mattlawyue

I first felt it last Wednesday afternoon, during our home visit to the village of a St Jude’s student.

Shy, yet grounded, the girl instructed the bus driver to her house, weaving the bus through unpaved, dirt roads, left and right at seemingly impossible corners. She was taking us through the slums. When we arrived at the house, a quasi-structure of mud, plaster, wood beams, a brown door frame and a metal sheet roof with pockets of sun seeping through, the student’s mother was there to greet us with one of the warmest smiles I’ve ever felt. She invited us into her home and over mendazi (fried dough) and chai (tea), we bonded. Through the translator – a teacher at St Jude’s – we learned about her family, tribe, her struggles and her successes. I have never felt so fortunate to be sitting in a stranger’s home, to be welcomed, truly at peace with my surroundings.

But then, I felt it again on Thursday at the local restaurant, Picasso’s.

It was between sips of my Konyagi (gin) and soda that I surveyed the scene before me. Three tables full of people, drinking and eating. Taking pictures, laughing. Being merry. Three tables full of people who were strangers to me three weeks ago had now become my family. I finished my Konyagi, stood up, and thanked everyone for coming to my birthday.

It hit me particularly hard that night, but then it reappeared Friday evening.

Relaxing at a patio table in a lush garden, as the African sun painted the sky in streaks of red and orange, the three of us sat there talking for hours, sharing our stories, experiences and hopes. It wasn’t unlike any nights I’ve had before in New York, either sitting in the garden of Raines Law Room drinking whiskey or dining at Le Bernardin with my closest friends. These nights are always memorable, but this one in particular will stay with me, especially after the man walked over to the piano and started singing in Swahili, and I leaned back and stared at the stars.

By that point I didn’t think it was possible to feel it in so many consecutive nights. And then Saturday happened, and it was game over.

There are moments in my life that I’ll never forget and this was one of them. I already know how I’m going to wax it to people:

I was sitting on the porch, looking up at the people singing songs, making speeches, crying, hugging, laughing and embracing each other. It was a goodbye party for a volunteer, but to me, it had evolved into something more. It was proof that this feeling I’ve had all week, it was real. It exists. That it’s not just a novelty word used to sell cards or chocolates or diamonds. It’s a feeling that, when it creeps up your spine, settles into the hairs on your arm, and absolutely squeezes your air cavity to the point it becomes hard to breath, you never want it to leave. It was a privilege to be sitting there last night, to be a part of a moment that reaffirmed my belief in the goodness of a collective soul. Somebody said they didn’t want it to end. I eventually yielded, letting the inertia of the night carry me into a new Tanzanian day.

It was around lunchtime in Arusha when a man approached me over my right shoulder. First, I noticed the half-eaten, hastily mangled mango in his hand. Then the mango bits strewn across his upper lip, just sitting there as if on purpose, the juice smeared across his chapped mouth, pouring down his chin. Then I looked at his shoes, brown and moldy, with holes littered near the toes, sans socks. Next was the odor wafting from his clothes, which had surely been stewing for hours as he walked the African sun. Finally, the unshaven beard and bits of scraggly grey hair sprouting from his head in each and every direction.

And then he spoke.

It was unintelligible, not because it was Swahili, but it was broken, muttered Swahili. Regardless if I could have comprehended his words, his two-minute oration ended as abruptly as it began. Mango peel in his right hand, eyes wild as a burning forest fire, he went along his way, never minding that the two foreigners he approached couldn’t understand what he was saying. He was seeking a connection I wasn’t capable of giving him.

I watched him saunter down the street, his head up, oversized clothes wearing him, his frail body devoid of nutrition and substance. The steps weren’t unyielding, but they weren’t seeking direction either. This man belonged to the streets, the unpaved dirt roads his partner in a life that was meant to collide with mine, a moment I’ll never forget, a pair of eyes I’ll see in my brightest and darkest hours.

I’ve met this person before. Not this exact man, per say, but his counterparts in different countries. I’ve seen this man begging in New York City subways, strolling the beaches of Trinidad, taxing the Mexican highways, pleading in front of the Vietnamese restaurants in Toronto and praying along the back alleys of Istanbul. Around the globe I’ve come face to face with him. But this was different.

Perhaps it’s because he spoke to me directly, looked me in the eyes, pleading man to man that I understand what he was trying to convey. It made me incredibly sad I couldn’t connect with him. Could I have given him a few dollars? Sure. But that wouldn’t have solved the problem, at least I don’t think, and it would have only upset me more. Charity only goes so far. It takes action, an understanding of complex situations, intricate webs that demand time and energy, which is what we’re trying to accomplish in Tanzania.

I don’t know what will happen to my unnamed companion, but I hope for the best, that his feet are swift, his mind sharp, his soul pure and the mangos bountiful.

**

Witnessing extreme, widespread poverty for the first time freezes you. Thoughts, movements and words go missing, as though you never learned to think or walk or speak before. Your brain vacuums everything you’re witnessing, but the part of the brain that’s supposed to form words, well, that malfunctions. Only after you have some time to cool down your head, take a step back, rationalize and process what you’ve just seen, are you able to form a phrase, any phrase, and even then it’s extremely difficult. I’ve been thinking about this man for the past two weeks, and am still at a loss for words.

My job in Africa is to tell stories, specifically one story, and this is about the School of St Jude. It’s about how ten years ago an Australian woman named Gemma Sisia started a school in Arusha, Tanzania on a single plot of land teaching a handful of local kids, and how ten years later she has transformed her vision into reality, a reality so in your face, so ingrained within the fabric of this east African town, it could make the manic dala dalas slow down. It’s about how she – along with the help of many like-minded people – turned that one plot of land into three sprawling campuses, where local and international staff provides a free education and overall school experience to 1,500 of the most underprivileged, brightest and – honest to God – the bravest children you will ever meet. Unlike the government run schools around the country and most of Africa, there are no more than 30 students to a class at St Jude’s, where each child has a textbook, their own seat and a hot, nutritious lunch Monday through Friday. Then you factor in the quality of education, that most of these kids know more Swahili than English – the school teaches everything in English – and the ridiculous test scores some students are achieving, you forget their families are likely struggling miles away in a home with no electricity, running water and multiple mouths to feed. Add in their recreational time to learn sport, music, dance and everything else a privileged child receives without knowing any better – as I did in my elementary years – it becomes evident very quickly why volunteers continue to return year after year after year. The work becomes infectious, the people become your family and everything in your past almost loses its flavor, its color, and its sense of accomplishment.

I had previously mentioned there was a “romantic idealism” about coming to Africa, trying to save the continent, the oh so sexy phrase to lay on people back home. Yes, we can certainly feel good about ourselves for taking time to help the less fortunate. Mr. and Mrs. ego gets lathered right up. But the second you’re actually on the ground and running, there’s nothing romantic about it. On the surface, this country is filthy. Disease, unpaved roads, flies, mosquitoes, poverty, welfare cases you can’t even imagine, sporadic electricity, horrific infrequency and unavailability of clean drinking water – it’s a third world country for a reason. And you’re reminded of it every minute, of every day. But you learn to adapt, to find the beauty behind the stench, underneath the grime and through the façade. In the smiles of the roadside fruit vendors, the children’s spirit and burgeoning curiosity to what they didn’t know existed, to the mambo (hello) and karibu (welcome) and asante (thank you).

I’ve been here all of seven days, and I know my life has already changed. The cynical, bitter crust that sprouted over my every word, every thought – I can feel that disintegrating. Perhaps it’s the lesser intake of American politics, sports, Twitter and everything else I consumed daily back home that’s playing a significant factor. Or, and more likely, it’s opening my eyes to the unfamiliar, taking a knife and tearing a fucking hole through the bubble I was living in for so long.**

**To everyone back home who continues to climb that corporate/social ladder – I absolutely do not think any less of you, although that may be the vibe you’re getting. In fact, I commend you because you’re doing exactly what I didn’t have the nerve to do, which is stick out the grind and put that A-type personality into overdrive, networking and hustling your way to the top. That attitude will never leave me and it’s a very important part of who I am. My cynicism is inherently my own, nurtured by my own actions and nobody else’s. It’s why I’m professing such a tremendous light bulb moment, because I feel my unappealing characteristics shattering bit by bit.

Yes, bad days are on the horizon, the inevitable upset stomach and failed execution at work – they’re all waiting. But I’m ready, and so is everyone else in my support network. That campfire camaraderie, the “all in this together” mantra that goes unsaid makes our jobs here worthwhile. Perhaps it’s the particular brand of person St Jude’s attracts, but the stories I’ve been hearing the past week have been inspiring. I’m relatively one of the babies of the volunteers, and I’m grateful for that, because I get to soak in all of the experiences and wisdom of the collective group. Over Serengeti lagers, group dinners and trips to the supermarket, there is always knowledge being fed to me.

And what have I learned so far?

No longer will I be worried about accomplishing a career goal by a certain age, because it doesn’t work that way. Life happens, and when it does, it’s best not to interrupt it. The stories turn out better this way.