Nose picking; a subject to which I have alluded in the past but never explored. In America, TAKE YOUR FINGER OUT OF YOUR NOSE is a our parental mantra. We'd rather not talk about it and we dislike watching it, although at any intersection anywhere in America, at any given time, there's ten guys meditatively screwing their fingers into their noses while they listen to old Queen songs on the radio. The average African is joyously uninhibited in this respect, however, nobody cares, miners or bystanders.
"Where two or more are gathered" is Scripture. But here in Berega, the second half of the verse goes "one or more will be picking his nose." The reason I'm so blatantly belaboring this point is because it's the national sport here. Everybody's doin' it. And here I am at ground zero.
Villages are by nature intimate places, everyone knows everyone, and during the day you're likely to meet most of your friends at least once. And you'll shake their hands, all of them, multiple times while you greet and talk. In Africa, or at least the countries I've visited, if you're not shaking a hand, you're holding one. Africans hold hands, men and women, men and men, women and women, hamna shida. So all those little nose germs travel from hand to hand all day and well into the night. Handkerchiefs are available here, and cheaply, but are mostly used for wiping sweat off your forehead. They rarely make it to an actual nostril.
Invariably, at some point during a conversation, out comes a finger, in goes the finger, and dialogue continues as your friend happily and energetically slides his finger halfway into his brain. The degree of interest and vigor with which they root around in there is fascinating and alarming, mostly alarming. Sometimes it seems there's nothing up there, it's just something to do with your hand, besides hold someone elses.
You could ask where I'm looking during all this. Usually somewhere in the region of my friend's forehead, or over his shoulder, or in my bag, anywhere but his nose. It's difficult sana to ignore, and equally difficult to keep my mind on track while my brain is screaming TAKE YOUR FINGER OUT OF YOUR NOSE!
In the village, it's all about manual dexterity. I've seen six year old kids launch snot rockets half way across the road, and despite my continuing efforts, I'm unable to match their speed and trajectory. Not to mention accuracy.This is a skill, like weaving and knitting, learned at a young age, perfected over time, and generally performed in full view of anyone who cares to watch.
About the only polite way to avoid a bacterial transfer is to keep your hands full, consider yourself warned. As for me, I just stick out my hand and hope for the best. These are my friends, besides after all this time I've developed the immune system of a New York cockroach, so hamna shida. I've said about all I care to say on this subject, I imagine you've heard more than enough.
A few of us went to a village called Chagongwe this weekend, a day trip into the mountains. Not too far, according to our driver Bayona. In reality, it took us three hours to get up the mountain, and three to get down. This was probably the worst rode I have ever traveled,with the steepest sides, but the village is beautiful, the air smells like eucalyptus, and hopefully I will spend some time there painting their classrooms.
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| Homemade but surprisingly sturdy bridge up the mountain. |
Quite a few of us went, Isaac and his wife Ruth, Brad from Hands4Africa, his son Zach, and assorted others. Zach and I sat in the back of the truck because we wanted to take pictures, in spite of bouncing and lurching around ruts and holes the size of a small country. It's the dry season, and the road was about as dusty as it could get, so I had grit in my eyes all day and my every bite crunched.
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About a third of the way up the mountain to Chagongwe. This is when you know you're far, far away. |
We picked up a hitch hiker, a man about 50 years old, walking his bike up the mountain. It wasn't easy getting his bike in the back of he truck, but I'm glad we did. We collected him about one third the way up, but it would have taken him all day to get there on his bike, walking, riding, veering around holes. At different times of the year the road is impassable, hopefully not the time I plan to be there. There's no chekechea, but hamna shida, there's a primary school, so I can paint the Standard 1, which is in essence a chekechea, as the kids will know nothing when they start.
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Part of the road to Chagongwe. Hard to tell how bad it, but we would never have made it without 4 wheel drive. |
Brad Logan, the doc who runs Hands4Africa, is hoping to start a jatropha tree farm there, the nuts of which will be pressed and eventually turned into diesel oil, which will bring jobs and money into the village. The fertilizer will be home grown, truly, as the project which goes along with the jatropha trees is Humanure.
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Note large hole to the right. A good reason to be off the mountain before dark. |
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Chagongwa classroom we will paint. This is a very nice room and will be easy to paint. |
This involves collecting buckets of human waste, adding sawdust and other crap (couldn't resist) lying around the village, and composting it for use as fertilizer on the tree farm. The plan is to first put the collection buckets in the primary school, where we anticipate a more than adequate supply of waste, kids being, as they are, full of it.
If successful, this will bring jobs and money into the village, and even better, decrease the incidence of diarrheal diseases which account for so many deaths among children, elders, and other vulnerable folks.
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Interim classroom until the new school is completed. It looks about as good on the inside. |
The locals are interested in the project, willing to give it a try, yet a little squeamish about sitting their matako on a toilet seat that has been used by oh, just about anybody. Culturally,I can see their point. They squat. On the other hand (so shoot me), these are the folks who teach their kids never to eat, shake, or receive with their left as that's the hand they use to "help themselves". Sometimes there's newspaper, sometimes a corncob, sometimes just water, sometimes none of the aforementioned. I'm just going to chalk this up to a clash of cultures and wait to see how it pans out.
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Sunset on the mountain. Beautiful, however it did remind us we were shortly to navigate the decent in the dark. |
There's been a lot of interest in the preschool walls. This mountain village wants to send a couple of potential teachers to us for "wall training" It's a great idea, they can watch, and then do, and then return to the village to teach, using the walls we will paint. The old see one, do one, teach one nursing theory. Other villages can do this as well, which makes it much easier for Martha and me. All we need now is to train some painters.
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Downtown Gairo, which is below Chagongwa. Lots of ox carts in this area. |
I wonder if other travel bloggers waste (there I go again) this much cyberspace talking about mucus and mavi. Is it just me?? Am I just inordinately interested in all things fecal/nasal? Is this the result of 20 years of nursing?? Do I really care? Pole sana, if you've gotten this far, it's too late.
Nakupenda
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