6.23.2007
More firing
First, a caveat; overall our staff are wonderful. They are the heart and soul of the organization , and I adore working with them. It's just some hires...
Today I had to fire a driver. It was difficult one, because he was the first person I ever directly hired, and two because he wept and begged and pleaded for forgiveness the entire time. I had plenty of reasons to fire him—routinely late, complaints of dangerous driving, allegations that he showed up drunk one day, and paper proof that he was stealing gas money. We gave him a last warning. It was all perfectly reasonable and justified and entirely his fault. And originally I was furious at him for everything. But I still felt sorry when he realized he had ruined his opportunity and fell to pieces in front of me. I spoke soothingly, and held myself together until he left. Justified or not, I couldn’t relish it. Not at all.
Today I had to fire a driver. It was difficult one, because he was the first person I ever directly hired, and two because he wept and begged and pleaded for forgiveness the entire time. I had plenty of reasons to fire him—routinely late, complaints of dangerous driving, allegations that he showed up drunk one day, and paper proof that he was stealing gas money. We gave him a last warning. It was all perfectly reasonable and justified and entirely his fault. And originally I was furious at him for everything. But I still felt sorry when he realized he had ruined his opportunity and fell to pieces in front of me. I spoke soothingly, and held myself together until he left. Justified or not, I couldn’t relish it. Not at all.
The chungu
Two weeks before my first day at the office, there was a nighttime robbery at the office. Despite the fact that drawers were dumped out and windows left wide open, and despite the fact that the encircling houses all had guards, nobody heard anything. The police threw our guard in jail. Then after a day or two they contacted the person who had my job and presented a choice; either they would transfer our guard to prison, or they would drop the case. She decided to drop the case and gave the guard two weeks to find out who had done it or where the things were, or else he was fired.
On my first day, another staff member took the guard aside and told him that we were serious about firing him. The staff member urged him to do something to save himself. Then and there, the guard decided to break the chungu.
What is the chungu? It is a clay pot that, once broken, kills the person it was intended for and his offspring as well. Some Maasai people in and near Arusha believe very strongly in it. To break the chungu, you must consult the elders in your village, you must advertise for forty days, and then you must pay a handsome sum to bring the correct people to your house. You also have to choose a tree to break it on
So here is the management dilemma: you like your guard and don’t think he was involved in the robbery (though he was almost definitely fast asleep). You would like information leading to the arrest of the perpetrators and possible recovery of the stolen items. You would like everyone to know not to mess with your organization. But you also have staff who don’t believe in the chungu and would not like to be associated with it, and you have staff who do believe in the chungu who do not want the robbers’ blood on their hands. For breaking the chungu to get you what you want, you will have to advertise widely that your organization has entered into this business of black magic.
Before we had all the information, we initially agreed to break it. When the guard brought the elder from the village to talk to me, we learned for the first time about the expenses associated with it, and the question ended up being a matter of cost and not of culture. We fired the guard, and settled up his account. A matter of paperwork, typical office stuff.
On my first day, another staff member took the guard aside and told him that we were serious about firing him. The staff member urged him to do something to save himself. Then and there, the guard decided to break the chungu.
What is the chungu? It is a clay pot that, once broken, kills the person it was intended for and his offspring as well. Some Maasai people in and near Arusha believe very strongly in it. To break the chungu, you must consult the elders in your village, you must advertise for forty days, and then you must pay a handsome sum to bring the correct people to your house. You also have to choose a tree to break it on
So here is the management dilemma: you like your guard and don’t think he was involved in the robbery (though he was almost definitely fast asleep). You would like information leading to the arrest of the perpetrators and possible recovery of the stolen items. You would like everyone to know not to mess with your organization. But you also have staff who don’t believe in the chungu and would not like to be associated with it, and you have staff who do believe in the chungu who do not want the robbers’ blood on their hands. For breaking the chungu to get you what you want, you will have to advertise widely that your organization has entered into this business of black magic.
Before we had all the information, we initially agreed to break it. When the guard brought the elder from the village to talk to me, we learned for the first time about the expenses associated with it, and the question ended up being a matter of cost and not of culture. We fired the guard, and settled up his account. A matter of paperwork, typical office stuff.
6.13.2007
Living
Well, despite appearances, I did not get on a plane at the beginning of May and fly off the face of the earth. No, I landed safely in Arusha, Tanzania and began work the next day. The last month has been a torrent of learning and new experiences—Swahili vocabulary, new accounting software, driving on the left and off-road, meeting new people, searching for old friends, setting up my new life, the one I always wanted.
My work is awesome. In the morning, I arrive early to check emails that came in overnight, and to be there to greet everyone as they come in. We have five Tanzanian field officers, who run our programs in the field. They are amazing—outspoken, very bright, and committed to their work and to the communities they serve. Our counseling team is comprised of a portly older man, a grizzled Rastafarian, and a young Kenyan woman with a sweet smile. We have two professional drivers and a full-time mechanic who make up a masculine, jokey crew. We have a guard at night and a part-time cleaner who comes twice a week. Before I arrived, the entire staff minus one counselor climbed a steep and treacherous peak in Masai land. Erica, the Volunteer Programs Manager from California, organized the trip and in a reflection of her fun personality, made certificates congratulating everyone on reaching the top of the Mountain of God. The last set of characters are our three trucks—old Landrovers named Bobby and Bongo and a Landcruiser—each with their own quirks and personalities that can make or ruin everyone's day.
In the office I work on monitoring, I design program evaluations, I update the calendar, I enter receipts, I write proposals and emails and budgets. Sometimes I run errands in town; sweating in line at the bank, buying office supplies in dim shops, waiting for a sluggish photocopier. Arusha is the same as it always was, but a bit nicer—the streets bustle with vendors and businesspeople and laborers, but these days there are more tourists around to divert the truly annoying hangers-on. With a fast stride, no eye contact, and a few sentences in Swahili, I can usually lose them within half a block.
Away from the office and out of town is even more interesting. I jump on a truck with one of the field officers to follow up our school peer education program, driving for miles past scrubby trees on a dusty track, until suddenly we reach a neatly swept classroom block with hundreds of students milling around and desperate, well-dressed teachers stranded miles from anywhere. We conduct community health worker training on a rainy day, barely making it up a slippery mountain road to meet six serious people in their Sunday best, thoughtfully taking notes as we explain the program. We conduct HIV testing at a Masai market outside of town. Outside, people draped in red and blue blankets sell goats, cows, bananas, cooking pots, soap. Inside, in a hot little office, I prick work-hardened fingers, and capture drops of blood for the test. The simple strip works like a pregnancy test—if the second line appears within a few minutes, the person has HIV. That second line is a heartbreaker every time.
At night, after work, there are a few things to do in Arusha. At the house where I'm staying, we observe the nightly dramas of two cats, one dog, and eight blind puppies. If we go out, there are excellent Indian restaurants and open air grills serving marvelous chicken, roast bananas, and fish grilled with spicy cabbage in foil. There is a backpackers bar that does a semblance of Mexican food, three Chinese restaurants, and the fancy tourist hotels for a break from it all. Some of the more recent, and more surreal, additions to the Arusha nightlife include a fully-equipped movie theater with cushioned seats and popcorn and movies from a month ago, and a tiny karaoke bar with Japanese snacks and karaoke videos in Japanese, English, and Swahili. The latter is always packed.
I am looking forward to the coming months—getting deeper into the work, driving the big trucks, finding my own place and moving in and making it my own. It is sad to be far from people I care deeply about, and to feel too immersed here to email as much as I would like. I can't deny that I'm already looking forward to the Christmas break. But I also can't deny that I have the life I was looking for.
My work is awesome. In the morning, I arrive early to check emails that came in overnight, and to be there to greet everyone as they come in. We have five Tanzanian field officers, who run our programs in the field. They are amazing—outspoken, very bright, and committed to their work and to the communities they serve. Our counseling team is comprised of a portly older man, a grizzled Rastafarian, and a young Kenyan woman with a sweet smile. We have two professional drivers and a full-time mechanic who make up a masculine, jokey crew. We have a guard at night and a part-time cleaner who comes twice a week. Before I arrived, the entire staff minus one counselor climbed a steep and treacherous peak in Masai land. Erica, the Volunteer Programs Manager from California, organized the trip and in a reflection of her fun personality, made certificates congratulating everyone on reaching the top of the Mountain of God. The last set of characters are our three trucks—old Landrovers named Bobby and Bongo and a Landcruiser—each with their own quirks and personalities that can make or ruin everyone's day.
In the office I work on monitoring, I design program evaluations, I update the calendar, I enter receipts, I write proposals and emails and budgets. Sometimes I run errands in town; sweating in line at the bank, buying office supplies in dim shops, waiting for a sluggish photocopier. Arusha is the same as it always was, but a bit nicer—the streets bustle with vendors and businesspeople and laborers, but these days there are more tourists around to divert the truly annoying hangers-on. With a fast stride, no eye contact, and a few sentences in Swahili, I can usually lose them within half a block.
Away from the office and out of town is even more interesting. I jump on a truck with one of the field officers to follow up our school peer education program, driving for miles past scrubby trees on a dusty track, until suddenly we reach a neatly swept classroom block with hundreds of students milling around and desperate, well-dressed teachers stranded miles from anywhere. We conduct community health worker training on a rainy day, barely making it up a slippery mountain road to meet six serious people in their Sunday best, thoughtfully taking notes as we explain the program. We conduct HIV testing at a Masai market outside of town. Outside, people draped in red and blue blankets sell goats, cows, bananas, cooking pots, soap. Inside, in a hot little office, I prick work-hardened fingers, and capture drops of blood for the test. The simple strip works like a pregnancy test—if the second line appears within a few minutes, the person has HIV. That second line is a heartbreaker every time.
At night, after work, there are a few things to do in Arusha. At the house where I'm staying, we observe the nightly dramas of two cats, one dog, and eight blind puppies. If we go out, there are excellent Indian restaurants and open air grills serving marvelous chicken, roast bananas, and fish grilled with spicy cabbage in foil. There is a backpackers bar that does a semblance of Mexican food, three Chinese restaurants, and the fancy tourist hotels for a break from it all. Some of the more recent, and more surreal, additions to the Arusha nightlife include a fully-equipped movie theater with cushioned seats and popcorn and movies from a month ago, and a tiny karaoke bar with Japanese snacks and karaoke videos in Japanese, English, and Swahili. The latter is always packed.
I am looking forward to the coming months—getting deeper into the work, driving the big trucks, finding my own place and moving in and making it my own. It is sad to be far from people I care deeply about, and to feel too immersed here to email as much as I would like. I can't deny that I'm already looking forward to the Christmas break. But I also can't deny that I have the life I was looking for.
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