Harambee

  In the midst, life in Maasailand seems mundane, isolated, repetitive. Sometimes its as if everything is raking across the nap of my cultural fabric in the wrong direction. Now and then the low western sun bursts through the heavy sky casting a poignant orange across the scene. Its the kind of thing that tugs at my heart, helps me refresh my view of the surroundings with a warm nostalgia.

This afternoon I went to a harambee, a community fundraising at Paulina's house. Her 2 yr old son had brain surgery that saved his life this past year and they had a sizable bill, though you would not think so if you saw the numbers.  Instead of selling their cows, the local church and community told her to hold a harambee because they wanted to help.

Doug had to go to another meeting and so I headed south from our house on the footpath.  I was feeling nervous- I never really like cross-cultural situations where I don't know the rules and where I am given "priviledges" or made to sit in "special" places because of my skin color and outsider status. Its often awkward, long, lonely. I was going without Doug and the rules are different when you are a woman alone vs with your husband. I resolved to just go with the flow- try to relax.

Not five minutes down the trail, I snapped this picture of my neighbor's, the Sekentos.  This is one of two homesteads or manyattas that stand side by side.  The two brother's homesteads include a total of 7 women and well over 15 children.  The reason it blends in with the bush is because there is a fence made of thorn branches all around it. The "bush" is essentially made of thorn bushes and thorn trees.

I arrived at Paulina's tidy little mud/ash/dung home with tin sheet roof and was relieved to immediately spot various friends and neighbors. I walked around greeting them and everyone else within reach with the required warm handshake.  Soon, I saw Paulina. She took me under her wing and directed me to a room in her house where I was to sit. I was grateful. It was not so overwhelming to be in this room with just a few women.

The light was warm on these ladies so after I exchanged some greetings, I asked to take some pictures.  Immediately kokoo, grandma got up and said she needed to dress! She already was loaded in beads, but she found a big handful of beads hung on a nail on the wall and proceeded to add them to her get-up.  Finally, they were ready and sat in a line posing.

Paulina bustled in and out bringing us shaai (which only made the sweat drip more in the snug little room), caring for her 2 yr old waking up from his nap, feeding the cat, looking for a long lost necklace on the far side of the bed so another kokoo could look her best. I asked her for a picture, too.

We sipped our hot shaai. The ladies poured their tea back and forth from one cup to another to cool it down, while I simply sipped and blew.

I chatted with the ladies until I ran out of Maa and they ran out of things to say in elementary Maa.  Finally a new round of ladies came in and most of the others left. I had no idea if I should rove around or stay put. I felt like staying, so I did. I chatted again through the elementary introductions and greetings and -do you have kids?-where is your husband?- questions. The little guy woke up again and I helped feed him some rice.

Finally, Paulina came in and was getting the boy dressed. I asked her when the meeting would start. She said, now! We'll go together. So, we did. Someone brought a chair for me and I sat among the women, listening to the approaching thunder and the repetitive speeches of the various chiefs and leaders.

A few raindrops tapped my face as they called for Najile people to come up and give. I got up and joined the line of my neighbors and fellow church goers that filed past the little giving table. A caller dramatically announced the amounts of the bills and occasionally people clapped.

I moved slowly ahead in the line. The closer I came to the caller, the more nervous I grew. The amount of shillings in my hand seemed to be one of the bigger ones and I didn't want a scene when he would say, "Two Thousand Five Hundred from Olashumpai- the white lady!"

I was five or so away and the rain suddenly started coming. There was a surge and everyone crowded in. I reached my hand through the mix of colorful beaded ladies' arms and bodies and anonymously deposited my cash in the man's hand, turned and slipped away.

My friend Helen, one of the very young mamas who lives in the Sekento homesteads came up to me and said, "Maape- let's go!" So we headed off down the path.

Did you walk by yourself when you came? she asked. Yes, I said. And you? Yes, she said. Do you like to walk by yourself? I asked. Yes, she said. Me, too. I said. We stretched our legs and walked in the light rain, chatting easily all the way home about simple things in Maa.