You know what? Life can sometimes be really tough here....

...but there is always something that will pick you up again.

You know it’s always so much easier writing about the good stuff, the fun stuff...so this blog I wanted to look at the things we struggle with. Volunteering can be one of the most rewarding things you can do in your life, but also one of the most challenging, and I think it is this, the difficult times, that you can often look back on and realise, wow...I did that!

I sat here for quite some time thinking of things that have made me sigh in frustration, things that have seen me want to return to bed and wake up hoping things will be different, and in speaking to others is seems that the same things affect us all, we are not alone and sometimes we forget this.

Needing something and not being able to get it, planning something and on the 3^rd attempt still not being able to achieve it, implementing something that you think is a fantastic idea and people not appreciating it or maybe just not getting it?? The internet that doesn’t work...emails that aren’t replied to...power that is off ...again... , people not listening, at times it seems all is working against you, the whole world is plotting for you to be unproductive and unsuccessful in everything that you do. That seems a little dramatic doesn’t it? And for sure it can definitely feel that way sometimes.

Firstly, let’s be honest here, none of us volunteers got to interview who was coming to share our time here. We are lucky to have our own space, our own rooms, which is more than some previous volunteers had! But sharing the fridge, negotiating the freezer, doing the “dinner dance” as numerous people go about cooking their dinner at the same time on the stove with only 3 out of 5 burners working, ...and the dishes...let’s not go there! Not changing the toilet rolls, not filling up the water or the sawdust for the compost loos...sounds like any ol’ share house doesn’t it? There is also negotiating each other and where everyone “is at.” Sure, someone could be top of the world one day but this is not going to help the person who is having “one of those days”...really it doesn’t, sometimes their enthusiasm and energy is like finger nails dragging along a chalk board when you are in a different space. It’s great to be together and have each other for support but sometimes it’s great to be apart and this isn’t always possible and isn’t always easy to achieve considering where we live.

(the forever empty toilet roll holder)

(The kitchen can be a bit of a squeeze sometimes)

Then there are the “3 month sads.” We were warned about it, it happens to everybody, and pretty much on cue at the 3 month point. You’ve been here for awhile, things aren’t quite so exciting any more, things that were charming or funny are now frustrating and annoying. You feel kind of alone and homesick. You miss the comforts of home, a shower, hot water on tap, a pantry, washing machines and dryers, your own car, take away food...and being clean. A pet hate of my own; getting ready to crawl into bed exhausted from the day and realising that my once clean feet have against all efforts become muddy again.

Something that I think is the hardest of all to manage is seeing people, seeing children around you as you walk through the community who could use your help but just not being able to give it. You have to be honest with yourself, you can’t help everybody and if you tried you would probably end up helping nobody. This, as well as seeing the corruption and struggle around you every day, is the hardest thing of all. There are times when all these things will get you down, you will think “what am I doing here?” “what’s the use?” “am I really helping anyone? Making any changes” These are the hardest of times, when you have your own thoughts and doubts plaguing your mind.

But...

...when you do feel frustrated, challenged or lost there is always something to bring you up again. That is what is so truly amazing about life here.

There is always something to make you laugh. Whether it’s Simon’s cheeky comments and big smile as you come and go during the day.

(Simon our day askari (security guard) through the volunteer village front gate)

Or Maggie our dog who sometimes gets so desperate to play a game she makes you feel bad by kicking stones under her legs, and with great enthusiasm, turns around to catch them.

(Maggie playing her game with an assortment of rocks)

Or the ingenious plans of volunteers. In this case Don, who has taken to capturing and taking hostage animals who are caught eating his crops. One morning last week 2 goats were released after negotiations from our chicken pen, and quite a bit fatter too I suspect, they got a good feed while in there over night.

(Sarah and Don catching the offending goats to return to their owners)

There is always something to make you proud, the children learning, the mamas achieving. Seeing signs that the mamas and kids love living at Kesho Leo. Having a mama come up to you excited about their new sewing creation. You are proud that they have taken the initiative to be a little more creative, they have tried something new like you suggested and it has worked. The mamas coming to you wanting to plant fruit trees, telling us now is the good time, wanting to look after and develop their home.

(Volunteers were surprised to find the personal touches mamas and kids were making to their home...this 'Kesho Leo' garden amazed us all when we discovered it)

(Kesho Leo Mamas taking on their first solo fish harvest!)

There is always something to make you feel valued. A smile, a squeeze of the hand from a mama, a cuddle by a child who was once wary of you. An afterhours text message from a worker appreciative of the new thing you taught them today. For Glen, seeing a bearded stick figure featured in a Childs’ drawing... mimi (me)? Ndiyo (yes)!

(Big smiles)

(Mamas bringing home plants)

And, there is always something to make you feel new again. I am forever in awe of the beauty of this place. Waking up and seeing Mt. Meru tower over us, never the same at any one moment. Catching glimpses of Kilimanjaro on clear bright days. Walking through the community and feeling a part of it all. You really do forget what community really is until you come here.

(Mt. Meru on the walk to Kesho Leo)

(Mt. Kilimanjaro in the distance)

Yes it can be really tough here, but as I said there is always something to pick you up, something that will remind you what you are doing here and help you get through the slumps. My tip: be practical, realistic and expect the hard times and you won’t be surprised or disappointed when they come along.

And if all else fails there are always sights like this to make you laugh!!

(Local men transporting a car body)

Power is on its way to Kesho Leo- Solar Style!

Before the Solar could be installed I had to build my first wall and it looks pretty good (if I do say so myself).

If you had been living at Kesho Leo, you would be well aware that over previous months you were relying on 3 hours of power a night. This power is produced by a noisy little generator grinding away under your floor boards and was your only opportunity to use some of the 102 light bulbs at Kesho Leo. This will soon be a sound of the past, as the long awaited sight of solar panels being lifted onto the butterfly roof of Kesho Leo has come!

Getting solar power to the Kesho Leo residents has been a priority on my very long to-do list since I arrived in Arusha 4 months ago. This has been an ongoing process and as always one that has been pole pole (slowly slowly), as is the style here in Tanzania. With the help of Eve in Australia and Clive Jones (our local solar guy) we got everything organised and underway.

There have been a few delays in locating some essential parts from the USA (due to high demand), and we are still waiting for one core component to arrive, but we have made some great progress by going ahead with the first stage of installation last week

A visit by the Golder Trustees last week (the group who donated the funds for the solar power), meant we were able to proudly show off the installation of the much need power source.

So as of Wednesday Kesho Leo will have 14 24v 170w panels charging 12 Deep Cycle Batteries all supplying up to 3.5kW a Day. How exciting!

By Glen Muller

Village Justice

Mudi and I rock up at Engosengui Primary School at 10am on a Saturday, in anticipation of the village meeting I have been invited to. We sit and wait for 1.5 hrs; Tanzanians have a flexible attitude with time. But sure enough, at 11:30 the locals stream in. Lots of them. Men and women alike, aged from 20 to ... I don't know how old (it's difficult to tell the age of Tanzanians, but maybe as old as 70?), all from the Sinon community. Some of fws' other employees arrive. In no time, around 80 or 90 people cram into a school class room (apparently the standard class size for kids too). 80-90 Tanzanians that is, and 1 mzungu - me.

The village chairman opens proceedings, apologising for the delay, while Mudi whispers brief translations to me when he can. Apparently this meeting is on security. I have no idea what that actually means. I soon find out.

After the secretary reads the full minutes of the previous meeting - all 5 pages of them - business commences. The chairman informs us that a list of suspected criminals living in the community have been given to him, and he will soon go through them one-by-one ... publicly. An audience participant questions whether it is more appropriate if the individuals are dealt with in private, but the mood of the gathering is having none of it. The chairman proceeds as planned.

The secretary, in her most official voice, reads out name number one. To my surprise, a shady looking dude around my age wanders up to the front of the room and faces the crowd. He is accused of theft.

I realise this is not a security meeting, this is a community court. This is old-fashioned town square civics.

For an accused criminal, faced with a community which openly endorses vigilante lynch mobs, he is surprisingly calm. He answers to the charges. He used to be a thief, for which he stands before the community ashamed, but he is no longer a thief - he has seen the error of his ways. An angry villager stands forth, explaining that this man has stolen 20 bags of cement from him. He must pay for his crime. Another calls for forgiveness - he has faced up to the community remorseful. Another demands that he name all of his accomplices. Discussion subsides and consensus is reached. The chairman declares that he must provide a list of co-conspirators after the meeting. The now convicted criminal resumes his seat.

An accused criminal pleads his case to the chairman with his father

Name number two, and a young Rasta dude with a Jamaican flag hanging off his string necklace faces up to the room, his dismayed mother following him. Sure enough, he is accused of selling marijuana. Confidently, he says that he used to sell pot, but he hasn't in 6 months. I sense a theme emerging. A participant demands that he provide the names of all the people he has sold pot too. The accused protests. "It is not my job to provide those names. It is the chairman's role, or someone else's, but not mine." Soon after he resumes his seat with no action taken.

One after another, the cases continue.

One accused thief, claiming innocence, is defended by a villager, saying that "I know this man. He has red eyes - I have seen him smoke marijuana. Perhaps people think he is a thief because he smokes marijuana?" The room erupts with laughter, including the accused, and the defense holds up.

Another suggests his name is on the list as he is unemployed, and people probably see him wander the streets a lot. One absentee is spoken for by his father, "My son is in jail, he cannot be a thief from jail." Another absentee is spoken for by his mother, "I do not know whether my son is a criminal or not. If he is, I take responsibility." One accused (pictured), perhaps a little drunk, is incensed: "I was a thief, but have not been a thief for years. Why do people always write down my name at these meetings? Why don't people understand that I am no longer a thief?"

All the while the audience is listening: dutifully, attentively, jovially. On more than a few occasions, officials, accused and villagers alike burst into laughter at seemingly serious or innocuous points - despite Mudi's beautiful translations. I sense that there's more than just a language gap here; these people have a spirit of their own, something us mzungu lack.

There are 15 accused all up, with only a few not present to face the meeting's wrath - they will be dealt with by the chairman outside the meeting. Very little punitive action is taken; shame seems to be the biggest disincentive.

General comments are taken. One villager notes that it's good to deal with the community's problems here, before taking it to the police, because we can prove guilt here. Another points out that people need to be more careful before writing down names of accused - what if the accused is just hungry and stealing to survive? Another suggests that the village leaders need to put a plan in place before robberies happen so that the community can deal with these situations better.

The meeting winds up, almost 2 hrs after starting. I am warmly greeted by many members, including the chairman. I realise that they consider me part of the community, that I could have argued for or against the accused, or indeed, accused others of being criminals. I am taken aback by the trust and responsibility.

I now understand where the Arusha Board gets its intuitive governance instincts from.

One muddy mzungu

I am a city-princess. Before coming to Tanzania, my only encounters with mud were those I actively sought. With its bitumen roads and paved footpaths, it is very easy to live and work in Melbourne and only ever come across mud if one chooses to deliberately go hunting for wet dirt in their back-garden or their local park. Suffice to say, choosing to hunt for wet dirt has never been high on my list of priorities!

The other thing you need to know about me is that I’m prone to the occasional trip or stagger or tumble. Once, when I came home from school with yet another skinned knee, my mum bemoaned failing to teach me how to walk properly. I view the old bluestone gutters in Melbourne’s inner suburbs as treacherous; to misplace my (high) heel can spell disaster. I spent many hours in my former job inspecting properties. Nothing made my stomach churn more than an agent turning to me in the foyer of a 25-level CBD building and brightly asking “Do you want to see the plant room?” A plant room has all sorts of equipment that ensures a building’s lifts, air-conditioners and lights work. It is on the roof of a building and almost always has a floor made from metal gridwork, i.e. it is a perilous floor-of-death with numerous, large holes in it that force me to walk on my tip-toes whilst gaily smiling through gritted teeth.

Upon arriving in Arusha, I was forced to develop a much more intimate working relationship with mud. This matter was non-negotiable as there are no paved roads in any direction for at least 7 kilometres.

In early January, there was a lot of rain and every road or path was a sucking, squelching bog. The time it took to walk from the volunteer village to Kesho Leo doubled, at minimum. And instead of walking, I’d gingerly part-slide, part-shuffle through the mud. Greeting our neighbours became virtually impossible as all my attention was focused on where to place my foot next.

My first fall into the mud neatly coincided with my first site-tour. After showing two visitors around Kesho Leo, we were returning to the volunteer village. Our guests were duly impressed with our project and I was mentally reviewing every aspect of foodwatershelter to ensure I hadn’t left anything out. Whoops! My left foot rapidly slid out in front of me, I was suddenly on my right knee and I then gently tumbled back onto my poor little bottom whilst my right hand sunk deep into the oozing mess. Our visitors thought this was just terrific!

As January stretched into February, three straight weeks of blazing hot sun baked dry the thick, sticky mud. Before our eyes, the mud was transformed into a patchwork quilt of dusty, diamond-shaped blocks. The sun cracked open the earth and out swirled the grit.

The mud was never far from my mind, though, and I invested in a pair of gumboots. The rain returned. The mud returned. A new and improved Sarah arrived. No longer was I sliding and shuffling through the mud; I was suddenly powering to Kesho Leo, marching along the road, dominating the mud.

Or so I thought!

I recently went down for the second time. My gumboots weren’t enough to save me from losing my footing and plopping onto my rear-end. I wasn’t conducting a site-tour this time and I thought no one had seen me until I heard an excited child yell “Mzungu! Down!”

I gave a bit of a half-hearted wave in the direction of the voice only to hear an adult, who I assumed to be the child’s mother, hiss “Pole” (sorry). To me, it sounded like an attempt to instil some manners into her child. Junior yells, even more loudly, “Pole, mzungu down!” as if “mzungu down” was my name.

And on that note, I got to my feet and giggled my muddy bum the rest of the way home.