Best Laid Plans

Remember that time I was blogging every day?  Sometimes a couple times a day?  And how I was going to keep it up for the entire duration of my stay in Africa? 

That didn't end up working out.

I am sitting in Entebbe Airport in Uganda, getting ready to board our flight out of Africa.  This is the first time we've been able to access the internet in weeks (and really our first time to have electricity since we left Tanzania two Fridays ago). 

It has been amazing!  The C&S7 got off the plane and jumped right into the whole experience with remarkable aplomb and inspiring enthusiasm.  There are many many stories to share (and more than a few hilarious photos), but they will have to wait.  For now, I would just like to thank all of the amazing people who made the past 3 weeks downright miraculous, especially Fr. Shirima at AJAM, Fr. Anselm and Brother Ephraim at Tengeru, Fr. "My Man Godfrey" Manana at Lima Farm, and most especially Fr. Andrew "Babu" Shirima, our dedicated travel companion who was with us every step of the way. 

To the C&S7- Sidra, Erin, Marissa, Jordan, Allison, Nigeria, and Greg- I will never be able to convey how grateful I am to have spent this time with you.  You're all aces, and I love you.

Somebody, please remind me to update this thing when I get home.  I'm notoriously bad at blogging on US soil.

This is what happens when you bring medical students to Africa...

Yes.  That is an elephant.

Like a Kid on Christmas Eve

I know that I can't wait up until I know all of the C&S7 are in the air, but I am too excited to sleep!  They'll be here in less than 22 hours!  HURRAY!

But sleep I must, so I am going to curl up with my literary inamorato Lord Peter Wimsey.  For you, dear readers, here is a picture of a baby cow.

Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect $200.

What an experience I had this morning!  Last night, at around 6:30, I got a phone call from my good friend Fr. Bukenya, the rector at the Apostles of Jesus Theologicum. 

Fr. B: Jo!  What are you doing tomorrow?
Me: I don't have any specific plans, Father.  I will go to Mass somewhere, I'm sure.
Fr. B: But tomorrow morning?  At around 7:30?  Are you free?
Me: Yes, definitely.
Fr. B: Excellent!  Do you want to accompany me to jail?
Me: Excuse me?
Fr. B: I am saying Mass for the inmates at the male prison in Nairobi.  Would you like to join me?
Me: Umm... is it safe?
Fr. B: Oh yes, it is very safe.
Me: Then sure! Why not?

Plans were made for Fr. Andrew to collect me at 7:15, then we would pick up Fr. Bukenya at the Seminary, and we would be at the prison for 8:00 Mass.  We were joined by Br. Nicholas, a young AJ-in-formation, and Steve, a videographer who is making a short music film with the seminarians.

I have never been to a prison before (though I have always been very interested in prison ministry and have tremendous respect for those friends of mine who are prison chaplains), let alone a Kenyan prison.  I had absolutely no idea what to expect.  What I imagined was largely shaped by tv and movies, but even those auspicious resources did give me a hint of what to be ready for in East Africa. 

Nairobi West Prison is largely a transitional facility, as far as I can gather.  Most of the men incarcerated there have very short sentences or are being transferred to a different facility.  I did not find out how many prisoners are currently there, but Fr. Andrew estimated it to be around 500 (that is just a guess- I'll try to find out the real figure).  Fr. Bukenya has been coming to say Mass for those inmates who want it for about a year and a half now.  The first time he went there, it was the first time they had had a priest to say Mass in over 4 months.  This really affected Fr. Bukenya, and since he has Sunday mornings free, he volunteered to continue coming every week.  One of the prison guards, Francis, moonlights as a catechist.  He was dressed in his civies this morning when he greeted us.  The AJs were all wearing their white cassocks with the signature yellow sash of their habit, so the guards recognized them instantly and admitted us to the prison.  I assume that if I hadn't been in the company of priests, I would have had to sign something, or give them my information, or at the very least have my bag searched.  I hope so, anyway. 

On this particular day, though, we were admitted and escorted directly to the chapel without delay.  We entered through a gate into a quiet sort of parking area, which led to another gate, which opened directly onto the prison yard.  As I walked through the wrought iron door, I was suddenly standing among dozens of men in matching striped outfits (pajamas is a very apt description), all bustling about the yard.  The atmosphere crackled with activity.  I attracted a few stares as I made my way through the throng, all but glued to Fr. Bukenya's elbow.  The humble cinder block chapel stood on the other side of a towering hedge through another locked gate.  Men were already standing in two lines at the gate, waiting to pass through for their liturgy.  We went in first, Fr. Bukenya, Fr. Andrew, Br. Nicholas, Steve, and I.  The fathers went about their preparations for Mass, Steve took some sample video of the space, and Brother Nicholas sat on a bench at the back of chapel.  I was glad to sit in the back, partly because I would be able to see everything better, partly because I would be less of a distraction during church (I am a white woman in an African men's prison, after all), but mostly because it was the only bench that was solidly put together with a back to it.  The other benches consisted of a long narrow plank of wood between two small metal racks, like miniature sawhorses.  One look at them, and I knew I lacked the coordination to navigate the various postures of the Catholic Mass and not be on the ground. 

A few minutes later, about 100 men filed in quietly and politely took their seats on those treacherous benches.  Br. Nicholas whispered that you could tell who the newcomers were because they were the ones struggling with the makeshift pews.  A guard entered with them and remained at the back of the church, singing along lustily with all of the hymns.  Truly, I have never been to a Mass where the entire congregation participated so enthusiastically.  The African Mass has a lot more singing than the typical American Mass, and there were no song books or missalettes, but no one missed a word.  Inmates with bright orange sweaters dotted the crowd.  I was told that these are the leaders for this Catholic faith community. 

After a heartwarming and uplifting Swahili liturgy, Fr. Bukenya asked whom among the congregation would be getting released this week.  He invited them to come to the front of the church, and Fr. Andrew led the congregation in praying over them.  It was a beautiful moment of a community coming together to invoke the Holy Spirit to bring strength to some of their own.  I was struck, as I listened to the kiswahili prayers, how much this faith community meant to its members. 

At the end of the service, Fr. Bukenya invited me to share a few words with the congregants.  I greeted them with the traditional kiswahili blessing- "Tumsifu Yesu Kristu!"- which garnered a long and loud round of applause.  I thanked them for the witness of their faith and the opportunity to pray with them, and asked them to pray for me as I continue my travels.  I shook many hands as they filed back out into the prison yard, and received many sincere invitations to come back to their community anytime. 

I am continually amazed by the people I encounter here.


*I took a lot of pictures today, but I am going to refrain from sharing them publicly, at least for the time being, out of respect for the inmates.  I will include just these two for now.

Fr. Andrew, Br. Nicholas, Fr. Bukenya

Going... Going... Ngong

"I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong hills..."

This is the first line from Karen Blixen (Isak Dinesen)'s book Out of Africa.  That farm is just a couple of miles from the Apostles of Jesus' headquarters, but the Ngong hills seem to follow me wherever I go in Kenya. 

This picture was actually taken from the porch of Karen Blixen's home here in Karen (no relation).  You can see the hills rising in the distance just above the tree line.  "Ngong" is the Maasai word for "knuckles", and that is truly what the resemble.  As I ride by, I will often hold up my fist, fingers facing away, and watch the green hills align with my hand.  Though the are visible from Karen, they rise much closer to Kiserian, where the Apostles of Jesus AIDS Ministry is headquartered.  I have marveled at them for many years now, but today I finally walked on their slopes. 

One of my friends here, Fr. Felix, made the suggestion that we go for a hike, and agreed that first thing Saturday morning would be best.  This being Africa, "first thing Saturday morning" was pretty close to 10, but that's part of life here.  We drove to the base of the Hills and parked in the dirt lot.  (This was after we spent an hour driving all over the base of the hills looking for the lot.  We found it, and it was a beautiful drive!)  I paid our admission to the park (800ksh), and we started walking up hill.

The first hour of our hike was actually on a hard dirt road, surrounded by, of all things, wind turbines.  We saw them in all phases: actively capturing the wind for energy, standing stoically on the hillside, and laying in pieces on the ground, waiting to be assembled.  This is a relatively new wind farm, though the first wind mills on the Ngong Hills were actually built in 1993 in partnership with the Belgian government.  They are no longer in operation, but have been replaced with new and improved turbines..  There are plans to expand this wind farm from 5.1MW to 25.5MW.  I don't actually know what that means, it's just what Google told me.  But it's gotta be a good thing.  Hurray for clean energy!

This being Kenya, there were no fences or restricted zones.  We walked among the windmills as an ant might walk among trees.  I have always found wind turbines strangely beautiful, a beauty augmented by the goats and cattle gently grazing at their feet and the gently sloping green hills. 

All this time were walking up and up and ever up.  We would point to the highest spot we could see and challenge each other just to make it that far.  Upon reaching it, we would suddenly a slightly higher point just a little distance away, and continue upward.  Finally, we reached the end of the dirt road, and came to an unmistakable cow path which led to the highest point we had seen yet.  We gamely soldiered on, only to be stopped by park security.  We were informed that if we wanted to trek onward, we were HIGHLY encouraged to hire a security escort to accompany us.  For 500ksh, I figured better safe than sorry.  We started up again (always up), with our new companion, a young man in army fatigues and a rifle.  He informed us that there are leopards and cheetahs in the trees on the Ngong Hills, and while they usually don't attack people, it has been known to happen.  Also, there are occasionally robbers.  (Best 500ksh I ever spent, as far as I'm concerned.)  The peak we were facing was getting more and more daunting as we got closer.  At this point, our escort, ever the font of information, told us that this is only the first Ngong Hill and that there are, in fact, seven.  This put many thoughts into my head, notably "What the hell were those hills we've been walking up for the past hour?" and "How many knuckles does a Maasai have, anyway?"  But we pressed onward and upward, agreeing that we were committed to climbing at least one hill. 

This picture does not do the hill justice.  That little bit right at the tippy top?  Basically vertical.

We conquered the summit of the first Ngong Hill, and were only very briefly tempted to attempt the second.  According to our guide, the hills get progressively higher as you go.  This boggled my mind, since you also cannot see the next hill until you have conquered the one before it.  The truth was, I didn't bring anywhere near enough water to even think about hiking the second hill, let alone all seven.  But the view was tremendous, the Great Rift Valley disappearing to the horizon on my right, the distant skyline of Nairobi to my left.  We soaked it in, then made our way back down the cow path, back through the Wind Farm Forrest, and back to our waiting vehicle. 

How Do People Procrastinate Around Here?

It does say "yet"... do you think it will arrive in time for the new season of Orange is the New Black?  No??  Ah, well...

What Have We Always Said Is the Most Important Thing?

Breakfast at Mazzoldi House offers generally predictable fare.  Bread, porridge, tea, maybe some hard-boiled eggs, occasionally some mandazi (best described as East African donut holes).  I tend to keep it simple (toast with butter and a mug of steaming hot water).  But this morning I noticed a new addition to the spread.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Kabalagala!

My first guess was that they were some kind of potato pancake, but Fr. Freddy and Fr. Mawa quickly corrected me.  Kabalagala is made from bananas and cassava flour.  They are simply delicious!  These were not served hot, but the outside was still reasonably crispy, and the flavor was surprisingly (though I probably should have called it) sweet and banana-y.  I have learned to be cautious when an African is telling me that something is very sweet (a word used to describe both fish eyes and the dreaded Dorian).  Call me jaded.  But these really were delightful!

I popped back into the kitchen to give my compliments to the chef, a young man named Thomas.  He told me that Fr. Mawa was the one who showed him how to make Kabalagala, since it comes from his home place in Uganda.  This is kind of the neat thing about dining at Mazzoldi House.  Even though it is in Kenya, the priests who live here are from all over East Africa, and they each bring their recipes from home to be incorporated into the menu.  You really get a sense of the variety of the tastes and flavors of this part of the world. 

Unfortunately, Thomas couldn't give me a more specific recipe than "You mash up sweet bananas and add some cassava flour and you cook them."  Looks like I'll have to keep coming back for more!

Also, "Kabalagala" is one of the most fun words to say ever!

To Waste or Waste Not

As I prepare to welcome the C&S7 (even shorter now), I am feeling very conscious of the fact that I will be the "expert" on the scene.  I am pretty comfortable with the role.  I mean, I've spent months here over the years, and I've been very inquisitive during those visits, in anticipation of being able to gently guide newcomers through this chaotic world.  I can fill out customs forms in my sleep.  I don't even flinch when a matatu is driving directly at me on the wrong side of the road.  I know the names of all the foods.  I don't get excited when I see Maasai herders driving their goats through town.*

I can handle myself.

Which means it's time for an ego check.  I got one at dinner this evening.  I was raised in a house where you don't get down from the dinner table until your plate is empty.  "Make it zero!" is a common expression at the family table.  And I have carried that with me to this day (occasionally at my waistline's expense).  It grates on me to leave food on my plate.  It seems wasteful, and I don't want to be a wasteful person.  I make an effort not to take more than I want (or more than I should have), and I almost always lick my plate clean.

I did this tonight (because the food here is flipping delicious!), crossed my fork and knife on my plate, and leaned back in my chair.  "You know, Jo, in Africa, when you eat everything on your plate, it means that you didn't get enough to eat," said my friend Fr. Felix.  I apologized and explained that it is difficult for me to stop eating delicious things, so I just keep eating until they're gone.  "But Jo," he countered, "you are in Africa, and it is our custom to always leave something on your plate if you are satisfied."  Well, I certainly am not one to flout the culture of a place I am visiting, and I am an eager student.  But still... it's so wasteful!  "Jo, nothing here is wasted.  Don't you care if the pigs get anything to eat?  If you eat all of your food, what are the pigs going to eat?"  Fair point, Fr. Felix.

I went up and got just a little bit more food in order to not finish it.  I am so African.

*Just kidding- that is totally always exciting, 100% of the time.

On the Ground

I have arrived safely in Kenya!  Two 8 hour flights, and on BOTH I had a window seat and an empty seat next to me.  Heavenly.  Also, Delta has really stepped up their in-flight entertainment system. Touch screens and USB ports to charge things and great movie selections.  (And yes, even though there were countless quality films and television shows to watch for free, I paid $2 to watch Six by Sondheim and it was totally worth it (If I get hard up for blog posts, I might post a lengthy essay on things I loved and hated about the documentary.).)  (And Inside Llewyn Davis was awesome.) 

 The Come & See Seven (which I have just decided to call them) arrive in just 4 days, so I have hit the ground running even more than normal.  I have a lengthy To-Do List to complete before they arrive, but I will endeavor not to neglect the blog.  I will almost certainly have more important things to share than what movies I watch on the flight (but The Wolf of Wall Street was... well... I didn't like it. I know why it is so polarizing, and I can understand why people would like it, but I didn't.).

Also, I might still be a little sleep deprived.  Gotta make sure that makes it onto the To-Do List.

Into the Wild Blue Yonder...

I woke up this morning at 6:30 without an alarm.
I keep checking the same lists over and over and over again.
I have been loading my iPod with tons of NPR podcasts.
I have been listening to "Africa" by Toto on repeat for about 24 hours.

Time to go to Africa, hon! 

I can't believe it's been almost 2 years since my last trip (I also can't believe that the last thing I wrote about was a Kenyan Reality TV Competition.  Woof.), but I am super excited about this trip.  5 days after I land in Kenya, I will be joined by 7 young adults for a 3 week Come & See Mission trip.  This is the dream, why I started working for the AJs in the first place, and what I have been working towards for 2 and a half years.  It was heartbreaking when I had to cancel the trip last year, but I have been feeling lately that this is how it was all supposed to happen. 

Since 5 of the 7 Come & See participants are medical students at Marian University College of Osteopathic Medicine (including my awesome sister Allie!), this trip will have a medical focus.  When the group arrives, we will spend our first week in Kenya at the Apostles of Jesus AIDS Ministry (AJAM) in Kiserian, Rift Valley.  Then we will drive to Tanzania for a few days of safari adventures (Ngorongoro Crater!), before flying to Uganda to work at the Queen of the Apostles Medical Center at Lima Farm in Nakaseke. 

It is going to be a pretty intense three weeks!

I am going to do my best to keep this blog up to date.  I'm also hoping to have some guest bloggers, so you can hear from the people with whom I am traveling.  Of course, as ever, all of this is contingent on decent internet access. 

Be well, dear readers.  The next time you hear from me, I'll be on East African time!

Tusker Fame Project 5

I never watch "reality" competition shows if I can help it. (I am still seething over what happened to Sabrina on DWTS all those years ago.  I can hold a grudge.)  That said, by Sunday night I still had not seen a single Olympic event and was hurtin' for some hard core competition, and this was the only option that remotely fit the bill.  Since I was already primed to be jumping on my feet and getting way too emotionally involved in the lives of people on television (WHY, KBC?!  WHY DON'T YOU HAVE 24 HOUR COVERAGE OF THE OLYMPICS!!!  I'M GOING CRAZY HERE!!!!!), it took about 3 seconds of the finale episode for me to start shouting obscenities at the television.

So...

I know that no one NOT in East Africa could possibly care, but here’s the deal:

1. Doreen sucks and in no world should she ever have gotten 2^nd place.  She probably shouldn't have been in the top 10.  She probably should restrict her singing to the shower.

2. Jackson rocks and probably should have won and DEFINITELY should have been in the top 2.

3. But if we’re all honest with ourselves, Ruth was always going to win this thing

Watch Out, Boys, She'll Chew You Up

Once upon a time, two lions terrorized the men constructing the Kenya-Uganda Railway through what is now Tsavo East/West National Parks.  (It may have been that then.  I didn't do real research for this.) According to my highly reliable sources, the lions were responsible for killing anywhere from 35 to 135 railway workers.  Apparently, the lions weren't killing people to eat, but just for the sake of killing them, which is always what one likes to hear about naturally fearsome predators.

I had heard about the man eaters from many people during my travels in Africa, so naturally I was delighted that the bus to Mombasa would take us right through the killing zone of 114 years ago.  Combine this with the bus company's decision to show the movie "Prey," and I was giddy with excitement (and laughter at that truly horrendous movie).  Unfortunately, I didn't see a single lion. Maybe I'll have more luck if I stay here next time, but that might just be tempting fate.

Conference then the Coast!

Hello, friends and faithful readers!  I hope that you enjoyed the "Slave Trade Triptych," you know, as much as you can enjoy something like that.  At the very least, I hope you found it informative and/or interesting.

I spent all of last week pitching in for the first Founders Institute, hosted at the Apostles of Jesus Scholasticate.  This event coincided with the anniversary of the deaths of Bishop Mazzoldi (25 years ago) and Fr. Marengoni (5 years ago) on July 27 (yes, they DID die 20 years apart to the day!).  Together, these two men co-founded 5 religious institutes: Sacred Heart Sisters, Brothers of St. Martin dePorres, Apostles of Jesus, Evangelizing Sisters of Mary, and Contemplative Evangelizers of the Heart of Christ.  This conference marked the first time ever that all 5 congregations came together for a common purpose.  It was like a giant family reunion!  Priests, Brothers, and Sisters came from Sudan, South Sudan, Uganda, Tanzania, South Africa, Australia, the US, and Kenya to celebrate the lives of their fathers.  I volunteered my services as a general gopher for whatever they needed, and ended up in the role of official conference photographer and videographer.  It felt really good to be busy, and to have a clearly defined role.  As you know, I am a huge fan of East African hospitality, but this was the first time I really wasn't treated as a guest, but as just another member of the family.  It was marvelous!

Now the conference is over, and I am returning to the US in just 5 days, so it is time to make a final dash to see as many more missions as I can.  I am leaving any moment to travel to Mombasa with Fr. Peter Choi and Br. Peter Makau (seriously, you would not believe how many AJs are named Peter).  I can't wait to be back on the coast in "the city where that one part of Inception with the opium den took place."  Can't wait to tell you all about it!

Part III: Zanzibar and Post-Abolition Slave Trade

The horrors did not stop for the African victims of slavery with abolition in 1873.  This should hardly be surprising to me given my country’s history.  How long did former slave owners continue to treat former slaves like property in the antebellum south?  Abuse, segregation, hate crimes, racism.  The scars of slavery still flare up for the descendants of African slaves, as well as more recent immigrants to the US. 

But at least in the US, slave trade ended once and for all with the end of the Civil War.  Not so in Zanzibar.  As I mentioned in the previous installment, the majority of the profit of the Slave Market went into the coffers of the Sultan of Zanzibar.  In 1873, it was the Sultan himself who proclaimed an end to slave trade and closed the market, but it appears that losing all of that income was not really what he wanted, so he did what all capitalists ultimately do- he found a way to keep making money, morals, ethics, and laws be damned!  The slave trade went underground.

Literally.

Sometime in the early 19^th century, a slave boy discovered a cave when he was looking for a lost goat.  The cave, made entirely of coral, has only one opening.  After descending into the cave, it extends about 1km in one direction toward the sea, and about 3km in the other direction, farther in land.  Following abolition, it became an ideal hiding place for slaves.

I got to explore the cave a little bit.  In the US, such a cave would have had a clearly marked path and guide ropes and dim lighting.  Here, we have the flickering light of the guides’ torches and our own hands to steady us as we scramble over the jagged coral, deeper and deeper into the cave.  I used my camera flash to illuminate sections of the cave, and each time I did so, bats would swoop in and out of sight.  When we stood in complete darkness, I could still hear them wheeling and diving in the cave.  We probably didn’t go more than ½ a kilometer inland, but the guides told us that the size of the cave tapers down until you have to “move like a python” in order to get any further.  The only fresh water comes from a spring near the entrance, and the only food was lowered through the cave entrance.  Once they were trapped in the cave, the slaves were completely at the mercy of the traders. 

Less than 2km away, there is another site that was crucial to the slaving black market.  Two spaces were carved into the coral, creating subterranean rooms to hold the slaves.  From land, all you can see of the cells are their pitched wooden roofs.  From what I understand, slaves would be held in these cells until the tide and timing would allow dhows (sail boats) to pull into the secluded bay nearby, at which point the slaves would be loaded on under cover of darkness and sent to Oman.  Looking at the bay now, it is almost unbelievable to think it was used for such a cruel practice.  It is perfectly tucked away, surrounded by lush green trees, lined with white sand, the grey coral visible just beneath the cerulean water, completely hidden from the entire world.  My personal instinct would be to have a picnic there, not sell human beings into lives of pain and suffering. 

It took until well into the 20^th century for the slave trade to be eradicated once and for all.  It has been almost 100 years since Zanzibar has been involved in the sale of human souls.  Though the scars will never fade, they can do nothing to diminish the beauty of the island.  But I can’t let myself believe that slavery is really a thing of the past.  I know too much about the reality of human trafficking and unjust labor conditions to think that every human being on earth is truly free.  I hope that someday, all we have left are the scars, eternal reminders that all life is precious. 

Part II: The Zanzibar Slave Market

The only thing I had on my to do list when I arrived in Zanzibar was “visit the slave market.”  Mostly because it was the only thing I had been told I must see when I was preparing to travel.  This suggestion, coupled with my recent journey through the saga of Kunta Kinte and his descendants, had me excited for the opportunity to get to experience the memorial.   Maybe “excited” is the wrong word.  I was “excited” in the way I imagine one might get “excited” to visit Auschwitz.  Not joyful excitement, but anxious excitement at viewing this monument to human to suffering.  But no amount of mental preparation could really prepare me for what I encountered. 

During its heyday in the 1800s, Zanzibar was the largest and most profitable slave market in the world.  The Omani sultans who ruled in Zanzibar were the main profiteers, and many of the slaves moved through the market were sent to Oman for labor.  However, around mid-century, feelings about slavery in the world began to shift.  Dr. David Livingstone, whose search for the source of the Nile took him deep into the African continent, famously addressed the scholars at Oxford and Cambridge in 1857 and challenged them to become champions for ending slavery once and for all.  His stories about the horrendous treatment of the abducted Africans shocked and horrified all who heard them, and the abolition movement caught on like wildfire.  In 1873, the reigning Sultan of Zanzibar, under pressure from the British government, abolished slavery and closed the slave market. 

While it was in operation, approximately 60,000 slaved moved through the Zanzibar slave market each year.  Between 1800 and 1873, over 4.3 million souls suffered in the hands of the slavers in Zanzibar.

Most of the market was destroyed in the wake of abolition.  Out of the 15 holding chambers that existed beneath the streets of Stone City, only 2 remain, in memoriam of those whose lives were destroyed by slavery.  It was to these chambers that I was led by our guide, Benjamin, when Sr. Claudia and I arrived at the old Slave Market, just a few hours after I had landed on Zanzibar.  The first chamber we entered had been used to hold women and children.  When the market was in use, about 50 women and children would be crammed into the small space.  The room, if you can even call it that, is dominated by a waist-high cement shelf, 3 or 4 feet deep, that follows the entire perimeter of the room, leaving just a narrow passage open in the center of the floor.  The rough wood beam ceilings hang at a stifling level, no more than 5 and a half feet.  The only light comes from three miniscule windows, slits in the top of the far wall, like the windows you find in ruins of castles, designed to let arrows out but nothing in.  Chains and shackles, replicas of those used less than 140 years ago to restrain imprisoned slaves, are strewn casually around the chamber.  As I sat down on the cement shelf to listen to Benjamin, I was overwhelmed with the hundreds of thousands of people who were forced into this chamber.  Hands that clung to children in the darkness, hope disappearing in the bleak subterranean chamber, the reek of blood and feces and vomit and urine and sweat building into a soul-crushing cloud of defeat.  I sat in that chamber and I wept.  I wept for all of the people yanked from their homes and families and sold into slavery.  I wept for the tortures forced upon them and their children and their children’s children.  I wept for my country’s involvement in the slave trade.  I wept at the thought that any human being could ever justify such unimaginable cruelty to another person. 

We only spent a couple of moments standing at the door of the only other remaining chamber; this one is smaller, with the same cement shelf, this one having been used to accommodate around 35 male slaves.  Benjamin told us that the slaves only spent an average of 3 days in the chambers before they were shipped out on the slaving ships, destined for Oman, India, the West Indies, and America. 

In 1874, the Anglican Cathedral standing on the remains of the slave market was completed.  It was built by Bishop Sheere, a powerful advocate for abolition.  Most of the construction workers were freed slaves, and the materials came from the finest suppliers of sacred accouterments throughout Europe.  The church stands as a memorial of the bloody road to the freedom of the slaves and as a monument to the triumph of abolition.

When the slave market was still in operation, a tree stood in the center of the market.  The Whipping Tree.  Before they were sold to the slavers, the imprisoned Africans were tied to the tree and whipped to a pulp as a test of their physical endurance.  They were tortured to see how well they could hold up to torture, to see who was worth taking up space in the ships’ holds and who wasn’t.  When the market closed, the tree was cut down, but it’s exact location is marked by a white circle of marble laid in the floor directly in front of the altar in the Anglican Cathedral.  It is chilling to reflect on the suffering of those men and women, bound to the tree, whipped beyond consciousness for no crime, no reason, and to reflect on the similar tortures inflicted on an equally innocent man, who was also bound to a tree, and whose sacrifice is daily remembered on that altar.

Part I: Bagamoyo

Bagamoyo is a small, unassuming town a little ways up the coast from bustling metropolis of Dar Es Salaam.  Judging by the multitude of dhows tethered to shore, fishing and boatbuilding are prominent industries.  With the exception of some beachfront resort hotels (including the Stella Maris, recently constructed by the Holy Ghost (Spiritan) Fathers) the town is generally undeveloped.  Do not, however, be fooled by its humble façade.  Bagamoyo has an incredibly rich and important history.  It was here in 1868 that the first European missionaries landed to begin the evangelization of East Africa.  The French Spiritans came first, paving the way for German and British missionaries who followed quickly behind.  They came with the express intention to do everything in their power to end the slave trade and assist freed slaves.

Historically, the port of Bagamoyo was one of the gathering places for the Africans abducted from their villages throughout Tanzania, Uganda, the Congo, and elsewhere, before they were transported to Zanzibar, home of the largest slave market in the world.  They were mercilessly ripped from their homes and driven like livestock across the harsh African terrain.  Many died on the journey.  Once they arrived in Bagamoyo, they were crammed into dhows (sailboats) and ferried to Zanzibar; still more died before they made it to the market.  The iron pillars where the slaves stood shackled still stand next to the market in view of the Indian Ocean, an ever-present reminder of the horrific trade.

When the missionaries arrived in 1868, abolitionist action had already gained world-wide momentum.  They immediately set to work freeing as many slaves as they could, creating a community called “Freedom Town”.  Many of the freed slaves they helped were ransomed or purchased by the missionaries themselves.  When the slave trade was officially abolished in 1873, the missionaries continued to minister to the freed slaves, educating them and helping them find employment.  Few of them returned to their former homes. 

The original church built by the Spiritans still stands.  The house of the fathers has been converted into a museum showcasing their work to end slavery.  As I walked around the grounds on a bright sunny day in 2012, it was difficult to imagine the place being filled with so much pain and suffering.  The small cemetery behind the museum is filled with graves of Holy Ghost Fathers who passed away during their missionary work, many of them no older than 25 years old.  I was moved by their sacrifice.  They must have known the dangers of traveling to and living in Africa at that time.  The diseases from which I have been protected by simple immunization shots (Yellow Fever, Typhoid, Malaria) almost guaranteed agony for the Europeans. But they came because they knew that someone had to do something to help these oppressed people.  I can’t help but wonder would I have suffered so willingly if I thought I could help end slavery?  Would any of us? 

Prologue: Encountering the Slave Trade

During my previous trips to Africa, I have been blessed to explore some of the interior of East Africa- Nairobi, Kenya; Arusha, Moshi, Mwanza, and Bukoba, Tanzania; Kampala, Jinja, and Nakaseeta in Uganda.  I have eagerly learned about the history of some of the tribes therein, the colonization, the evangelization, the conflicts of East Africa.  Now, as I start to explore coastal East Africa, I am learning about a different chapter of Africa’s history, and very dark chapter, but perhaps the most relevant chapter for an American visitor in the 21^st century. 

The Slave Trade.

There are three different sites that I visited in Tanzania that still stand as memorials to the abhorrent practice, so I will address them in three different posts: Bagamoyo, Zanzibar, Pre-Abolition, and Zanzibar, Post-Abolition.  I will be writing what I saw in person at the museums and monuments I visited, which means that there may be some historical inconsistencies based on the information available to me.  I think these are interesting because they highlight the different perspectives that have been passed down through history, a jarringly recent history. 

Also, in the harried moments before leaving my house way back on June 30^th, the DVD box set I just happened to grab was the 30^th anniversary edition of Roots.  It seems now to have been serendipitous, adding a pointed relevance to my personal experiences in Africa.   If you haven’t seen the miniseries yourself (as I hadn’t prior to this trip), I cannot recommend it enough.

The Dorian

In my travels, I pride myself on being an adventurous eater, “foodventurous” as I like to call it.  True, my will has been tested from time to time.  There are certain foods that I just don’t like: coconut, anise, olives, fermented millet porridge.  My feelings about chicken gizzards are well documented.  I was nearly undone when I foolishly let Dave order lunch for us in Westvleteren, Belgium and was forced, for the sake of pride, to eat what can only be described as chunky chicken Jell-O.  But nothing, my friends, not one thing could have prepared me for the unholy, gag-inducing terror of… 

The Dorian.

The Dorian is a fruit that, as far as my hosts or I know, grows exclusively on Zanzibar.  It has some similarities to Jackfruit, with its green spiky skin and large seeds, but though it is not anywhere near as large as the mighty Jackfruit, its skin is much spikier and its seeds are much larger.  Its rind is actually so spiky that it is impossible to hold the fruit by anything but the stem.  I feel that humanity should have gotten the hint that this was a fruit not intended for consumption.  The unblemished fruit gives off a vaguely sickening odor, yet another helpful hint for humanity to leave this fruit alone.  When you cut into it, the odor builds to a pungent scream of noxious fumes: DO NOT EAT THIS FRUIT!  The fruit’s flesh is amorphous white slimy pulp, clinging half-heartedly to seeds roughly the size of walnuts.  The overall effect reminded me of monkey’s brains, which are popular in Cantonese cuisine.

Was it intended to be a treat? A joke? A prank gone awry, played on me by the kindly sisters with whom I was staying?  I just don’t know, nor do I expect to.  I can say with all certainty that there was no malicious intent when they placed a plate of the reeking fruit in front of me.  I wish I could accurately describe the toxic smell.  The closest comparison I can come up with is a combination of sweat and gasoline.  I was cajoled into taking an infinitesimal taste by choruses of, “It’s sweet!  It smells bad, but the taste is sweet!”  They weren’t completely wrong- it tasted like sweat and gasoline with a hint of off-brand artificial sweetener.  Sr. Eunice told me it is good medicine for the stomach.  I can see the benefit if, say, someone took a goodly amount of poison and you didn’t have any activated charcoal around.  Personally, I don’t think I could hold a good dollop down. 

Eating cottage cheese was heaven compared to this heinous experience.

When I asked the sisters if they make all of their visitors try Dorian, then informed me that it is seasonal, so it isn’t available for visitors to try during most of the year.  When we parted ways, I assured them of my eventual return, promising to come in the Dorian’s off-season.

Epilogue

When I took the boat to Zanzibar on Monday, I thought it was cute and kind of funny that they handed out sick bags to all of the passengers for the 2 hour ride.  When I boarded the return shuttle, one quick sniff told me someone was taking a Dorian to the mainland.  I clutched my bag the entire way home and focused on breathing through my mouth.