Recaps & Reflections from Mr.Kahrl - continued
July 24th, 2017
"Ten… eight…. ten…. ten….” The older men of the group each called out how many children they had. Stanley Kachecheba, the staff person from Pathfinder International, then turned to the younger members of the group. “Two, zero [unmarried], one…” was their response. I felt as if I were witnessing the demographic transition from a front row seat. In one generation, fertility rates, at least in this very small sample in this very small village outside of Stone Town Zanzibar, was dropping off a cliff, but without any element of coercion.
The men spoke of the shift in cultural norms that the parenting class was bringing. They were moving away from the old model wherein a man supplied income and food to his family, but little else, to one where he was present, physically and emotionally, for his kids. It rang familiar for me as I looked across the circle to see my daughter raise her hand: “What do you like most about the class?” A variety of answers were all undergirded by a sense of gratitude about the change they felt.
Yet challenges still remained. Despite learning about various family planning methods and the option of choosing to have fewer children, often these various methods were not available at the clinic. Women also reported that they feared taking birth control pills would leave them permanently infertile. Stockouts are a persistent problem in lower income countries. They are doubly damaging because not only do they simply leave people without, but they also, it has been seen, lead to a further drop in adoption rates as people develop a greater distrust of the supply chain. Myths about various methods simply make this tendency even worse.
And yet. And yet. There those men stood, one after another, testifying to the efficacy of the class, laughing as they looked back on their own choices, supporting others as they made different ones, and welcoming us into their group. Our first morning in Zanzibar could not have gone much better.
After we boarded our transport, the fields of central Zanzibar whipped by again. Stone Town had long given away to a more rural feel, as one of the few north south roads on the island took us towards Nungwe, where we would stop for lunch, but not before a layover at a local school to see another of Pathfinder’s projects, this one would feature children. This time we gathered inside a small cement building altogether typical of Tanzania. The smooth floor of poured concrete stretched before us as we slid onto the rows of benches.
Soon, the actors emerged from the next room. “There are two families,” Stanley explained, “and the play will tell you the effects of bad choices, choices that soon became glaringly clear. The skills of the young thespians overcame our lack of fluency in Swahili, so that, although the dialogue remained largely a mystery [we received about a sentence of translation for every scene], we could understand the message.
In the first family, both father and mother resorted to the switch to enforce discipline. The girls steadily became more recalcitrant, resisting doing chores, stealing food, and eventually stealing money. Outside of the home, they consort with a man who gives them material goods, and, soon simply money, in exchange for sex. Even without the dialogue, we could see the relationship between the girls and the young man turn from what seemed simply to be a boyfriend to one based on transactional sex.
Conversely, in the other family, the mother and father were more loving and supportive with conversations over dinner. The boy and the girl in this second home encounter the ne’er-do-well sisters and warn them against their “boyfriend”, but to no avail. It was clear that the lack of love at home, and the use of corporal punishment, had driven the girls down the wrong path. It was a powerful, clear, and plain message delivered by twelve year old actors. By the end of the performance, the back half of the room had filled with curious onlookers. And the technique of community drama’s mesmerizing effectiveness in delivering hard messages could be seen first-hand behind us.
New Generation Queens
The morning had already been filled with energy. Kindergarteners at recess. No more needs be said. But for me, returning to the dusty, uneven pitch that was altogether typical of the fields where football, what the world calls football, was played on Zanzibar was something particularly special. The familiar figure in a red and white jersey (was it the same one I’d seen in the film?) was visible from quite a distance. And up she strode, looking as confident and friendly as ever. Riziq. The language we spoke in common was sports, not verbal. But we shared. Bags of equipment, mostly donated cleats, awaited her and her team’s inspection. Later in the match, my daughter of 14 smiled to see her old Wellesley town soccer backpack worn proudly by Chewy, the Queens’ coach, as it contained a whistle, a few cones to set up drills, and two spare pairs of keeper gloves.
And so we began. Several Zanzibaris, both men and women, mixed with two Mhindis (Indians) and Mzungus (whites) both young and old. Riziq, the captain of the New Generation Queens and the star of the eponymous movie, put me at center back, but our deficit of two players turned to four when two late arrivals joined the other team, and soon we were not only four players down, but four goals as well. Shortly thereafter, the halftime whistle blew, much to the relief of my tired legs. The crowd on the sideline had swelled, but it was clear that, compared to a year ago, seeing women play soccer was less unusual. Despite the fact that their skills had improved in the interim, the Tanzanian women did not seem to have the same armored aggressiveness, as though they were struggling against the opponents on the field and prepared for slights or criticism from the sidelines. This time, the pitch on which we played was not on the outskirts of town, but one at the central park. Women could reserve these fields too. Our luck changed in the second half, or perhaps it was the addition of two other players and the retirement of one of the opponents, but, at least on the scoreboard, we ended short by two. No one was hurt. My daughter, her star rising even faster than mine was falling, admitted that perhaps I wasn’t that bad, much to her and others’ surprise. And, of course, the dusty legs, the sweaty brow, and the grins together at the end for one picture of all players together, all were well-earned. The Beautiful Game, in what could not be more appropriately named “a friendly” had once again spread joy to another corner of the globe.
SOS School - kindergarten recess.
Energy, energy, energy. When we pulled out the two playground parachutes, it was almost like flecks of iron to a magnet. They all circled around, shrieks of joy filling the dirt playground, swings and merry-go-round abandoned for the new attraction. Up and down, up and down, flapping flapping flapping, until we finally stopped them, they let go of the edges momentarily, and then we could get it to billow up and down.
Soon, we folded it up, little ones began getting rides on shoulders and swung around, and the teachers extended recess for another thirty minutes to take advantage of the extra twelve entertainers who had arrived. I moved over, stood amongst the veterans, and watched them enjoy the momentary respite we were providing. It was a win for everyone involved.
The Spice Farm
Economics. I have to expand Global Leadership activities, lessons, and projects to include more on economics, because that’s what the Spice Farm can be all about. The drive out from Stone Town grew steadily more rural until a hard turn down a very bumpy dirt road reminded me of the importance of infrastructure. An hour on those bumps and we wouldn’t have made it for motion sickness and the car’s suspension wouldn’t have made it either. But there we were.
“He’s my uncle,” our guide Fatma said with a smile. Of course. It seemed as though everyone we met or worked with was either a relative or a close friend. Indeed. He had owned the farm for thirty years and worked on it for another fifteen before that. We walked up to various plants and trees. He’d have us guess what they were - few of us knew anything - and then he would give us something to taste or smell - allspice, cinnamon bark, peppers (very hot), cardamon, and others. And then he would have us guess how much each spice sold on the market. The winner was vanilla bean at US$190 per kilo. The daily wage of the worker who helped prepare the samples as we toured the farm? US$10 per day.
The bus ride back home for lunch was filled with a discussion about capacity building, using capital to build local capacity or to take profits off to Europe or America. Like many post-colonial societies that have been gripped by neo-colonialism afterwards, parts of Africa still suffer from foreign ownership of local industries. Our hotel is owned by a man who lives in Singapore. And yet, as local capacity increases, whether for spice and coffee production, hotel management and ownership, among many other business, hopefully more of the profits from these industries will remain here.
The visit to Jozani Forest National Park the next day was a sign of progress. The government has set aside hundreds of hectares of land. Park of the entrance fee helps the communities around the park, whether for schools or health posts. As a result, the communities help protect the park and the local monkey population. And tourists stream into the park. Guides, many of whom now provide tours in languages other than English, have more business.
"Ten… eight…. ten…. ten….” The older men of the group each called out how many children they had. Stanley Kachecheba, the staff person from Pathfinder International, then turned to the younger members of the group. “Two, zero [unmarried], one…” was their response. I felt as if I were witnessing the demographic transition from a front row seat. In one generation, fertility rates, at least in this very small sample in this very small village outside of Stone Town Zanzibar, was dropping off a cliff, but without any element of coercion.
The men spoke of the shift in cultural norms that the parenting class was bringing. They were moving away from the old model wherein a man supplied income and food to his family, but little else, to one where he was present, physically and emotionally, for his kids. It rang familiar for me as I looked across the circle to see my daughter raise her hand: “What do you like most about the class?” A variety of answers were all undergirded by a sense of gratitude about the change they felt.
Yet challenges still remained. Despite learning about various family planning methods and the option of choosing to have fewer children, often these various methods were not available at the clinic. Women also reported that they feared taking birth control pills would leave them permanently infertile. Stockouts are a persistent problem in lower income countries. They are doubly damaging because not only do they simply leave people without, but they also, it has been seen, lead to a further drop in adoption rates as people develop a greater distrust of the supply chain. Myths about various methods simply make this tendency even worse.
And yet. And yet. There those men stood, one after another, testifying to the efficacy of the class, laughing as they looked back on their own choices, supporting others as they made different ones, and welcoming us into their group. Our first morning in Zanzibar could not have gone much better.
After we boarded our transport, the fields of central Zanzibar whipped by again. Stone Town had long given away to a more rural feel, as one of the few north south roads on the island took us towards Nungwe, where we would stop for lunch, but not before a layover at a local school to see another of Pathfinder’s projects, this one would feature children. This time we gathered inside a small cement building altogether typical of Tanzania. The smooth floor of poured concrete stretched before us as we slid onto the rows of benches.
Soon, the actors emerged from the next room. “There are two families,” Stanley explained, “and the play will tell you the effects of bad choices, choices that soon became glaringly clear. The skills of the young thespians overcame our lack of fluency in Swahili, so that, although the dialogue remained largely a mystery [we received about a sentence of translation for every scene], we could understand the message.
In the first family, both father and mother resorted to the switch to enforce discipline. The girls steadily became more recalcitrant, resisting doing chores, stealing food, and eventually stealing money. Outside of the home, they consort with a man who gives them material goods, and, soon simply money, in exchange for sex. Even without the dialogue, we could see the relationship between the girls and the young man turn from what seemed simply to be a boyfriend to one based on transactional sex.
Conversely, in the other family, the mother and father were more loving and supportive with conversations over dinner. The boy and the girl in this second home encounter the ne’er-do-well sisters and warn them against their “boyfriend”, but to no avail. It was clear that the lack of love at home, and the use of corporal punishment, had driven the girls down the wrong path. It was a powerful, clear, and plain message delivered by twelve year old actors. By the end of the performance, the back half of the room had filled with curious onlookers. And the technique of community drama’s mesmerizing effectiveness in delivering hard messages could be seen first-hand behind us.
New Generation Queens
The morning had already been filled with energy. Kindergarteners at recess. No more needs be said. But for me, returning to the dusty, uneven pitch that was altogether typical of the fields where football, what the world calls football, was played on Zanzibar was something particularly special. The familiar figure in a red and white jersey (was it the same one I’d seen in the film?) was visible from quite a distance. And up she strode, looking as confident and friendly as ever. Riziq. The language we spoke in common was sports, not verbal. But we shared. Bags of equipment, mostly donated cleats, awaited her and her team’s inspection. Later in the match, my daughter of 14 smiled to see her old Wellesley town soccer backpack worn proudly by Chewy, the Queens’ coach, as it contained a whistle, a few cones to set up drills, and two spare pairs of keeper gloves.
And so we began. Several Zanzibaris, both men and women, mixed with two Mhindis (Indians) and Mzungus (whites) both young and old. Riziq, the captain of the New Generation Queens and the star of the eponymous movie, put me at center back, but our deficit of two players turned to four when two late arrivals joined the other team, and soon we were not only four players down, but four goals as well. Shortly thereafter, the halftime whistle blew, much to the relief of my tired legs. The crowd on the sideline had swelled, but it was clear that, compared to a year ago, seeing women play soccer was less unusual. Despite the fact that their skills had improved in the interim, the Tanzanian women did not seem to have the same armored aggressiveness, as though they were struggling against the opponents on the field and prepared for slights or criticism from the sidelines. This time, the pitch on which we played was not on the outskirts of town, but one at the central park. Women could reserve these fields too. Our luck changed in the second half, or perhaps it was the addition of two other players and the retirement of one of the opponents, but, at least on the scoreboard, we ended short by two. No one was hurt. My daughter, her star rising even faster than mine was falling, admitted that perhaps I wasn’t that bad, much to her and others’ surprise. And, of course, the dusty legs, the sweaty brow, and the grins together at the end for one picture of all players together, all were well-earned. The Beautiful Game, in what could not be more appropriately named “a friendly” had once again spread joy to another corner of the globe.
SOS School - kindergarten recess.
Energy, energy, energy. When we pulled out the two playground parachutes, it was almost like flecks of iron to a magnet. They all circled around, shrieks of joy filling the dirt playground, swings and merry-go-round abandoned for the new attraction. Up and down, up and down, flapping flapping flapping, until we finally stopped them, they let go of the edges momentarily, and then we could get it to billow up and down.
Soon, we folded it up, little ones began getting rides on shoulders and swung around, and the teachers extended recess for another thirty minutes to take advantage of the extra twelve entertainers who had arrived. I moved over, stood amongst the veterans, and watched them enjoy the momentary respite we were providing. It was a win for everyone involved.
The Spice Farm
Economics. I have to expand Global Leadership activities, lessons, and projects to include more on economics, because that’s what the Spice Farm can be all about. The drive out from Stone Town grew steadily more rural until a hard turn down a very bumpy dirt road reminded me of the importance of infrastructure. An hour on those bumps and we wouldn’t have made it for motion sickness and the car’s suspension wouldn’t have made it either. But there we were.
“He’s my uncle,” our guide Fatma said with a smile. Of course. It seemed as though everyone we met or worked with was either a relative or a close friend. Indeed. He had owned the farm for thirty years and worked on it for another fifteen before that. We walked up to various plants and trees. He’d have us guess what they were - few of us knew anything - and then he would give us something to taste or smell - allspice, cinnamon bark, peppers (very hot), cardamon, and others. And then he would have us guess how much each spice sold on the market. The winner was vanilla bean at US$190 per kilo. The daily wage of the worker who helped prepare the samples as we toured the farm? US$10 per day.
The bus ride back home for lunch was filled with a discussion about capacity building, using capital to build local capacity or to take profits off to Europe or America. Like many post-colonial societies that have been gripped by neo-colonialism afterwards, parts of Africa still suffer from foreign ownership of local industries. Our hotel is owned by a man who lives in Singapore. And yet, as local capacity increases, whether for spice and coffee production, hotel management and ownership, among many other business, hopefully more of the profits from these industries will remain here.
The visit to Jozani Forest National Park the next day was a sign of progress. The government has set aside hundreds of hectares of land. Park of the entrance fee helps the communities around the park, whether for schools or health posts. As a result, the communities help protect the park and the local monkey population. And tourists stream into the park. Guides, many of whom now provide tours in languages other than English, have more business.