Survived the Climb!

Standing atop Uhuru Peak! 7:30am, 19 February 2014.

Just got out of the shower for the first time in almost a week, and boy do I feel like a new person! Yes, I did just return from a six day/five night successful climb to Uhuru, the summit point of the tallest mountain in Africa and the tallest free-standing mountain in the world, Mount Kilimanjaro.  Done bragging.  It was exactly the adventure one would imagine, and as such, it appropriately began with a crazy start last Saturday.

Background: Last Wednesday, yes, less than a week before my trip, I confirmed to climb with the tour company Kilimanjaro Heroes, highly recommended by yours truly if you ever find yourself in Tanzania and planning to climb Kili.  I decided on this company because of an extremely kind deal to which the Managing Director, Evarist, agreed since I am volunteer teaching here for over half a year.  I have seen quite a few climbing/tourist companies come through the doors of Stella Maris, and I am sure they are all quite great.  But, just like I decided to come to Tanzania and teach at Stella Maris School because of the ‘good-feeling’ I felt when emailing during the last year with Stan, one of the board members of the foundation that built the school and the lodge, I decided on Kili Heroes because of the ‘good feeling’ I felt when talking with Evarist the night that I met him. 

Evarist and I met two Fridays ago when he was at Stella Maris to prep another group of climbers.  It turns out there was a massive storm that night, so he and his business partner got to talking with me for quite some time, since the roads were not suitable for driving for several hours.  At the end of that conversation, we had not agreed on a price for me to climb, my final offer was too low; his was too high, but he had proven himself a strong, fair and considerate businessman.  He was the type of individual to whom I wanted to give my business.  So the following Wednesday, Teddy called Evarist to try to negotiate the cost on my behalf and instead of talking about it over the phone, he said he would be at Stella Maris when I finished school.  More points for Evarist, his company and his professional manner.  Once he arrived, and after some more bantering, a few jokes and finally getting to the matter at hand, we reached an agreement for which I am forever grateful. 

So the day before our climb began, a week from this past Friday, Evarist brought one of the Americans I would be climbing with over to Stella Maris so that I could meet him before we began our trip.  As we got to talking, Brian, a meat cutter from Virginia who had landed in country that day, explained that he had been feeling ill prior to flying to Tanzania.  As it turns out, I actually had hoped to start our climb on Sunday instead of Saturday, so we discussed the possibility of moving our climb back one day.  Brian said a Sunday start date would be better for him if he still did not feel better after resting that evening.  So, when Brian and Evarist left Stella Maris Friday night, we left it as followed: if Brian felt up to it Saturday morning, we would climb Saturday, but if he felt that he needed an extra day to get his immune system up and fight jetlag, we would begin on Sunday. Evarist would call Stella Maris by 9am if our climb was going to be delayed a day.  

Back to the crazy start to the Kili climb: Saturday morning, I woke up early to finish my final packing before I left to climb at 9:30am.  A little after 8am, the phone in my room rang.  It was Teddy: bad news, dada (sister).  No climbing today, she said to me. She explained that one of Evarist’s colleagues was on his way to Stella Maris to speak with me about this change.   They say that climbing, especially Kili, is extremely mental, so I had spent all of my waking moments that morning getting mentally prepared for the week ahead.  Honestly, I was a little disappointed we were not going that day because I had told Inno the night before that I couldn’t go to Glaciers to make sure I had enough rest.  But, I had wanted to get my hair braided for the climb, and could not get in touch with the lady on Friday to braid my hair, so this extra day meant that I could get my hair braided.  So, I stopped packing, went downstairs to have breakfast.

I went downstairs to find Evarist’s business partner already there, and he confirmed that we would be going to tomorrow.  Sigh.  Alright, I told myself: be careful what you wish for as I had originally wanted to go on Sunday – now you have to adjust your brain.  I thanked him for relaying the message and I went to have a leisurely breakfast.  While I was finishing breakfast, the lady that braids my hair shows up to, you guessed it, braid my hair.  Perfect.  We went outside to sit in our usual place and she began to braid.  As she finished the first few braids, I felt myself settle into the fact that I would have today to get everything 100% set for the climb, get super rested and enjoy the beautiful Saturday.  Sigh of relief, feeling happy, shoutout to the FaMmm. 

No lie, about five minutes later, Teddy comes out from inside the hotel and says: dada, bad news; you ARE climbing today.  WHHHAAAAATTTT?!  Teddy explained to me that apparently there was some miscommunication with the earlier message.  Evarist’s colleague was just stopping by to say hello, although I explicitly asked him if the climb was changed to Sunday, to which he replied yes, and the group was on their way to Stella Maris in the next hour.  Mind you, at this time, it was already after 9am, so apparently our climb was also going to be operating on Tanzanian time (read: not on time). 

I was sitting on the ground about seven braids in, the rest of my hair a wild mess.  After realizing Teddy was not joking, I asked her if she was kidding about ten times before I believed her, we decided the lady should keep braiding my hair, as she says she will be done in an hour…yeah right, even I knew it was going to take more than an hour, but at this point, I figured who the heck cared.   So, she kept braiding.  A little after 10am, with only half of my hair braided, the crew I am scheduled to climb with showed up.  The crew simply waited the additional 45 minutes for the rest of my head to be braided, for me to go upstairs and frantically throw my last minute items in my bag and give big hugs to Teddy.  And then, after such confusion and waiting, we were off.  I figured if this was an indication of how the rest of the trip would be, I was in for quite an adventure. 

For my American readers, I recognize that it may be hard to understand, or rather believe, when I say that even with this rocky start, I never once worried about the rest of the trip.  At home, if a company that I was paying a great deal of money to guide me through an arguably risky experience changed the start day of my trip the DAY OF the trip and then changed it BACK, I would flip out.  Absolutely flip.  But here, I am not phased.  I am not phased because my expectations are lower here than they are at home; I simply recognize that the concept of time here is not as stringent.  Living here forces me to ask myself the question: does time have to be so all-consuming and uncompromising?  Don’t get me wrong: I had a moment of American-you’ve-got-to-be-kidding when I heard the crew was indeed on their way while I was getting my hair braided.  But I find myself much calmer and less stressed here, and I would be playing myself if I didn’t acknowledge that not being painfully married to the clock is part of the reason why.   One of the lessons that Africa always has and continues to teach me is that we are confined by the aspects of life that we allow to confine us.  Part of my mission during my time here is to determine which aspects I am willing to allow to continue to confine me. 

Month One: In the Books!

In honor of it being exactly a month since I stepped foot on glorious Tanzanian soil, God graced us in Tanzania with a MASSIVE rainstorm this afternoon, right at the middle of school.  This is the first time that it has rained during school, and it is also the first time that it has torrentially stormed.  There actually was what I would have before today called a bad rainstorm on Friday, but that storm could not hold a candle to this afternoon.  Ironically enough, this morning I wondered what would happen if it rained during school since the school ‘building’ is a compound in the shape of a rectangular horseshoe, meaning you have to walk outside to go between any two rooms of the school, and today I found out. 

Right when afternoon cleaning/recess/library! time began, the heavens opened and sheets of water came tumbling down.  Children were already playing outside, so many of them got caught smack-dab in the middle of this water show.  I, thankfully, was already on library duty and the P4 boys and I were protected from the chaos in the library.  Sheets, I tell you, of water, puddles galore in the dirt and stones in the center of the school's compound and children running, screaming, sliding.  Some children chose to stay in the rain and later regretted it, as this was not a light nor warm rain.  Children, even the smart ones who took cover as soon as the rain started were SOAKED from head to toe.  Children swarmed to the door of the library, since the option to play outside no longer existed, and it was hard to turn all of the children except P4 boys away.  But, that is just the way the cookie crumbled.  It would have been chaos inside if I allowed every child who wanted to come in to do so, and there was no fair way to invite a small number of other children to join.  So, while the rest of the school was continually shrieking, running and tossing water every which way, my P4 boys and I enjoyed a quiet, calm 45 minutes of reading, coloring, BINGO, Play-Dough and Legos. 

I can’t believe it has been a month already.  On the one hand, I feel like I have learned so much: my Kiswahili is coming along, I am familiar with my surroundings, the driving on the other side of the road thing no longer fazes me, Teddy and Inno (and the rest of the lodge staff) have really become my family, I am now a ‘go-to’ person at the lodge when different aspects of Tanzanian culture to need to be explained to arriving guests, I have gotten the staff to allow me to clear my own dishes when I am finished eating, I can brush my teeth with water out of the tap (Mama, I promise it is okay), the tone in my classroom has been ‘set’ so now it is just straight teaching, the structure of the school day - tea included - is routine to me now. On the other hand, I still feel like an outsider with so much to learn: my Kiswahili is coming along – it is in NO way there yet, I have not been outside of Moshi besides the airport, waterfall and hot springs (see below), Teddy still will not let me take the dala dala, I have only eaten outside of Stella Maris once, I have not yet walked home with any of my kids, I have not yet made ugali with the cooks, I have not yet climbed Kili, and I met someone the other day who is a volunteer like me but who has been here for 1.5 years and she knows sooooo much more!

It truly has been a remarkable month. I cannot imagine still being in New York running through the motions of what has become my regular routine there.  There is nothing wrong with that routine, and let me not forget how blessed I am to have such a stable, consistent, challenging routine in an awesome city with remarkable NYC friends, but I don’t miss it.  Sorry.  And, it will be right there waiting for me when I get back.  As I reflect on the last 30 days, here are some highlights of the first month that I have not yet had the chance to share:

1.     We, the lodge, have a washer and dryer! It actually arrived before I did, but now it has been installed and hooked up to the water/electrical sources.  We, Teddy and I, are still in the process of figuring out exactly the best cycles to use and such, but it is still very exciting.  Washers and dryers are extremely expensive in Tanzania and are very rare; having one at the hotel will make the work of load of the staff significantly easier (once we work out the kinks).

2.     I have now been to the ‘club’ in Tanzania.  A couple of weeks ago, Inno and I went to Glaciers, the local hang out spot in Moshi.  Let me tell you, it was so fun!  It is an outdoor club, with a large concrete slab covered by a tiki-ish hut roof in the middle of a large, grassy area.  The grassy area has lots of plastic lawn chairs, the most common chair ever in Tanzanian (and Ghana), found at funerals, churches, restaurants and even clubs, and there is even a grill selling some delicious meat. Plus, since wazungu frequent Glaciers quite regularly, I saw the most white people I have seen since I arrived in Tanzania at the club, there are also a few stands selling souvenirs.  The music is a mix of American, reggae and Tanzanian music.  There is even a Tanzanian equivalent of the Wobble so you know I am all over that!  And, I got a great laugh out of the fact that the American Sex on the Beach beverage has been changed here to Sex on the Mountain, appropriately enough. 

3.     Yesterday, I invited myself, chuckle chuckle, to join a group of volunteers who were visiting Moshi for the weekend, and in my defense whose 48903 questions about Stella Maris, Moshi, my braided hair, etc I happily answered, on their trip to the Boma hot springs.  Well, they kinda invited me.  They all were really awesome, and it was really nice to be able to chat with them the way one can with people from home.  We drove about 45 minutes off of the main paved road to reach the springs and it was worth the bumpy ride, which felt more like a roller coaster due to the speed of the driver.  The hot springs were so beautiful, and it literally looked like the type of oasis that resorts around the world try to create.  Nothing like the God-created, unaltered real thing.  The "Lion King", forgive my ignorance, trees created a natural canopy around the springs and the crystal clear water was a blend of vibrant, stunning blues.  The temperature of the water could not have been more enjoyable AND they had a swing to jump into the water from.  The big kid in me was elated, and I think I jumped about 50 times in two hours.  Heaven on earth, I tell ya.

Oh, and how could I forget: I kinda scheduled my Kili climb! I am going this weekend or next weekend, which will be finalized by this Wednesday.  This girl cannnnoot wait!

Bring it on, month two! I'm ready and excited for you!

Lights Out

Well, more like Internet out.  For the first time since I have been here in Tanzania, the Internet has been in and out ALL week, more like out with an occasion appearance by the Internet.  Quite honestly, though, it is pretty freeing to not have the option to stay connected to the world, and it has been my best week in Tanzania so far.

This week, I was given a very important responsibility at school by Mama Shayo.  At the beginning of the week, Mama Shayo took me into the library, which I had never seen or been in before, and asked me to go through all of the donations about three standard trash bag sized bags from wazungu.  After only a few minutes of snooping around, I realized that the library was in quite a disorganized state.  Naturally, I asked Mama Shayo if I could take on the task of organizing the library kidogo kidogo, of course over the next few weeks.  She was very thrilled with the idea...I think that was her secret plan in bringing me in there all along, which is a-okay with me. 

At first, I was ecstatic about this task and opportunity.  It would be a prime way to put my OCD, organizational brain to work and it would make me feel like I was impacting the school in a greater way than simply teaching.  However, like most things in life, the library assignment has its ups and downs.  For example, it is awesome to have children so eager to help organize, clean, sharpen pencils, etc.  It is not so awesome to see a GREAT deal of resources being stored and saved, instead of being used by children.  This reality has been, and will continue to be, the hardest part of my new assignment.  That being said, as a white child who grew up in prime suburbia, I never had to worry about running out of needed materials nor being in a financial position to acquire whatever was needed, and then some.  

So, I struggled this week because part of me wanted to shake some sense into Mama Shayo and explain to her that we did not need to save 85 twenty-four Crayon boxes, 25 forty-eight Crayon boxes and about 25 additional Crayon boxes of different counts (including boxes of over 100 Crayons).  And that's only Crayons.  The other part of me realizes that in Mama Shayo’s mind, the school is ‘rich’ because of the many supplies that are sitting collecting dust in the library.  She told me this herself, minus the collecting dust part, when I asked if we could distribute some of the materials to each of the classes.  By saving, she will not ever have to face a time when reinforcements are no longer coming and all supplies have been used up.  Sigh.  My hope is that in the next few weeks or months if it takes that long, I can help her to see how to make a plan to distribute some of the supplies and still save so that she feels like the school will be rich for years to come – think 5 year plan for distribution of every supply in the library. I figure if I categorize and count all of the materials and then explain how to ration out supplies, I may have a chance to get some of these supplies into the hands of children.  Start your prayers now, people, because this is going to be an uphill battle.  

At the end of the first week of Operation Library, the following has been accomplished: all donations bags have been unpacked and stored, all markers have been checked to see if they actually work and categorized by color; all pencils have been sharpened; books have been reorganized; that was quite a task; and finally, I have gotten Mama Shayo to agree to move the many, many boxes in the corner of the library into the empty classroom so that I can move the furniture in the library to make it aesthetically pleasing.  Much more to come. 

None of that remotely comes closes to the greatest success of Operation Library this week.  Supplies aside, children never use the library; no one goes in there because it is not allowed.  Or should I say no one was allowed.  I did learn this week, though, that libraries as we know them in America are not common here, so I think that the staff is at a loss of how to utilize this resource.  In my constant desire to suggest modifications to the current system without offending or being overbearing, I created a timetable where each class could come into the library once a week.  Scheduling wise, it works out just perfectly because there is a morning and afternoon recess every day, that would be 10 periods for you mathematically challenged readers, so I assigned each grade a day and then split up the class into two groups: one for the morning recess and one for the afternoon recess.  The classes are too big for an entire class to come to the library at one time, so we actually need two periods to accommodate each grade.  

Visuals are always helpful when trying to persuade, especially across languages, so I took my timetable to Mama Shayo and pitched my idea.  I explained that I would be willing to monitor the library for each recess time all five days of the week so that no other teacher has to be assigned library duty, as an additional responsibility would not go over well with the other teachers.  I concluded by sharing that I think the children would really benefit from visiting the library on a regular basis.  And then they could use some of the materials in there too! I left that part out, though.  Mama Shayo was so gracious to give the green light to another one of my kichaa ideas.  For the two days the library has officially been open to children, the kids have been GEEKED about this addition to our daily/weekly schedule.  Children are literally begging to come read and color, and they run to the library when it is their turn, and when it is not their turn.  :) 

Backstory to the Funeral

While writing my last blog entry, I found myself wanting to explain how I actually ended up going to the funeral and share some other details of the day, but I could not find a sufficient way to include my logistical reflections reverently and gracefully. So, here is my non-emotional, analytical recount of the day.  Please be warned that within you will find my first of many to come, I am sure jab at American culture.  It’s nothing personal. 

Yesterday, I asked Mama Shayo if any teachers were accompanying the children to the funeral.  Live in Another Country Rule #1: Always ask the obvious.  When I asked Mama Shayo this question, I never thought in my wildest (American) dreams the answer would be no.  The answer?  No, of course.  Thankfully I started with this question instead of the actual question I wanted to ask: could I be one of the teachers going?  It took me a minute to recover from her response, and I felt sad that I would miss out on this experience.  Have no fear, though; Teddy to the rescue.  Teddy is amazing just because she is, but she also is majorly clutch and seems to find a way to hurdle over little obstacles at just the right time.   I had to stop back to the lodge for a moment and ran into Teddy.  As I regularly do, I explained to her that I was shocked that no adult would accompany 30+ children to a funeral, to which she agreed, so it wasn’t just me being mzungu, and that I was disappointed that I would not be able to pay my respects.  Teddy shared she thought it would be a good idea to have the Mailisita Foundation represented at such a community event . Sooo, together we planned for Teddy to stop by school in little while so that she could to suggest to Mama Shayo that I accompany the children on behalf of the foundation.  A win, win situation, to which Mama Shayo agreed thanks to Teddy’s grace and persuasion. 

So I went, as you already know.  As did another teacher, it turns out.  I don’t know if the other madam came as my chaperone or because Teddy planted the seed about adult supervision, but I guess it does not really matter.  Inno drove the other madam and me, as the kids ran to the church, racing the car, kicking up dirt into their freshly cleaned "other" uniform, an I love DC white shirts and the brightest, yellow shorts/skirts I have ever seen.  It is remarkable to me that children here repeatedly show such high self-control and such great work ethic.  For example, one minute, 30 kids are running, laughing and screaming at the top of their lungs because hey, they’re kids, and the next minute, as soon as they step onto church grounds, they instinctively stop all foolishness. 

I was already having a heart attack because I couldn’t see all of the kids from the car. I was already having a heart attack because I was in the car, instead of escorting the kids to the church. I was already having a heart attack because they weren’t walking in a straight, silent line behind me.  There goes my American brain again. As kids were running into the church, stopping on a dime and calming walking as soon as they stepped inside, the car approached the church.  What happens next, you ask?  Madam directed me to come with her to the back of the church.  I coolly followed, mind racing, and we sat down in one of the last pews.  We sat.  I waited about one minute.  Surely we cannot be sitting here.  I could not see any of our kids.  As it turns out, they were all sitting in the side pews, which are completely impossible to see from the back of main portion of the church.  I couldn’t help myself and asked her if this is where we were going to sit.  Ndio (yes).  So I said, as casually as I could muster: should we sit with the children to make sure they are behaving?  Madam kindly smiled, clearly thinking mzungu kichaa (crazy white person), and told me no. 

As I think back to the beginning of this day and how Mama Shayo was completely comfortable sending all of these children to the funeral on their own, it makes more sense to me now.  Why do we need to be here to ‘chaperone’ if we aren’t going to sit with them, let alone sit in a place where we can see them? I thought I was going to break out in hives during mass because I couldn’t see the kids.  But, I didn’t want to be rude and leave madam sitting by herself, which is what would happen if I followed my instincts to take myself over to the children's section of the church.  I lasted until Communion.  I told madam as I got up that after I received Communion, I was going to check on the kids, to which she gave me a nod of approval.  Phew.  As I turned the corner and the children finally came back into view, I was not at all surprised at what I saw:  all the children sitting nicely and properly in the pews, not a single one of them speaking or horse playing.  Remarkable, I tell you.  I proudly continued walking over to them and as I approached the first pew, all of the girls slid down to make room for me before I gave any indication that they should do so. 

Do I always agree with how everything is done here in Tanzania? Ah, absolutely not.  But who am I to judge?  Especially since I continue to be in awe of the self-sufficiency, self-monitoring and self-motivation of the Tanzanian children I grow to love more and more each day.  Where has America gone wrong in raising our youth that children greatly struggle to monitor themselves? What lessons can I learn and take back to teach my scholars so that they too can learn the valuable life skill of making the right choice simply because it is the right choice? Steps off soapbox. 

With a Heavy Heart

This week, I attended the funeral of a five-year-old boy.  Yes, five years old.  It was very sad to say the least.  This young boy did not attend our school, but worshipped in the church right next door, so many of our children knew him.  

It seems like an odd thing to say that I was interested in attending the funeral.  However, having the opportunity to experience how a culture honors and buries their dead is a privilege.  I attended a funeral outside of the United States for the first time in Ghana.  A Ghanaian funeral is more like a party: a road shuts down, a car carrying or representing the deceased drives down the road with lively music blaring louder than you think possible through a crowd of people.  Let’s not forget the people gyrating atop the car for what seems like the entire time.   And naturally, after a while, everyone sits down under a tent and drinks a Fanta (soda).  My Ghanaian funeral experience could not have been more different than the Roman Catholic, American funerals I have attended all my life, and I would be willing to bet I attended more funerals by the age of 20 than the average person attends in a lifetime, as my family feels it is our Christian duty to grieve with the grieving. 

If you haven’t had the experience yourself, I don’t think there is a way to adequately explain what it is like to enter an environment that completely defies your culture’s tradition.  I suppose it could be daunting or uncomfortable, but I actually love it.  I love learning that the ‘whatever’ that you have just always assumed every being on the planet naturally did precisely as you do is actually false.  It really allows you to grasp the concept that there are several, several ways to do the same thing, with none of which being better than the other, may I add.  I love being exposed to new, foreign and refreshing moments where you realize how small you are and how awesome God is for diversifying people, experiences and the world in general.  God is far more creative than me, let me tell you.

Nevertheless, funerals are never fun, with the exception of the Ghanaian funeral, and yesterday's was no exception.  I saw the smallest coffin I have ever seen in my life.  This poor little boy lost his life trying to cross the main road into town and was killed by an automobile. He actually was on his way home from church, the same church I attend every Sunday.  I think the saddest part was watching the boy’s brother carry the cross that was placed at the head of his grave.  Or maybe it was the boy’s two brother sand eight, tiny classmates carrying his coffin to its burial site. 

Tanzanian funerals are much more somber than those in Ghana, and resemble an American structure.  We first went to the church for an abridged mass.  Following the mass, everyone piled, and I mean piled, into dala dalas to travel from the church to the home of the family where the boy would be buried.  Let me try and paint this picture for you: imagine one of those 15 passenger vans, as my friends and I have always called them: drug bust vans.  Strip it of most of the interior decorative fabric and cram as many people as you can in there.  Like 25.  More if there are children.  That's a dala dala for you.  After a very bumpy and cozy ride to the home of the family, everyone piled out of the vehicles to walk the remaining way to the burial site next to the family’s home.  The outdoor, burial portion takes about two hours in the midday African heat. Heat aside, there is something about standing in the dirt, amidst God’s unaltered landscape of greens and blues, unable to see anyone or anything for as far as you can look that makes such a ceremony much more intimate than one in a cemetery.   No one complains about being hot or tired from standing.  People simply pay their respects. 

Respecfully, attending an American funeral is no skin off anyone’s chin.  It may be sad, possibly emotionally uncomfortable, but not physically draining.  In Tanzania, and from my experiences, most African countries, attending a funeral is a much more involved and taxing. You choose to bear the heat, the sun, the dirt, the wind and whatever else Mother Nature feels like sending your way for a lengthy period of time.  After many prayers, tears and remarks, the coffin is closed for the last time and carried to where it will rest, this time by a team of tiny children.  The grave is literally dug before your eyes, the coffin is placed in the ground, and the same men that dug the grave, cover it with the dirt of the earth.  Technically the same result happens in America: a body enters the ground. But, to watch a hole be dug, men place the coffin into the ground with their bare hands and then shovel dirt to cover the coffin elicits a much deeper emotional response than watching a machine lower a body into an already-dug-and-nicely-covered-with-some-sort-of-grass-looking-carpet-hole. 

Stones were placed around the mound of dirt covering the coffin, and a simple yet beautiful cross with the boy’s name and life span was powerfully shoved into the ground by the hands of the priest.  All of the children in attendance lined up to place a flower in the mound of dirt covering the dead little boy, so that the top of the grave became a bed of yellow, red and white roses.  Finally, some strands of lilacs were placed around the other flowers and a candle was lit at the end of the grave opposite the cross.  The last 45 minutes were more reflections and prayers from family and loved ones.  And then, in African fashion, the children took a Fanta, read: drank a soda, before climbing back into the dala dalas for the ride back home. 

A day of emotions.  I cannot stop thinking about the brothers of that little boy.  Or the size of that coffin.  But intertwined in that sadness are the moments from today that I will cherish. Cramming into a car with several of my students, holding two sweet, little girls in my lap. Catherine telling me to stand at the right time to show my respect because my Swhaili is still a work in progress.  Marietha holding my hand the entire time we were at the burial portion of the funeral. Even in despair, joy can be found if only we take the time to look for it.