The women are wrapped and the men are braided, the children are bald, so the lice won’t catch. The power goes out every hour so the candles are ready and I find myself riding in a Bijaji: a  three wheeled go-cart taxi listening to Bonga Flava and smiling: such a rich world in front of me, and me just a white lady with too big or maybe too little a heart to take it all in. What are we doing in America? Why do we have so much, so big, so bright?  It all seems so vacuous in relation to what life’s essence really tastes like, and isn’t that why international exchange is so important? So we stop whining about the petty and start training our minds to “see” what is really needed. I pick up a child that is being held by one not much bigger, and the mother calls out “Take it!”
Maybe I will…. come home with babies, or lice, or malaria, maybe I will come home with a deeper vision and sensitivity to small children holding small children because Mom has too many and Dad has a new family.

After a week in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, Africa, I am trying to assimilate my impressions and feelings, with difficulty. I, along with the intrepid Gamal Palmer, a Yale Drama School  graduate and now my colleague who spear-headed our Theatre For Social Change Program, have taken five Yale School of Drama students to Dar es Salaam; Margot Bordelon, Elia Monte-Brown, Justin Taylor, Lauren Dubowski and Dan O’Brien along with UC Berkeley Professor of Music, Myra Melford.  This Yale Summer Program was focused on working with (for the second year in a row) a man I consider to be a master of theatre for social change, Mgunga Mwa Mnyenyelwa.  Last year we worked with his theatre company Parapanda Theatre Lab, this year with Babawatoto, a community center for children which he founded in 2006 in the poor neighborhood of Mburahati kwa Jongo.  Trash and huts, motorcycles, and bananas mix into the air with a spirit unlike any I have known. Coming back a second time makes it easier: how to wash hands in a bucket, and pee in a hole in the ground without getting baffled.

Our first activity was to paint the Babawatoto Center in honor of our colleague who passed away, Dawn Mays- Hardy, as it was her idea and wish last year when she was our third faculty member representing the Yale Divinity School. So the Program started with a group effort that was physically challenging, but heart warming and community building. The actors that we are working with at the Babawatoto Center (which means father of the children) are song and dance dreams..chanting and harmonizing drop from their mouths like air, and whoever has a free hand finds it on a drum. The female pelvises start dancing right off the body, seems to me, so loose and unabashedly sensual. My attempt to produce the same movement from my skinny white frame is, well, laughable. I feel like I am seven! The men are doing handstands and flips and deep knee jumps as the songs twine like fibers in a fine cloth. I am back in Africa, and my lower chakras are vibrating with life!

 

Behavior Change Process

This procedure called Behavior Change Process (BCP) which is based on Augusto Boal’s Theatre of the Oppressed, starts with

1.Familiarization:

As Mgunga says, “We learn from a culture and work from the inside. We do not try and get them to re-think their culture.” The first walk around the village was just to look and see, and ask, where the problems are. This two -week process is considered a “training” on how to facilitate BCP. A real intervention, as Mgunga emphasizes, would take at least 3 months. So with our two weeks and raw senses, we familiarize ourselves to the neighborhood. Our African partner -actors, Oliver John, Mkude Kilosa, Neema Maganga, Maulid Mohamed, Ian Mwaisunga, and Eliza Simon know the area well, so they are looking through experienced eyes. This is my second visit, along with Gamal’s, so we are looking with half peeled eyes. But the Yale students, well, they are looking with unadulterated virgin eyes, and the sizzling between the ears is apparent. It takes awhile for the new sensory input to reach the brain and assimilate into cohesive thought. You really can’t get much more different than New Haven and Mburahati kwa Jongo.  After much debate, we choose an issue; Unattended Children at Risk.

 

2. Data Collection;

We research the Mburahati community in small groups of 3 or 4. Each group decides to interview a specific group involved in our chosen issue. My group’s focus is parents. Of course, my Swahili is limited to a few words of greeting, so the African actors interview the tired mothers resting on their wooden steps, while I play with the children like a pied piper…so many. I remember from last year. I fall in love every time I turn my head: another child’s deep gaze, another hopeful smile on pure ebony skin. I have pictures and pictures. I enjoyed the role of the photographer throughout this trip.  I become obsessed with trying to capture each child’s beauty into the camera box.

 

3. Analyze the Data;

We take several days making charts and discussing, and eventually funneling into one chart.

 

• Issue

• Root causes

• Consequences

• Possible solutions

• People responsible

The key to this work is to uncover the root causes  which lie underneath the surface problems, so as to get to the plethora of consequences that result. This is a challenging process with people such as ourselves who are unfamiliar with the culture, as all we see is so unusual. What is normal? Is a five year old taking care of a nine -month old baby normal? Is that accepted practice? Is polygamy normal, a man taking two, three, or even four wives? This is part of the Muslim tradition; a cultural practice. My fierce feminism starts to crawl up my throat, but I look again, and see that polygamy is not only accepted but enjoyed by women. This is not a root cause. How do we learn about a community without placing our value system on what we see? This is where the Lucid Body non-judgmental mind comes in. As an actor drops into the value system of the character she is playing, so we, the outsiders, must drop into the value system of the community.

The theatre that we create must be not from our perspective, but from that of the people who will be viewing, our audience. We mirror them. This is theatre for social change; medicine for its community, to reveal itself in a way that strips away the dirt, like a window wash. We, especially being Westerners, have a disadvantage with our not totally untrue reputation of being greedy consumers. So for us, we have to be particularly sensitive listeners and observers. We follow the leads of our Babawatoto actors who are more familiar with the customs of these developing communities, and allow ourselves to be the interested outsiders with new eyes.

 

4.The Theatre Construction:

Our next step begins as each group creates a scene based on what they learned from their focus groups: children, parents, store owners, government officials and police authorities.

I feel excited about directing this piece. However, the process is based on a real democratic all -hands- on- deck contribution. So I am trying to facilitate and coordinate all these ideas from the actors, with major assistance from Gamal and Mgunga.  Last year was tougher, trying to find this balance of assimilating and creating. But such is the joy of a second chance! It also helps to have one of my closest friend, Myra, working with the musicians. She and I have collaborated often, so we can land a visual sound cue with the nod of a head. Then there is the matter of translation. With ideas flying, and music spontaneously erupting, there is always a moment when someone shouts “Can we have translation please!!!” By the way, Swahili is the sweetest language I have ever heard, like baby talk, it is full of wide rounded vowels and extended consonants. Baba, Bibi, Pole-pole.

I am in a slip -stream for a few days, that place where one finds oneself exactly where you should be doing what you do well in a flow with those around you. Ha! (a swahili quick sound eruption while taking in air, expressing exceptional surprise) The piece is turning out to be funny yet poignant and will be performed out on dusty road, not just in Mburahati but  also at its neighboring community, Mabibo. My mantra: entertaining AND provocative. entertaining and provocative, entertaining and pro..

We are preparing today for our performance in the village. After two days we have constructed a piece about too many births, intoxicating prayer, tired mothers, and abandoned children. I am excited but anxious. Here in Africa, expect what you have not planned for.

 

5.  Performance for the Community

Performance #1

 

A huge crowd is gathered before the performance by several means. One, a guy on stilts, I mean high on stilts like 12 feet, with a mask, is dancing around. The children come running. Two, Naame and Eliza appear with huge balloons  strapped to their backsides, clown face paint and attitude. They come clowning out onto the field, buboom, bupa boom bup aboom, those asses bouncing in the wind; more kids, more laughter and gaiety, oh -it-is-time-to have-fun kind of atmosphere. And here come the fathers, the mothers, the grandparents. A playing space is roped off, the musicians start playing and we are IN.

The piece spans three generations of Mamas in about 20 minutes, very physical, very musical. Myra and the musicians create a rich and vivid sound scape of sounds, songs and rhythm. Our piece starts with our Baba, the father, praying for blessings from God to have a child. And we watch an actor roll out from underneath a groaning Mama, and then another, and then.. twins! I peek at the Bibi, a grandmother in the crowd and she has her conga up to her mouth concealing her toothless glee! Then our father character drinks, and mother gets overwhelmed and throws the throngs of children out on the street. A  baby gets killed by a motorcycle, a funeral, teen pregnancy and then to our final moment. I am clearly just running you thru this like a fast -forward, but believe me when I say we have the audience glued.  When we stop the piece before Eliza’s character abandons her child on the street and the mob is about to beat her to a bloody pulp, the Joker (as Boal calls the mediator), stops the action and starts asking the audience questions and the real juice of the BCP begins. I am watching from the audience, taking pictures, and wiggling with the excitement of this next hour. My heart, spirit and eyes are throbbing.

A huge debate ensues, led by Mgunga, our Joker. The mics are passed around, and even though I do not understand Swahili, I understand body language and there is some sticky stuff going down; the Muslims talking to Christians, listening to teenagers, and young mothers.  One of our characters, the drunk father, comes out to answer questions. This technique is called Hot Seat. A ten -year old kid strides up to the mic and just lets him have it.

“You take all the money and get drunk and make us kids work just so you can drink ….and you shouldn’t be drinking that local beer anyway. People died last week…” The child’s anger was real, and this event gave him the opportunity, without fear, to express himself.

 

Performance #2.

The acrobats, who trained at Babawatoto did an amazing pre-show. Part way thru the show, HA! all the kids that are perched on top of an old rusty shed roof start screaming,  as the roof cracks and collapses…mid-performance!  They scatter like mice, and are luckily unharmed. In a few seconds they push and shove their way into a place on the dirt in the front, undaunted by a mere fall from 15 feet. Yeah, these kids are survivors. These are the throngs I imagine when I think of Dar es Salaam. For someone with a bit of crowd claustrophobia, I am slightly startled when the throngs switch direction and, like a flood, start oozng into a new direction.

The performance continues because that is what it does. It goes on despite life, or because of life. It goes on. Out comes the Joker, and bang, we are in…debate. The woman with missing teeth complains about children being unmanned by their parents, and these same parents not allowing other parents to discipline their kids. A father complains about globalization, the video watching that is ruining the minds of the kids.

Mgunga utilizes another BCP technique, Involved Improvisation. He asks if there is an audience member who would like to play Eliza’s part, holding a baby and being shut out. One girl shyly comes forward. The scene and music start, as this brave girl knocks on doors that slam in her face. Her answer was not to leave the baby, but pray to God, as did volunteer woman #2. The audience could see how this solution was a passive one. More debate. How does one become the hand of God and not wait for the hand of God?

Post-performance entertainment breaks out with Snake man! Mkude, comes out with a big box and unleashes a HUGE snake, a Boa Constrictor and proceeds to tease it, wrap it, and eventually put its mouth in his own..quite gruesome in  the way a crowd loves to enjoy together.

 

6. Follow -Up:

The crowd disperses slowly for their first meal of the day. This is Ramadan, when the Muslims do not drink or eat until sundown every day for a month. It is a humbling experience, to be working with people who are not drinking water all day.  We invite the Muslim people from the community to Iftar, a breaking of the Fast, on the evening after the show, to welcome them to Babawatoto to continue the discussion. This is the final stage of the BCP.

What a ritual! The place is transformed. The local restaurants have made food. The carpets are put out in one corner for the women. The men sit on the other half of the room. All the women, including our selves, are wrapped around the head and neck, congas wrapped around our legs. At sun -down the men line up for food first, seconded by the women, third by the children. We all get a hand washing. The Tanzanians eat with their hands, or I should say hand, the right hand, so they wash thoroughly before and after. Someone stands at the beginning of the line and pours soap and water on our hands. I find it soothing. We are offered spoons, which is a generous and appreciated offer.

I feel claustrophobic and slightly aggravated, being separated, shrouded and seconded, but at the same time experience a calm as well, like the calm one experiences when boundaries create warmth instead of fear; the windows rolled up to block the wind.  I am aware of being offered a tiny glimpse into the experience of thousands of women around the world. My awareness opens.

The cast comes back to the hotel and we host a dinner. We dance together because it is truer than language. Each actor grabs me on the dance floor and we speak without speaking, applauding our new found friendship by blending our movements into one. I believe my hips have loosened up! I am happy; such collaborative work, such heart -speaking people, and so beautiful. HA!  The faces…I feel a pang of panic. I am coming home soon and all this will vanish. Gamal and I grab hands, partners from the inception, seeing the growth of our idea… Myra, hugs ..tears. Mgunga, my mentor, walks down the steep stairs of the hotel, and I imprint his spirit onto mine, hoping to be half as brave, half as clear, half the leader that he is. He inspires and affects throngs of people in his country, and, despite my claustrophobia, I am happily part of that throng.

 

The After Glow

I get off the 14 hour plane ride from Johannesburg, and walk around the airport like a zombi. I step outside in the taxi line, and notice that there IS, in fact, a line, so neat. Queues are not so apparent in Dar. More like crowds, mobs, throngs, but line? The next thing I notice is the air. The air is softer here, smaller molecules if I had to find a scientific image. Younger air, less developed. The air in Tanzania is hearty, rich in vapor, in texture and odor. Like the salt over there; hearty with body and bite.

 

It is the anniversary of my father’s death, and I am wishing he were here so I could tell him about the trip. He was one of those people who developed the art of listening. If he were alive he would put his hand on my back and take me into a corner with a glass of beer, and say, tell me.. tell me everything. My heart would crack open and this is what I would say.

 

There is a strange feeling of being too much and not enough as an American in Africa. I felt my advantage economically and educationally was allowing me to study a few communities with compassion and make efforts towards them helping themselves. That is the not enough part. It is a drop in a sea of need. I have visions of wanting to get a Fullbright and come for a year, and help the Babawatoto Center, and start foundations, and sponsor one of our waiters at Brunei Hotel, where we stayed, to come back here and go to college. I want to sponsor teen mothers in a school to get their GED. I want to help, and every time I was haggling for the price of something in Dar, because haggling is what they do, I think, who am I to haggle over what is essentially 3 bucks? We spend more on a cup of Starbucks.

 

And the too much feeling is the white skin, sticking out like every other German, English or Dutch colonizer who has taken over their country, and it makes me feel apologetic, a bit. I am aware of something in the eyes of people who look at me, even if it is the eyes of their ancestors looking through me; I feel it. They say with their dark eyes, you took from us now give back to us. They do not have any problem saying, take me back to your country, sponsor me, take my baby, get me some shoes, please Madame, I need some shoes. I have an urge to give away all, and at the same time, hold onto everything I own, that clutching, grasping part of myself holding onto what is mine, but what is mine? She just wants my pretty sandals, why don’t I just give them to her. But my second chakra says, because they are MINE and I worked for them, and I chose them for myself and I like them and  blah blah. You see how this discord within the self can grow. For me, it just became a constant little knot in my belly.

I got used it, like one gets used to a cancor sore in the soft flesh of the inside of the mouth.

And Dad would say, “Fay, it’s OK that you kept the shoes. The important thing is what they taught you, not what you gave them.”

I am writing now frantically trying to remember the names of the children; Abdule, and Agnes, Boracka, and Zianoni..faces,voices soon to vanish. I hover now, in my bed in New York, between there and here. I don’t want to be here just yet. Not till I somehow cement this experience into my soul to change me, I know not how, but implant it into my river of memories before it washes away; embed, implant, absorb.

Home in my apartment, I take a hot shower. The extreme hot, along with the extreme pressure of the water is, at first painful, like my skin has gotten used to the cold wake-up trickle that was my daily wash for two weeks. Again, the notion of abundance, so valued in our society, comes up into my body-mind. Do I need this much water, this much heat, all for me? I am drawn back into Dar es Salaam, where its power was organized around water power, the abundance of water falls. Global warming has reduced that water power, so power is low. The electricity goes out often. Generators are hooked up in the more well to do establishments, like our Brunei Hotel, but others just pull out the candles that are not too far from reach.

And the chatter continues, like the birds nesting in the eves, the bicycles keep moving with their over loads of oranges and mangoes, the braiding continues, the child still finding unending joy in the tin can that becomes the toy of the day.