4. My Dad: the importance of encouragement and always asking

My dad.  I adore him.  He is the most encouraging person in my life.  He sends me these little notes telling me how proud he is of me when he sees something I've done, reads something I've written, hears about some (small) accomplishment or another.  He's very thoughtful in these comments and clearly has a genuine interest and concern for the details of my life.

When I return from a trip, even if he's gotten regular updates, he still wants me to sit down and tell him everything ... the small details, how it felt, what it was like, my thoughts about it all.  He's interested, thoughtful, and soaks it all in.  

No matter how often I see him or talk to him, he never stops telling me:  "I miss your cute face."  It sets firmly, deeply in my soul.  When I do see him, he often stops me from walking by, takes my shoulders and hugs me, asking me quietly in my ear how my life is, am I happy, if I'm ok.  He worries about me. It's really incredibly sweet and never ceases to really touch my heart.    

I, on the other hand, can be an emotional iceberg, so sometimes shake it off, tell him I'm fine and not to worry.  He doesn't really need to worry - I am fine. But I also don't tell him how much I appreciate his asking and his care. 

My friend Joey, upon my telling her of this recently, said to something to the effect of:  "yeah, good luck finding a guy if that's what he's up against."  It's true.  My dad's gift for this kind concern and genuine interest in my life is not easy to find elsewhere, but it's become so important to me.  

While I don't always tell him, I think often about how much my dad loves me, and appreciate so much that he always asks.  Even when I shirk it off and assure him, with simplicity, that I'm just fine, he reminds me that, no matter the reaction, always encouraging and always asking are foundational components to a relationship that matters.  It would be easy to feel unappreciated and simply stop.  But his persistence teaches me that regardless of the icy reaction, the lesson is to keep encouraging and keep asking those we love, as we never know how our care and concern affects those on the receiving end.

3. Tim: "Come, come! We're hanging!"

I'm kind of a lunatic.  About some things.  When I make a social decision, I weigh travel time against activity in question, I weigh amount of time needed for said activity against other things I need to with the rest of my day, I weigh the next time I'll see that person against the potential gain from our time together.  Like I said, lunatic.

My friend Tim, on the other hand, doesn't ever do any of these things.  "Come, come!  We're hanging!"  He says this frequently.  If he wants to see you, he wants to see you - that's it.  Let's hang.  And it's okay to just hang.  He doesn't care if he saw you yesterday or will see you tomorrow.  He doesn't care if hanging furthers his goals for the day or the week or whatever, if the activity is productive. Hanging means talking and talking means growing and that's what you do with people you love.  The rest of the details are just incidental.

What is wrong with me?  Okay, I've exaggerated my neuroses here just a bit, but the lesson for me is that it doesn't need to be productive or efficient, or fit into a grand plan to be worth my time.  I've gone through some life changes recently and it's taken some adjusting, like being forced to chill the eff out.  And in this transition, I'm grateful to Tim for the reminder that just hanging with people I care about - even the most simple of hangs - is simply good for the soul.

2. Josie: always keep writing

Josie and I have been friends for years, through the course of many life events:  the loss of jobs, the loss of a parent and grandparents, divorce, wedding, interstate moves, career changes, life changes.

Josie and I have never lived in the same state.  So through these trials and triumphs, much of our encouragement to one another has manifested in writing.  Every once in a while, she busts out something that I had written to her, something from the past, something I don't even recognize.  I think, where'd you get that?  The answer is, from me.  Really? That was really good! Ha.  The insight and emotion in these will often surprise me.  I think, shoot, I can't write like that anymore.  Where'd that go??

When you don't use the silver, it tarnishes.  When you stop exercising, you fall out of shape.  When you don't speak or hear a language for years, you lose it.  Reminders that in order to stay in synch with something, one must keep doing it.

Josie's gift of glimpses into things written but long forgotten, and her constant commitment to her own writing, encourage me to write.  The more I write, the more I learn about myself.  That's the key.  Once I start, it just keeps coming.  And in that, I learn about who I am, and discover things I might never have gotten to otherwise.

A blog is so cliche and self-important; how presumptuous to expect that anyone is interested in what I have to say.  Yet, it gives me the opportunity to write, no matter who reads it, even if no one at all.  So thank you to the interwebs for a platform, and thank you to Josie for being in my head, reminding me to always keep writing.

1. Tomer: the importance of doing something new

I'm starting 2014 with another 30-day project.  

This has been inspired by my dear friend Tomer, who is obsessed with Ted Talks.  He may marry Ted.  This past fall, he watched a three and half minute talk about trying something new for 30 days.  I went vegan, he took a photo of a different friend every day, forcing him to make intentional dates with people and deepen his relationships.  Another friend did something she had never done before, every day for 30 days; one of those things was getting married.  

Tomer pretty consistently reminds me to always be exploring ways to do something new, something challenging, something that stretches you a bit. 

He's now onto his next project, one second a day - this one is going to be cool (check it out), and I do believe he'll stick with it.

I'm sticking with the 30-day project for just now.  I'm starting 2014 with 30 Days of Life Lessons (or as many as I have ...), imparted to me from the wisdom and insight of those closest to me.  This is not an exercise of me going through a list of my friends and trying find some soundbite to attach to each. Rather, these are the lessons that affect my everyday life - things that I think about often, that help me make better decisions, that challenge my perspective, that are always with me, and the recognition that these insights and bits of wisdom have come to me through the blessing of those who love me and care about me, and help me see things in a new way.

Today is Tomer, and his irrepressible vigor for new things, new people, new experiences.  It's easy for life to become routine, but Tomer reminds me - often - to do something new, and love life while doing it.  

Joseph Conrad: We live, as we dream - alone...

**The following post has been written over several months' time, beginning in August.
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“It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream - making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams. No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence - that which makes its truth, its meaning - its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream - alone...”
― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

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Just before I left Africa, I noticed a divot in the base of the nail on my left ring finger, origin unknown. As my nails grew over the summer, I had this one funny deformed nail, all ridgey and bumpy. The bump’s creeping along up my fingernail was a reminder of how long I’d been back. It finally reached the end of its race; today I clipped my nails, and along with it, the funny little reminder bump.

It was just a dumb deformed nail, but it seemed to represent to me all those things about Africa that were slowly growing out and would soon get clipped off.

“Oh my God how was your trip?!”, “I can't wait to hear all about it!”, “Tell me everything!” Sure, I'd love to. But I can’t. Not really. I can give you facts, and events, and details.  But I can't tell you how it changed me.  How does one describe a being, a feeling, a knowing? Like trying to describe that inescapable feeling imparted by a dream, it's simply impossible for words to incarnate the inner experience of one to another. We try, but in the end, we fail.

Three months isn’t so long – it’s shorter than a semester, it’s that summer that goes by so fast, it’s less than the mild panic about income tax deadline after new year’s. But it still managed to change me. I want to write about all that inner change here, but it all sounds contrived and dramatic, and in the end, would fail. I think every day about going back.

Sure, some of it was escape. And in some ways it probably will be when I go again. But then, is it escape if it’s in some ways a life that you prefer? If escaping the pandemic materialism and amassing of riches and image solely for the sake of riches and images is less appealing than living a simpler life and learning new things about myself every day, staying in touch with how most of the rest of the world lives, is that escapism? I had drinks on Sunday with Deo, the founder of Village Health Works, the reason I went to Burundi. Every time I am with him, he utters these profound little nuggets that turn my head upside down a little. On Sunday he just drops: “my escape is another person’s misery.” I have had this thought before.

Upon my return, little things throw me. I scald myself repeatedly at the sink. The heat and intensity of my shower’s water and its pressure actually make me anxious. Every hug concludes with my reaching to shake the person's hand, met with puzzling looks. A gas station attendant reaches through my passenger side car window for my credit card – without thinking, I extend my hand to shake his and greet him.

I don't turn on the tv for days. I don't carry an umbrella when it’s supposed to rain. I don't dry my hands after washing them. I don’t dry my hair anymore, ever. The over-air conditioned stores and restaurants irritate me. I don't care whether I have a towel at the pool. I heartily greet everyone I encounter and ask how they are, reaching for a handshake. I don't care that I've worn that dress the last three times I've seen the same people. I haven’t bought one new thing in four months. Somehow, none of that matters. Sawa sawa.

I miss the clink clink clink that was the soundtrack of my mornings in Kigutu ... the spoons rapidly making rounds in mugs of tea, in an effort to dissolve way too much sugar. I miss the faces that line the triage porch, first with suspicious eyes, followed by bursting smiles when I greet people in Kirundi or Swahili and reach my hand to shake theirs. I miss the bustling market and the chaos of the bus station. I miss being able to hold up my hand and hail a motorcycle to my destination for a $1, my hair blowing behind me in the warm African sun. I miss the ladies selling pineapples, avocados, tomatoes, mangoes, green clementines, and passion fruits by the roadside. I miss the tiny feet protruding from the hips of women carrying babies on their backs. I miss the stunning and vibrant African textiles that envelope and adorn the lovely women of Burundi; I love how those selling goods at market tuck a corner of the fabric wrapped around their waists, and skillfully tie up their earnings. It’s summer here in NYC, and there are many bright colors. But soon enough, we’ll all be in black again.

Fast forward to December. Have I really been back six months? Hard to believe. And none of those things is weird anymore. Like the bump on my nail, it all just sort of grew out. I don’t reach to shake everyone’s hand, I cherish my long hot showers, I wore all black today. I do, however, continue to scald myself at the sink.

The holidays are here. Call me Scrooge but it’s the time of year I like the least. I so dislike what the celebration of the birth of Christ has turned into … the Black Friday stampedes, the stores now open on Thanksgiving, the buying of masses of unneeded things just to have to something to give to someone who needs nothing. The gag gifts that will end up being tossed. The pressure, the expense, the clock ticking down. I have come to dread it.

There is something so tragically ironic to me about the wasted money – money that could be redirected to so many in need, maybe in east Africa – spent on throw-away gifts, that will soon end up in a landfill … maybe in east Africa.

How do I spend holidays with family and friends without silent judgment, make changes without being extreme, recognize the tragic irony without picking fights? How do I use my frustration and criticism (and hypocrisy) to make things better, not worse? I continue to feel like I’m living with one foot in two worlds.

Everything is changing. This summer, a neighborhood friend died – he was the personality of the street, and his passing has left a huge community hole. Friends and fellow community-garden members are stepping down from the board on which we sit, selling their places in the neighborhood, moving out of state. My favorite Singaporean restaurant on the next block was suddenly a Mexican restaurant one day. The block behind mine, to which mine backs up, has been bought by developers – the pre-construction noises wake me some mornings, and the workmen I occasionally see with my groggy waking eyes walking around on the neighboring rooftop just outside my window makes me feel exposed; my quiet private nook in alphabet city will very soon no longer be those things.

I’m not great with such change. It makes me want to escape. It doesn't stop the change, but it maybe removes me from it for a while.  I do plan to go back to Africa, maybe sooner than I thought.  Maybe it will be an escape.  Maybe it will just be a new adventure. Maybe it will be a little of both.  But whatever it is, I do know it will be a blessing - a blessing that will change me, resistance and all, once again.

Maya Bester: Tell me about your world.

In my last post I mentioned the warm and lovely Bester family.  The twins are dynamic, smart, creative, funny, and sweet.  Max got up silly early to ride with Michael and me to the airport the day of my departure, just to hang out.  He starts stories with, "once, this happened ..."  I find this a hilarious counterpoint to the ubiquitous and simply annoying “yeah, that happened” spouted by the current edition of purveyors of pop culture. 

These two started out so shy – like, in-the-folds-of-mommy’s-skirt shy.  By the end of my week’s visit, they were warm and demonstrative, and proudly sported their dynamic personalities and hilarious little attitudes.

The day before I left, Maya, alone with me for a few minutes while waiting for the others, turned and looked at me thoughtfully, and with hand motions that reminded me of my own, said “tell me about your world.”

Tell me about your world. What almost-six-year-old says this? Not only is it outside of a five-year-old’s own world (and many simply don’t leave), but it was such a globally framed question that I immediately loved her for it. I think of this as maybe a glimpse of an old soul.

Last Sunday, I went to a beach club with some friends.  We lounged, they played volleyball, I soaked up the sun and a Primus.   A young girl kept coming by – a total ‘tude’ is the only way to describe her demeanor.  Hilarious and charming, but full of ‘tude.  She would come by with these extravagant and demonstrative gestures, seemingly order us around in half-french, half-something-else (Kirundi?  Swahili?), then run off laughing.  Or maybe stick around and sit down for a few minutes, trying to make herself understood with insistent but good-natured gestures.   My friend recognizes her from the university pool he occasionally visits.  She clearly recognizes him, and continues to come by and vie for his attention.  He said her name is Pamela.  Pamela easily finagles the last piece of his pizza, all of our popcorn, and my water bottle – and maybe a little of our hearts – over the course of several hours. 

I imagined her world.  I assumed she was with the Burundian family that was occupying the sofa area next to ours.  It was riddled with kids – the girls with long-braided hair (most girls seen walking along the roadways between Bujumbura and anywhere upcountry keep their hair very short), pool props like arm floaties and a blow-up tube, nice swimsuits and clothes, ordering pizzas and fantas and ice creams.  I imagine they belong to an upper middle class Burundian family – a very small percentage of the population here – enjoying a Sunday afternoon at the beach with some friends.  Pamela seemed to be mingling in and among them.  I didn’t twig on to how differently she was dressed and coiffed just yet. 

Throughout the day, she kept coming by – employing our table as her own, depositing her juice, her lollipop, her dress.  Wiggling a little dance to entertain us, ensuring we watched – and applauded – as she jumped in the pool.  She helped herself to a piece of African fabric I had with me – the beautiful painted prints worn by African women, known as a pagne – and wrapped it around herself as African women do, in expert fashion.  “Wow, she’s really got that down” noted my friend.  After a while, I realize she is not responding to French in the way a French-speaker would.  She’s throwing words around, but just words.  She would come up and quickly spout something indiscernible – I would ask “quoi?” (“what?”) and she would nod, wide-eyed, “oui!” and run away or jump in the pool.   Hmmmm.  Where has she learned these words?  my friend muses.  I’m now confused – an upper middle class family would have educated children, and that would mean French.  I also realize this family was now gone.  Had they move to another seat?  Down to the beach?

Sometime later in the afternoon, she picks up my iphone and adeptly works out the camera feature; she reaches for my camera and does the same – starts snapping photos and squealing in delight with each one, quickly showing us before the 3-second preview turns back to a lens.  Posing does not seem new to her.

After chancing our popcorn out of us, she scurries over to the group of people at the corner banquette.  She’s working them the same way.  We joke that she’s playing us against each other, creating a competition, hoping we’ll fight for her. 

The sun is now starting to set, and she’s back.  Wrapped in my pagne, she takes off her shorts and we realize she is now “washing” them out in the pool, wringing them as though she’s at the river, and then hanging them over the railing.  Ummmmm…  

She’s now cozying up to us, lounged across the sofa that I too am lounging on.  She picks up my arm and puts it around her, and snuggles in.  We smile at this, but just keep talking.  It’s like she belongs. 

We’ve had a few friends-by-extension come by to see what we’re up to for dinner, and we eventually formulate a plan.  We move to the covered area as we make our way to the car, and we chat with the club’s manager for quite some time.   I am leaning lazily against a pillar.  Suddenly Pamela is close by my side, tucked once again under my arm.  Someone asks where her family is – it becomes quickly clear that the manager had thought all day that she was with us.  She is here alone.  To my horror, with the snap of a finger, she is quickly escorted to the steps leading from the club’s platform down to the beach.  A conversation with a few of the waitstaff ensues, and suddenly, she is gone.

Her world is not at all as I had imagined it.  In fact, it was hard to imagine what her world was.  It was after dark – she was no more than ten.  Does she have a home?  Would she find her way?  I suppose she would find her way – Burundians are incredibly resourceful, and this was clearly not a new racket for her, but what dangers would await her along the way?  As she ran off, shoeless, I imagined this was a regular Sunday for her – hustling food and company from unsuspecting mzungos with her charm and vigor.  This eventually dissolved into my feeling pangs of sickness, heartbreak, helplessness.   

We went on to enjoy an excellent bottle of wine poolside at a lovely hotel under the stars.  But I have thought about Pamela all week, wandering somewhere, under those same stars.  I wonder if I’ll see her again.  I wonder what her days are like, who her family is and do they miss her when she’s gone all day, what her future could possibly hold.  

Will she be one of the incredibly admirable people I’ve met here who have created opportunity out of desperate circumstances, and insisted on a future they envisioned, even when it seemed impossible?  I recently had a conversation with someone who fled the war in the middle of a school day – alone.  He walked for days, being fed by generous countrymates along the way, and found his way to Tanzania.  He spent three years in a refugee camp.  He said it was awful.  He was a teenager and he was alone.  But he stayed.  Why?  Because they offered school.  I’m wide-eyed with awe and admiration.  He is now university educated with a career, a family, a future.   I imagine – in fact see – that this is not the norm.  The long and dark war ravaged the country and many along with it.  People were robbed not only of land, family members, possessions, dignity, but also of spirit.  Rebuilding is a slow and frustrating process.  People are left behind.  People fall through the cracks.  People don’t have opportunities.  If mine weren’t presented to me, I wonder very much if I would have created my own.  I find myself making this comparison often here and being embarrassed by what I believe to be the truth.

I wasn’t planning on tying this particular entry back to VHW, but I can’t help myself, because the segue is now so obvious.  The co-ops that VHW helps to organize and support are just these kinds of opportunities.  People in the rural mountainous catchment area – mostly women – who have had no education and a complete lack of opportunity, are now business owners, tradespeople, respected members of their communities.  This is just some of the great work of VHW. 

me on the Kigutu road with the yoga bags

I visited the sewing co-op again this week and greeted the lovely people who make the yoga mat bags that I’m now peddling at my Saturday morning yoga group.  They were busily filling an order of 100 bags placed by our New York office, to send home with some US visitors returning next week.  I take seven on consignment; I sold three last weekend and intend to top that tomorrow.  I eyeball one for myself – it has a non-descript bird motif (quail? pheasant?  wild turkey?  stunted peacock?) in gold and cobalt, with a sort of vegas-meets-versace flash – I imagine the non-descript bird as a glittering medallion on a giant gold chain around a rapper’s neck.  I decide my world needs this irony.

My world.  My world is my own.  My world is free to acquire things, take trips, make choices. My world is free to write and speculate about the world of others.   My world is whatever I want it to be.  But tell me about your world, Pamela.  Tell me about its hardships and challenges and heartaches.  Tell me your hopes and dreams and what you want to be when you grow up.  It’s with ruefulness that I resign myself to the fact that I will simply never know, and it’s with melancholy that I consider that her world may simply be survival, and that dreaming about what she wants to be when she grows up, may be to her, just completely another world.

Pippin Took: We’ve had one, yes. But what about second breakfast?

Aragorn: Gentlemen! We do not stop ’til nightfall.
Pippin: But what about breakfast?
Aragorn: You’ve already had it.
Pippin: We’ve had one, yes. But what about second breakfast?
[Aragorn stares at him, then walks off.]
Merry: Don’t think he knows about second breakfast, Pip.
Pippin: What about elevenses? Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper? He knows about them, doesn’t he?
Merry: I wouldn’t count on it.

Food Security. It’s a phrase thrown around international development and human rights circles, but one that many reading this have never heard. I guess because those of us who have it don’t need to think about it.  Or do we?

The World Food Summit of 1996 defined food security as existing “when all people at all times have access to sufficient, safe, nutritious food to maintain a healthy and active life”.

Food security is built on three pillars:

• Food availability: sufficient quantities of food available on a consistent basis. 
• Food access: having sufficient resources to obtain appropriate foods for a nutritious diet. 
• Food use: appropriate use based on knowledge of basic nutrition and care, as well as adequate water and sanitation. 

My time in Burundi has been filled with the western version of food security concerns. Will I have enough of the food that I want today? Yes, I have enough of what I need. What I need to be nourished, to have energy, to survive. But the selection of prepared food available has been a bit challenging for a foodie like me. 

Fourteen times a week, the staff in Kigutu is presented with essentially the same meal: a giant pot of rice, a giant pot of stewed pink beans, and two other accoutrements: some type of potato or banana (boiled or fried skewers or slices), 

and a stewed vegetable concoction consisting of lenga lenga (amaranth, a healthier version of spinach), or tomatoes and cabbage.

Two meals a day, every day. The food is quite good – in fact I had the beans for the first time in a few days this past week and was struck by how delicious they were. But monotony is the point here. 

 The vast majority of Burundians (of the world, really) would be overwhelmed with gratitude at the prospect of such a nutritious meal of unlimited quantity every day, without worry. I try to keep this in perspective as I silently long for the freedoms and variety available to me at home. 

After a couple of weeks of this, I realize I’m getting fat – a result of the combination of the carb-laden meals (including the fried bananas which I adore and can’t stop eating), the major reduction of fresh vegetables as compared with my stateside diet, my reduced activity level (refer to earlier post…), and the overeating that comes from the quest to satisfy an unnamed craving, despite being physically satiated ... you know the feeling – the constant unspecified hunt for whatever will shut down the “feed me” function.

Occasional supplemental treats grace the meals, such as slices of creamy and fresh local avocado (awesome), 

a “salad,” which is shredded cabbage dressed in mayonnaise laid out on a platter and garnished with slices of tomato (way less awesome), and very occasionally meat – beef, goat, and the very rare fish (usually for special events), stewed in a savory tomato sauce.

We mzungos have brought things with us like granola bars and dried fruit and almond butter. We supplement with oatmeal and the rare but coveted muesli purchased from the alimentation shops in Bujumbura. We work out how to get fresh fruit and vegetables (only those that can be eaten raw – non-kitchen staff have no way to cook), and I wonder what my colleagues are thinking at the meal table as we seem never satisfied with what’s offered to us. We hoard things like a bottle of coke zero, a can of ginger ale saved from a plane trip, a small packet of processed and artificial cookies left over from a small fete, the likes of which we would not be interested in at home. It takes me three days to eat the outrageously expensive European version of a Snickers bar as I carefully ration and savor the luscious chemically engineered delicacy.

I take it one step further and co-opt space in the preparation kitchen’s refrigerator at Kigutu, to ensure I have access to yogurt (locally made, 

local strawberry yogurt

strawberry or plain, full fat, runny, home printed labels), peanut butter (also locally made with homemade labels pasted crookedly onto the jars, fluffy and delicious), and orange juice (from concentrate, yes, but no added sugar – score). 

locally made natural peanut butter

Breakfast is chapatis. The budget is tight, so it’s just chapatis. No butter, no confiture, no fruit, no napkins. They are fried and heavy and greasy and I love them. But I exercise restraint. I have had a couple, but I typically retreat to my oatmeal (which I prepare with the tea served) or yogurt and muesli.

We Americans find solace in our weekend trips to Bujumbura where we are masters of own appetite domain. We eat lovely grilled brochettes (kebab) at local places (our Burundian friends sometimes generously bring us along), or find inexpensive delicious Chinese (frequented by mzungos and locals alike), various varieties of excellent East and West African food, 

or occasionally visit the mzungo places and indulge in things like authentic pizza, solid Indian food, or really, anything with cheese.

Five weeks into my stay here, I have a trip planned to South Africa to visit a dear friend from when I lived in Sweden, now two decades ago. We haven’t seen each other in seven years, and it’s like no time has passed. She is married to a generous and warm South African, and lives in Cape Town with her beautiful family. They use words like “dah-ling” and “shame” and “hectic” (pronounced ”hayk-tic”) in ways that make me smile.  Having (gorgeous) twin almost-six-year-olds means the lovely house is always stocked with goodies and treats.

Karin, Maya, Max, Michael - chill time before bed

South Africa is an aberration in sub-saharan Africa; it might as well be in Europe. They have vast and bright grocery stores – of the super fun Marks & Spencer variety, called Woolworths or “Woolies” to the locals – and somehow, we find ourselves there every day. 

I eat everything in sight. The Woolworth version of Oreos (dare I say they are better than the original), helping upon helping of green salad with baby tomatoes and fresh herbs, roasted cashews, delicious thick lowfat yogurts, crunchy sweet granola, easy-peel succulent mandarins, rusks (if you know of rusks, then you know the joy). We have fresh non-UHT milk, maybe the biggest treat of all. We go out for sushi, and macarons with cappuccinos, and order in Thai. Karin’s sister and California-born husband make nachos grande one night, and I bake a chocolate cake and with a chili-cinnamon chocolate glaze, served with freshly whipped cinnamon cream and fresh figs. We have caught-that-day fish from the harbor down the road and a lavish vegetable medley (always including “buttah-nut”) on the braai, South African for barbecue. 

Karin and me at a local wine farm.

We drink gorgeous wine at home, and later visit the neighboring wine farms for some local varieties – a generous tasting each of six different wines for 30 Rand – about $4. In fact, I do all kinds of indulgent things, like wash my clothes with warm water in a washing machine, blow dry my hair  ( ! ), heat my homemade hot chocolate in a microwave, and take a shower almost too hot to enjoy, just because I can. I use not one, but two mildew-free towels on exit.

I do all of these things because I feel I have been deprived these five weeks.
I find I have been subsisting on a diet primarily of rice, oatmeal, peanut butter, dried fruit, yogurt, and excellent Burundian coffee, peppered with the occasional indulgence from a market run or alimentation stop, and dreamy exotic produce: bananas, avocados, passion fruit, mango, papaya, mandarina (green and tart little delicious oranges laden with seeds). This is deprived.  Hmmm.  My friend Tim tells me no worries – I can survive on avocados – they have everything I need. Phew.

To really talk about deprived, let's talk about the staple of a rural Burundian’s diet - cassava. Common in south and central America, we also call it yuca. There is a popular and delicious restaurant in my East Village neighborhood named after this apparently controversial tuber. 

It’s readily available in Burundi at little or no cost, and as a main supplement to the Burundian diet, is seen filling bicycle baskets all along the roadways. A common sight at the roadside markets is cassava ‘bread,’ a starchy, gummy white ball wrapped in a banana leaf. It has a texture like yeasty-bread-dough-meets-cookie-dough and a mildly bitter taste. 

 The leaves are also stewed and eaten. Cassava has debatable health implications. At best, there is no nutritional value but rather just empty carbs. At worst, cassava may be somewhat toxic when consumed in large quantities. According to the Food and Agriculture Organization of the UN (FAO UN): “Like other roots and tubers, cassava contains antinutritional factors and toxins.[5] It must be properly prepared before consumption. Improper preparation of cassava can leave enough residual cyanide to cause acute cyanide intoxication and goiters, and may even cause ataxia or partial paralysis.” The FAO UN has deemed cassava a ‘fall-back’ resource to be used as a food security crop in times of famine.

When walking up the road to Mugara the day we visited the baking co-op, Arnaud points out the cassava growing along the side of the road – he introduces it as the enemy.

For VHW, cassava is an enemy. Malnourishment and malnutrition are among the top challenges faced by the clinic staff. One of VHW’s four community programs focuses on Agriculture, Livestock, and Environment Protection, formerly known as Food Security; the program name was changed to accommodate the expanded focus. The major goal of this program is addressing the root cause of malnourishment and malnutrition: lack of food, lack of resources to grow food (seeds / land), and lack of education about nutrition and farming techniques.

The program aims to include participants from the community groups and schools. Women whose children have been admitted to the clinic’s malnutrition ward must participate in agricultural training, and it is available to those who volunteer for community hours at the clinic on Fridays (this is dozens of people from the catchment area who want to give back in thanks for what the clinic has done for the community). 

demonstrations gardens at Kigutu

The program provides training, teaching farming skills (“if you can grow carrots, you can harvest them, and then you can have them in your home”) using the beautiful demonstrations gardens on site. The program also provides farming materials – seedlings, watering cans, organic fertilizer.

VHW also supports the formation of agricultural co-ops – community members working together to produce and sell a crop or a resource. The Economic Development Program provides business training and assists in getting these co-ops legitimized as legal entities. They provide on-going support as the co-ops grow and develop. For the co-ops that are working well together and showing potential, there are occasional perks, like a goat give-away. Twice since I’ve been here, I’ve had the privilege of witnessing a select number of co-ops received a windfall of 20 goats each from VHW. The purchase of these goats is funded by various donor organizations that support the growth opportunities provided to the community by VHW. During a recent give-away, Melchiade, our community organizer, admonished the recipients “don’t … eat … the goats.” It’s tempting, but these goats are here to provide fertilizer to help crops flourish, and to breed and be sold to the benefit of the co-op. 

On a recent visit by a super cool and fun donor from Project Redwood, we had the opportunity to visit one of the co-ops that received goats.

They had built a nice little house for these new assets, and we were able to ask questions like, how have the goats helped you? (fertilizer), what do you grow? (various vegetables for subsistence and to sell at market), where is the garden? (not close by), how do you get the fertilizer to the garden? (on our heads). Wait – what? On their heads. Some of these women I see on the roadways, carrying baskets on their heads, are carrying baskets full of goat poop. The smell was as you might imagine. I tried to envision walking along a hot and dusty roadway, kids in tow and tied to my sweaty back, cars and buses racing by, hot sun beating down on me, with poop on my head. 

In the US, our biggest health concerns are heart disease, cancer, and stroke. By-products of an indulgent, sedentary lifestyle. In Burundi, the biggest health concerns are malaria (treatable, yet thousands die from it on a regular basis), tuberculosis (for which there is an immunization, but not accessible for the majority here), and malnourishment.

Malnourishment. People are dying in this country on a daily basis because they simply do not have enough food to eat. I have an image clearly ingrained my memory of World Vision t-shirts, printed for their 30-hour famine campaign, that announced that 32,000 children a day die of hunger. I had a giant bowl of oatmeal this morning, into which I mixed almond butter, then added raisins and peanuts, topped it with a perfectly ripe banana, and then drizzled it with a ginger honey I bought in South Africa. The minute I finished I declared that I was starving (refer to early reference to second breakfast). This is a word we throw around when we’re feeling maybe a bit peckish, or maybe even truly hungry. But we don’t know hunger the way much of the world knows hunger.

My office in Kigutu butts up against the triage area for the clinic. The doctors, nurses, and technicians here see upwards of 150 patients a day. There are screaming babies most of the morning every morning. Sometimes we muse that they are trying to outscream each other. I wonder how many of them are screaming because of empty bellies.

The six contributory factors to malnourishment in the VHW clinic catchment area are:

• Culture 
• Lack of education of parents 
• Family size 
• Poverty 
• The Child Health system (the health centers are not educated on the issue) 
• Population density, leading to lack of land capacity for subsistence farming 

As to culture, there is apparently conflict between the fact that the women care for the children, but in these traditional households, men make the decisions about the use of money. 

As to family size, I was struck early in my stay here about how often the word ‘family planning’ is thrown around in conversation among my young, mid-20s to early-30s male Burundian colleagues. They ask how many siblings I have – one (super awesome) sister. Wow – they are impressed. Americans know about family planning. They have 6, 7, 8+ siblings. How many young professional guys do you know in the states who have ever even thought about family planning, let alone discuss it over breakfast? I don’t know any. They are talking about Tim Tebow and JP Morgan Chase today. But when I look at the chart below, I understand. These guys work here because they are passionate about the cause – about health and its ability to augment their society and their country. They know far too well the adverse effects of a too-large family.

The chart above shows the number of VHW cases of malnutrition, analyzed against family size, in 2011.  

An intersection of the effects of these two issues – culture and family size – unfortunately happens within the church. As I've written, this is a deeply faith-based society. Many are devout worshipers. I am learning that some denominations within the larger “church” here (I have heard different things about different denominations – Catholic and Pentecostal alike – so I won’t single out any one denomination) have very strong teachings. In some parishes, people have apparently been told they will be excommunicated if they practice family planning. I have heard of people being kicked out of churches because they were not producing enough children fast enough so foul play was suspected. This brings great conflict on these people who are not educated on the issue, think they are doing right by following the teachings of the church, and end up putting their children and themselves in danger as their families grow and they cannot support them. 

In addition, a recent change in laws now allows children under the age of five and maternal health cases to be treated in state hospitals without cost to the patient. While this is ostensibly good for the general health of women and children, it does nothing to discourage the growth of family size.

While some of the causes of malnourishment and malnutrition have solutions (education), the issues of poverty and population density persist. Burundi is a country of about 8 million people, most of who are living in extreme poverty. I put this into perspective by imagining the vast majority of the denizens of the five boroughs of New York City living below the poverty line. Seems hard to get my head around.

So what are the solutions? While the international development and relief community consistently works on strategy and approaches to address this colossal need, the rest of us have the ability to make smaller choices – we can continue to amass things and experiences and space and dividends. Or we can use some of the resources and the blessings we have been given to support the efforts of so many – with our time, with exposure, with education, with funds. There is work being done and it is making a difference. Change can come – buke buke, yes, but it’s not impossible. 

As our world continues to globalize in ways that were unthinkable just a handful of years ago even, has our responsibility grown? How has our response changed? Does knowing more translate necessarily into doing more? Reading more? Giving more? Thinking more? Feeling more?  Have we a responsibility to give of ourselves to help those in great need?  The parable of the faithful servant would suggest so:  "From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required; and from the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded."  It's a personal topic - one that cannot be dictated, but must be felt.  I'll close this (very long) post with these thoughts and questions.  While my version of food security is getting grumpy if I don't get second breakfast, can I keep the perspective of my global neighbors, and stand in solidarity with those who don't even get first breakfast?  We can find ways to accept this responsibility if we choose.  It's up to us to decide if we will.