal aid is virtually non-existant.

A few days before, I had travelled to the slums of Nakuru to visit a community of locals living under the “Queen of the Dump”. Their neighbourhood was a landfill; the streets being the spaces between mounds of trash that separated your block from another. In the mornings, everyone – mothers, brothers, orphans, grandfathers – run out to the arriving garbage trucks that bring the daily rations. Neighbours hang side by side, clinging onto the sides of the tipping truck to get their morning ’shopping’ done. That is just how it is.

More and more, I am beginning to believe that there is specifically one type of person that can do anything about any of this – they are the individuals I like to refer to as ‘the non-heroes of our time’. Non-heroes don’t look for huge obstacles to overcome, there’s no elaborate adventure or fruitful reward, and they do not accept praise for their doings. They are not in search of anything in particular, and do not look for great endeavors. Rather, our non-heroes look directly at the situation, figure out what works, and – to put it plainly – work with it. There are a million and a half opportunities to blame someone else for your concerns – “The organization of this is horrible!” and “How could he/she DO such a thing?” are even a few examples I know I’ve used in the past. But what do our non-heroes do? They do not put the blame on others, nor wish to be the person who flips the world upside down. They realize the truth in ‘That’s just how it is’ and know they can’t change everything, so they find realistic ways to help and just do it. My favourite thing about these non-heroes is their perspective of making sense. Helping is not an extravagant act; it is nothing to be commended for or be surprised by. Their refusal to be heroes is not an act of modesty; it’s their reality.

Jeff and the members of Children of Kibera work to provide children in the Kibera slums with opportunities to become educated, while Ken and his volunteers from Eye to Eye continue to build homes for families and individuals in the slums of Nakuru. Despite the fact that they cannot change the world in a day, and regardless of the support (or rather, lack-thereof) from other organizations or the government, they do what they can – not to be the hero, but because it simply makes sense.

Jeff, Ken, and all those on the trip with me this summer – these are the individuals I commend. For knowing that we cannot leave the world to be saved by a hero, but that we, the non-heroes, are the only ones that can do anything at all.

Ashura

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“Trust Less”

This was the advice I got yesterday, from a woman I honestly did not expect to ever give me this sort of guidance. She is currently organizing a few amazing development projects, has been assisting us throughout our entire trip, and carries an overall, indiscriminate air of compassion. Trust less? I automatically knew that the next words out of her mouth were going to – to put it bluntly – suck. Trust less? From THIS woman? No way.

Unfortunately, she had donated some money to a school in the chilly mountains of Lesotho, for stoves to heat the classrooms. She has yet to see these stoves, has heard nothing about their development and doubtlessly believes they do not, nor will exist. So yes, it sucked. But I refused to wholeheartedly take her advice. I thought to myself about all the experiences I’d had with organizational and logistic complications while working with different NGOs or even businesses, but personally having such a ‘go get ‘em’ attitude; believing in optimism and the importance of trust, I thought it must just have been a dose of bad luck.

It was today that I realized the significance of her wisdom. In talking with a Deputy Principal at a school this afternoon, I learned about the governmental and managerial problems of the local school district policies and structure, giving me yet another one of those “What could possibly motivate you to put such ridiculous and insensible ideas into action?” moments. I just thought to myself, “Really? REALLY?!” And it clicked. “Trust less” made sense.

More and more on this trip, I’m coming across experiences and learning about situations that plainly suck and lack any sort of obvious common sense (I most definitely was not expecting that), and as much as it confuses me, the only thing I can do is learn from them. As much as it hurts to say this, maybe not all people have good intentions. Maybe not all people can think straight. Maybe not all people share my values – and some may even strictly oppose them. But I can’t change anyone, and I refuse to be angry about it; the most I can do is keep on with what I can do – not necessarily what someone else could, and focus on my strengths – not anyone else’s weaknesses.

It was not a dose of bad luck, but merely a dose of reality.

Always,
Ashura

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(The story of my new favourite fairy tale.)

This is what love is. Knowing there is nothing you would ever want to change. Appreciating every word and action; every emotion and event. Taking the truth whole-heartedly and never settling for anything
less.
My heart broke like it has never done before. I pieced together every emotion I felt and had it shattered by a few quick glances. One by one, the pieces are picking themselves up.

My lungs fill with sadness and blood rushes to my head every time I even begin to relive the night.
Unfortunately for me, I?m awesome at reminiscing.
As I walked out of IMUMA, three children each holding onto two of my fingers, my heart filled with a blast of joy and guilt all at the same time. How appreciative these children have become, how close they hold us, how significant they know our work is. How shameful I feel for leaving them alone, how hopeful I am to continue supporting them, and how selfish I feel for wanting to stay and play. I turned to Pinky and told her I couldn?t go; I just wasn?t ready. I don?t even know if I can say I ever really was.
Saidi; a boy about 17. An amazingly talented singer and a simply genuine kid. Never having heard him sing before now, and never having talked to him much before today, I felt badly for not having had
enough time previously, but moreso felt excited that I finally got a chance.
The faces of six very important children have etched themselves into my memory forever. Perhaps because I?ve witnessed their pain, their hope, their sadness, joy, fear, and most significantly – courage.
The six sick children. The four we walked to the clinic every day. A four year old screaming for you from a doctor?s bed really does something to you. So does a one and a half-year old crying into your neck after having had five extremely painful injections. But the joy it brings when each day, you see the infections begin to clear up – it’s inexplicable. The happy walk home – our big family – bananas in hand, skipping down the stoney dirt road back to the child centre.
There?s a look in their eyes that has taught me more than much of what I?d tried so hard to learn on my own.
Nonetheless, the entire IMUMA family has invaded my heart and given me lessons I couldn?t imagine ever forgetting. Juma?s independent nature – extraordinary for a fifteen year old, five year-old Barike?s
incredible bravery, Miki?s energy and crazy Kili?s honest generosity. Every face has its own story, and each its own lesson for me.

The boys at the centre – individuals like none other. There is no one I have ever met like them, and I cannot anticipate ever encountering anyone like them again. Passion, perseverence, hope,
generosity, wisdom, humour, and best of all – happiness – reside in each of their independent and characteristic personalities, yet they cease to impress me with their strength as a single family. Every
dance lesson they teach (check out Matt?s video blog!), every meal they cook, all their work and every project – is created by a collaboration of each member?s incredibly distinct contribution. And you know what? That?s how it should be.
Aside from being our gurus, helpers, volunteers, and translators for the work we were doing, they came to mean so much more than that. Our last night with the boys included fire-eating, jumping through flaming
hoops, and hours of unreal drumming and dancing. It was a show and party put on for us; a night of pure fun, but the most important thing I got out of it was the realization that I had been this happy, this excited, and this impressed all along. The work was never work, and the bad days were always also good. As much as the evening was an extraordinary celebration, it was amazing to be able to say ?This is not the party; the party?s been here all along.?
During a Student Reach – Mtoto Mchuraji huddle towards the end of the night, thank-yous were exchanged, ?come back soon?s were in order, and all our teary-eyed faces grinned, panning the family in
the huddle around us. Only two things that exceeded the amount of sadness in the air that night – the joy in all we?d done in the past three weeks, and hope for the next time we?d be in Bagamoyo. I have
absolutely no doubt I will be back. I know I?ll be in withdrawal from Young Black?s contagious laugh, Kaka Jamesi?s ?shwari? attitude, as well as Kaka Nyola?s crazy dancing. Then there?s Kaka Doye?s ?More fire!?
and Kaka Issah?s wonderful ?Agah! Agah!? singing and dancing I?ll need to see again. I have so much more to learn from Kaka Dickson, and too many long hours of dancing to Kaka Matiga?s amazing drumming.

This is only the beginning of the rest of my life.

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The sky was illuminated with freckles of light. It was in such an abundance I’d never before witnessed, and encompassed us in a dome of optimism. The stars touched the ground at every corner around us and filled the space above our heads with twinkling flickers of tranquility. Peace, joy and hope; Now THIS is Africa.
There’s a perspective you gain being away from your iPod, laptop, tv, and car. When you’re stranded in the small, sandy beach-town of Bagamoyo, away from the abundance of everything you had previously spent the last few months wasting your time with. Where you experience town-wide blackouts every few days for unexpected lengths of time, where people wear the same clothes for days, where shoes are not a necessity, and where singing, dancing, and chatting are your only means of entertainment. There’s a morning you wake up and stop thinking about what you’re going to wear, how you’re going to do your hair, and what make-up you’ll use. There’s no checking the Weather Network for today’s forecast, barely hot water for a shower, and absolutely no air conditioning in the 30 degree weather. You turn to say hi to the smiling three year-old who has just run up to you from across the street, now clenching your fingers with her tiny hand, and it just hits you. Everything you’ve thought in theory makes sense now. More so, it applies now.

I don’t need nearly as much as I have. I don’t even want it. It’s not a hassle for me to cut down what I have, in order for someone else who is just as worthy to get the basics. Who needs that second pair of sunglasses? Do I need to buy that shirt that looks like three of the ones I already have hanging in my closet? Why do I spend time straightening my hair when that time could be put to better use? I’ve been spending every day working long hours to help – but the amount of effort I put in, relative to what they gain out of it – is incomparable. If only I could get more people to see that – to notice that a little goes such a long way. Come here, come see it – in front of your eyes, you’ll realize it is not at all that difficult. We have so much to give; we really do.

Money is not the currency of wealth, happiness is.

Ashura

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Among the menagerie of words that comes to my head when attempting to describe this place, one stands out with incredible accuracy, “poa.” This Swahili expression is often used as a greeting, after the common “mambo” (equivalent to “hey” or “hi” in English). Conveying several ideas, “poa” is most used as a synonym for “cool”, “good”, “chill” or “sweet”, but even translating the word into English sounds ridiculously improper. (Would a middle-aged woman you pass on the street respond “chill” to your “hey”? Most likely not, but “poa” is used by just about everyone.) As well as its literal translations, the phrase carries an implicit sign of standardized cultural benevolence and respect. Whomever it is, wherever it is, whatever the situation, a “Mambo!” awaiting a “Poa” is never too far away. What’s most extraordinary, however, is the vast truth in this little three-letter word. Seems like everyone out here is pretty “poa” almost all of the time, and I truly believe it. There is so much that can be said about the beautiful landscape, the cheerful and honest faces, and outstanding culture of Bagamoyo, Tanzania, but what’s greatest is that no one ever forgets just how poa it all is.

The most poa of it all is what has become our second home and possibly the coolest place that ever stood, Mtoto Mchoraji. I first came upon it during our “Amazing Race – Bagamoyo Style”, an orientation activity Pinky and Abid had set up for us newbies. Meaghan and I rushed in expecting to be out of there in less than 5 minutes, only staying to finish the next Bagamoyo Yetu task. However, the moment we stepped in, we were immediately sidetracked by all the stunning outwork displayed along the inside of the hut’s walls. The vibrancy and cultural creativity in the paintings and crafts illuminated the art centre with personality I’d never before witnessed in any other sort of art gallery. Poa sana (very cool) to say the least. But things only get more poa from here.

Founded four years ago, Dickson Chiuja started this art centre as a means to provide children in the community with a variety of opportunities. “The Boys” at the centre, Dickson and 11 other young men, use a portion of their art sales to pay for 35 children’s tuition fees, school supplies, basic health and medical needs. On top of this, The Boys teach kids in the community skills from drumming and dancing, to painting, to even cooking. I can’t describe the bliss on the children’s faces when they’re at Mtoto, dancing during a jam-session, playing cards waiting for a lesson, or even stopping by to grab a bite to eat (The Boys always generously make enough for children that may stop by and join in on a meal with them). Nor can I describe the utmost respect I have for The Boys and all that they do. Not only do they do such great things for the community; they are simply outstanding individuals. The most generous, honest, and real people I’ve met. Their personalities, however, don’t stray much from the rest of the community here. Bagamoyo is filled with a unique air of friendliness that I honestly had not found until now. If you’ve ever had one of those “I feel like this is exactly where I should be – this is exactly what I should be doing” moments, these last few days have surpassed them all.

So what can I say about first impressions? The place, the people, the everything… Poa. Poa sana.

Ashura
(the Swahili name The Boys came up with for me; it’s managed to stick – especially with the kids – awesome )

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I really don’t like jelly by itself. But adding peanut butter makes it the greatest sandwich of all time. I decided to stop making disgusted faces at the strawberry jam, and whip out some Skippy to add to it.

There are only a few different reactions I get on the faces of those I tell I’m going to Africa this summer. Even less, when I say I’m going for volunteer work, and less again when I include Student Reach. What’s most frustrating is that the looks and feedback they give are rarely what I’m hoping for.

The first stage of reactions is always surprise: A “No way!” or gaping jaw. Already, this puzzles me. Of course, it’s a thrill to be going away for seven weeks to countries I’ve never visited before, but the notion of volunteering abroad shouldn’t be such a surprise; an uncommon mission that few undertake. It’s taking months of effort, planning, organization and persistence, but I know that the amount of work we’re putting into helping overseas, relative to what the outcome and aid of volunteering will be this summer is minimal. It’s relatively easy to help out in a big way, and I wish more people could realize that; more so, I can’t wait to prove it with this trip so that they can. Hopefully, this blog will show the world at home how long a little can go.

The next few stages differ slightly from person to person, but I find there are generally only two or three separate reactions. Occasionally, I’m speaking to someone who has travelled abroad to volunteer, in which case my excitement builds to the point where I can barely keep a smile off my face. Talking to someone about his or her past experiences is extremely enriching, not to mention it gets you pumped like no map, photograph, flight itinerary, or Volunteer VISA can. Unfortunately, sometimes the conversation that began with an air of excitement ends with a reminiscent sigh and something along the lines of “I wish I had the time go back.” This is my cue to remind them that it’s never too early or too late, and there is always enough time if you make time. It reminds me why I’m going away in the first place: To help with all I can give, but almost just as importantly – to show those at home that they, too, have just as much to offer.

Most often, however, I get the reaction I like the least, especially coming from those who have never been away to volunteer. Time and time again, children, students, even adults, will reply with an “Oh, I wish I could do something like that; Good for you!” followed by a number of reasons (I prefer to call them “excuses”) they supposedly can’t, or haven’t been able to. It seems that these days, the phrase “Africa is dying” is becoming more and more cliché, when in reality, it’s becoming more and more fact. The problems are obvious, and the opportunity to help is there if you so seek it. I don’t see it as “Good for me” for doing this, it is CBC staring me in the eye every night, and Student Reach holding out a plate of here-is-what-you-can-do. It’s a ‘duh!’ moment; an obvious act. Not a surprise, nothing I should be commended for – something anyone and everyone can do. I see a problem, I see a way to help – a perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich – so the obvious route to take is spread some of my peanut butter activism on the problems I have with jelly’s social justice issues, take ‘em to Africa and create some delicious change.

Once in a while, someone makes their own PB&J and I get my favourite reaction. The “How can I help? Ash, how do I do something like that, too?” And that’s the idea I hope to spark via blog during my travels in Africa. Despite my main goals of assisting overseas, I have an equally important goal in mind for those back home. That is, showing the impact of optimism and activism, as well as the potential everyone has to do something; anything.

After all, doing something is so much more than doing nothing.

Finding ways to make jelly better,
Ashley

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