Ken Russo is spending three months this winter volunteering at The Baobab Home, an orphanage in Bagamoyo, Tanzania that provides care for children with HIV/AIDS. He is documenting his fascinating experiences and sends us periodic updates from his journal. Here is his latest entry. Read about his whole journey starting back at the end of January …
Thursday, February 11 and Friday, February 12
Yesterday was very slow at the clinic and we had a lot of uji left over. We decided to visit a few wards of the hospital and offer breakfast. The conditions inside the wards were deplorable. Desperately ill people lying on filthy sheets if they were lucky enough to have sheets. Most were lying on the sagging, plastic mattresses with no pillows. The smells were overpowering and all surfaces were covered in grime. Mangy, starving cats roamed the wards at will looking for scraps or even insects. There were no fans and no mosquito netting. The maternity ward was especially squalid with one nurse for 25 mothers and their babies.
You cannot imagine the gratitude expressed by the patients for a simple bowl of porridge. The hospital serves no food so the people depend on loved ones to feed them. As we handed food out the patients would touch our hands and thank us, several people said bless you in Swahili.
After the hospital I walked over to Traveller’s Lodge to eat lunch and to re-group. The lodge is a tranquil oasis that I escape to once or twice a week for its serenity and good food. I must admit it was strange to sit there after the hospital experience. The raised patio has a thatched roof at least 30 feet high which contains several fans. The patio looks out over the dense landscaping. You can hear the ocean just beyond the “jungle” in front of you.
While I am writing this Terri called to tell me Steve died at 10:15 this morning, 2:15am east coast time. He was 15. I must stop writing now.
Friday, February 12
Yesterday seems like a bad dream. I was at the clinic when Terri called and she asked me to arrange transport of Steve’s body. If not for the kindness of Dr. Ayam and her affection for Steve and the assistance of physician assistant, Rigobert I would have been lost. They were patient, compassionate and so helpful. They quickly arranged for an ambulance (no small task in Tanzania) and Rigobert , recognizing my obvious distress, rode with me in the back. Mama Ponda one of the HIV clinic nurses rode in the front with the driver.
It was a somber scene at Terri’s house where Steve has been living for the past 8 months. Terri was in tears and the street boys were milling about asking how they could help.
The street boys are 8 teenagers who were living on the streets of Bagamoyo fending for themselves with no families to care for them and if they did have families the boys were often subjected to physical abuse. Terri took them in several years ago and Baobab found them housing and sponsors to pay for schooling. They are amongst the sweetest, most thoughtful group of kids I have ever met. They live together as a family of brothers in a 3 room apartment paid for by Baobab. They are all progressing in school and they are always asking how they can help. They all loved Steve and their grief was evident in their eyes. 3 of the boys put on rubber gloves and got ready to transport Steve. I first went in and sat with Steve whose body was covered in a white sheet. I uncovered his face. He looked so peaceful all the pain and fear had left his face. After all his suffering he looked like a little boy, fast asleep. The boys carried Steve to the ambulance, several of them in tears. They had all been so good with Steve when he was ill, rubbing his back, fetching whatever he needed, bathing him. I rode in the back of the ambulance with Steve and Rigobert. 3 of the boys followed in Terri’s jeep. We arrived at the hospital morgue and the boys carried Steve in and gently placed him in the stainless steel drawer.
We went back to Terri’s and sat on the porch not speaking for several hours as is the tradition here. Then people started to depart.
I went to eat and check my email at the internet café. As I was sitting there a text came in from Rigobert. It said: “Brother Ken, you don’t need to think a lot about Stive (sp), we loved him but God loved him most. I know it’s painful but the boy is resting and it’s the way it’s supposed to be. We are together in this painful moment. Let’s pray for him. Thanks for the spirit of helping you showed to our young brother Stive” I just sat there with tears flowing down my face. He said one other thing that haunts me, “My friend remember, this is Africa” It is either a statement of resignation or a cry for help to the western world. I believe it is probably both. The people here know that Steve died because of the geography of his birth. They know if he was born in the west he would be alive and thriving right now. But because “this is Africa” he is dead at 15 his tiny body in a stainless steel drawer in a refrigerated morgue in this stifling African town.
Saturday, February 13
Steve’s funeral was yesterday in the hills outside of Dar es Salaam. Baobab rented a 30 seat bus and it was packed with employees and friends. Halima sat next to me and pointed to things on the road and told me their names in Swahili. She then had me repeat what she said which always got a smile from her. The road to Dar was packed and it took a little over 2 hours to get there. About 1⁄2 hour before we arrived everyone on the bus started singing traditional hymns for the dead. It was so sudden and the voices were so beautiful, in harmony with the pitch rising and falling, that I was incredibly moved. Terri said the words spoke of the loss of a child and the chorus was “we will be together again”.
We parked at the bottom of a steep hill and as we walked through a cool, wooded area the people continued to sing and more fervently as we approached Steve’s grandmother’s house. Their voices were greeted by the voices of the women mourners inside the home and as we got nearer all the voices blended and we were surrounded by a wall of angelic sound tinged with sadness. We paid our respects to Steve’s distraught grandmother who took both of my hands and thanked me in English for being a friend to her grandson. The women inside continued to sing many songs as other women prepared the meal for at least 100 people. The men sat separately which confused several people as this was a Christian service. Perhaps it was out of respect to the many Muslims there. I was greeted warmly by many people several of whom spoke to me in English. A man came by with a basin and a pitcher of water. It is the custom to wash your right hand or both hands before you eat but you may only eat with your right. It was a bit of a challenge being left handed but I was able to eat without making too big of a mess. The food was delicious, if a little heavy on starch.
After everyone ate, the minister, in a white robe, came out along with all the women in the house and gave his sermon in a strong, clear voice. More singing and then they brought a table outside with a lace cloth on it and several men brought out Steve’s coffin and placed in on the table. There was a simple, hand painted cross with Steve’s name and dates of birth 6/6/1994 and death 2/11/2010. The men opened the coffin and pulled the sheet away from Steve’s face. Oddly, there was cotton in Steve’s mouth and nostrils. No one seemed to know why. The minister then directed everyone to file past to say kwa heri, goodbye. So many people in tears.
The whole congregation walked in silence 1⁄4 mile to the cemetery. The grave had been freshly dug that morning by 3 of the street boys who spent the previous night with Steve’s grandmother. It took them 5 hours. They placed the coffin in the grave and then Steve’s grandmother threw a handful of dirt in the grave as the minister said “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” in Swahili. The cross was pushed into the ground at the head of the grave. Working in shifts several men quickly filled the grave, sweating heavily with the effort. It was nearing sunset and everyone was exhausted with the emotion of the day. Terri was in tears for much of the day as was her husband, Caito. Halima held my hand as we walked back to the bus.
The ride back was filled with quiet recollection of Steve and more than once when people on the bus and at the funeral spoke of his death they said “Africa killed Steve not AIDS” My Swahili teacher told me that’s a common response to an early or unexpected death in Tanzania. I understand completely.
Thursday, February 11 and Friday, February 12
Yesterday was very slow at the clinic and we had a lot of uji left over. We decided to visit a few wards of the hospital and offer breakfast. The conditions inside the wards were deplorable. Desperately ill people lying on filthy sheets if they were lucky enough to have sheets. Most were lying on the sagging, plastic mattresses with no pillows. The smells were overpowering and all surfaces were covered in grime. Mangy, starving cats roamed the wards at will looking for scraps or even insects. There were no fans and no mosquito netting. The maternity ward was especially squalid with one nurse for 25 mothers and their babies.
You cannot imagine the gratitude expressed by the patients for a simple bowl of porridge. The hospital serves no food so the people depend on loved ones to feed them. As we handed food out the patients would touch our hands and thank us, several people said bless you in Swahili.
After the hospital I walked over to Traveller’s Lodge to eat lunch and to re-group. The lodge is a tranquil oasis that I escape to once or twice a week for its serenity and good food. I must admit it was strange to sit there after the hospital experience. The raised patio has a thatched roof at least 30 feet high which contains several fans. The patio looks out over the dense landscaping. You can hear the ocean just beyond the “jungle” in front of you.
While I am writing this Terri called to tell me Steve died at 10:15 this morning, 2:15am east coast time. He was 15. I must stop writing now.
Friday, February 12
Yesterday seems like a bad dream. I was at the clinic when Terri called and she asked me to arrange transport of Steve’s body. If not for the kindness of Dr. Ayam and her affection for Steve and the assistance of physician assistant, Rigobert I would have been lost. They were patient, compassionate and so helpful. They quickly arranged for an ambulance (no small task in Tanzania) and Rigobert , recognizing my obvious distress, rode with me in the back. Mama Ponda one of the HIV clinic nurses rode in the front with the driver.
It was a somber scene at Terri’s house where Steve has been living for the past 8 months. Terri was in tears and the street boys were milling about asking how they could help.
The street boys are 8 teenagers who were living on the streets of Bagamoyo fending for themselves with no families to care for them and if they did have families the boys were often subjected to physical abuse. Terri took them in several years ago and Baobab found them housing and sponsors to pay for schooling. They are amongst the sweetest, most thoughtful group of kids I have ever met. They live together as a family of brothers in a 3 room apartment paid for by Baobab. They are all progressing in school and they are always asking how they can help. They all loved Steve and their grief was evident in their eyes. 3 of the boys put on rubber gloves and got ready to transport Steve. I first went in and sat with Steve whose body was covered in a white sheet. I uncovered his face. He looked so peaceful all the pain and fear had left his face. After all his suffering he looked like a little boy, fast asleep. The boys carried Steve to the ambulance, several of them in tears. They had all been so good with Steve when he was ill, rubbing his back, fetching whatever he needed, bathing him. I rode in the back of the ambulance with Steve and Rigobert. 3 of the boys followed in Terri’s jeep. We arrived at the hospital morgue and the boys carried Steve in and gently placed him in the stainless steel drawer.
We went back to Terri’s and sat on the porch not speaking for several hours as is the tradition here. Then people started to depart.
I went to eat and check my email at the internet café. As I was sitting there a text came in from Rigobert. It said: “Brother Ken, you don’t need to think a lot about Stive (sp), we loved him but God loved him most. I know it’s painful but the boy is resting and it’s the way it’s supposed to be. We are together in this painful moment. Let’s pray for him. Thanks for the spirit of helping you showed to our young brother Stive” I just sat there with tears flowing down my face. He said one other thing that haunts me, “My friend remember, this is Africa” It is either a statement of resignation or a cry for help to the western world. I believe it is probably both. The people here know that Steve died because of the geography of his birth. They know if he was born in the west he would be alive and thriving right now. But because “this is Africa” he is dead at 15 his tiny body in a stainless steel drawer in a refrigerated morgue in this stifling African town.
Saturday, February 13
Steve’s funeral was yesterday in the hills outside of Dar es Salaam. Baobab rented a 30 seat bus and it was packed with employees and friends. Halima sat next to me and pointed to things on the road and told me their names in Swahili. She then had me repeat what she said which always got a smile from her. The road to Dar was packed and it took a little over 2 hours to get there. About 1⁄2 hour before we arrived everyone on the bus started singing traditional hymns for the dead. It was so sudden and the voices were so beautiful, in harmony with the pitch rising and falling, that I was incredibly moved. Terri said the words spoke of the loss of a child and the chorus was “we will be together again”.
We parked at the bottom of a steep hill and as we walked through a cool, wooded area the people continued to sing and more fervently as we approached Steve’s grandmother’s house. Their voices were greeted by the voices of the women mourners inside the home and as we got nearer all the voices blended and we were surrounded by a wall of angelic sound tinged with sadness. We paid our respects to Steve’s distraught grandmother who took both of my hands and thanked me in English for being a friend to her grandson. The women inside continued to sing many songs as other women prepared the meal for at least 100 people. The men sat separately which confused several people as this was a Christian service. Perhaps it was out of respect to the many Muslims there. I was greeted warmly by many people several of whom spoke to me in English. A man came by with a basin and a pitcher of water. It is the custom to wash your right hand or both hands before you eat but you may only eat with your right. It was a bit of a challenge being left handed but I was able to eat without making too big of a mess. The food was delicious, if a little heavy on starch.
After everyone ate, the minister, in a white robe, came out along with all the women in the house and gave his sermon in a strong, clear voice. More singing and then they brought a table outside with a lace cloth on it and several men brought out Steve’s coffin and placed in on the table. There was a simple, hand painted cross with Steve’s name and dates of birth 6/6/1994 and death 2/11/2010. The men opened the coffin and pulled the sheet away from Steve’s face. Oddly, there was cotton in Steve’s mouth and nostrils. No one seemed to know why. The minister then directed everyone to file past to say kwa heri, goodbye. So many people in tears.
The whole congregation walked in silence 1⁄4 mile to the cemetery. The grave had been freshly dug that morning by 3 of the street boys who spent the previous night with Steve’s grandmother. It took them 5 hours. They placed the coffin in the grave and then Steve’s grandmother threw a handful of dirt in the grave as the minister said “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” in Swahili. The cross was pushed into the ground at the head of the grave. Working in shifts several men quickly filled the grave, sweating heavily with the effort. It was nearing sunset and everyone was exhausted with the emotion of the day. Terri was in tears for much of the day as was her husband, Caito. Halima held my hand as we walked back to the bus.
The ride back was filled with quiet recollection of Steve and more than once when people on the bus and at the funeral spoke of his death they said “Africa killed Steve not AIDS” My Swahili teacher told me that’s a common response to an early or unexpected death in Tanzania. I understand completely.
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