Maasai Mission

 

Maasai Mission
January, 1999
Dave Wright, DVM

Olendorrop’s third wife, Naisiae shook a long gourd decorated with colorful beads. It was full of milk that had been fermenting for three days in the Tanzanian heat.

Naisiae means “hard working” in the Maasai language. She had risen before sunrise to milk the three Zebu cows that, along with two calves, composed Olendorrop’s herd at this shamba in the foothills of Mt. Gelai. She squeezed milk from the two right teats into a gourd, leaving the left two teats for the cow’s calf to nurse at the same time. After collecting the half-liter of milk from each cow, she kept the calves in the corral and ushered the cows out to where her two sons were waiting by a gate made of sticks and brush.

At eight and ten years of age, the boys were responsible for the herd. They led the cows into the bush where they watched while the cows scavenged for random sprigs of grass. Today was also the day the cows got to drink. It was the dry season, and the cows were permitted to drink once every three days from the only water source within a two-hour walk—a round, concrete tank in the middle of Gelai Meru-goi that was filled with water piped several kilometers from a spring high on the mountain.

Both boys were approaching puberty and anxiously awaited their rite of passage into manhood—circumcision. They knew that they must show no pain during the procedure, or they would lose face for themselves and their family. Their older sister had been circumcised the year before. The female version of circumcision is a clitoridectomy, a surgical procedure where the clitoris and part of the labia are removed. Their sister had made her parents proud by not uttering a whimper—an act of courage that guaranteed her the gift of a cow from her future husband.

Despite Tanzania criminalizing female genital mutilation in 1998, as of 2021 the World Health Organization estimated that 10% of girls in the country still experienced this right of passage.

A mud hut in the middle of the shamba served as Naisiae’s home—and the one used by Olendorrop on his periodic visits. Naisiae had constructed the hut shortly after their marriage thirteen years earlier. She collected sticks and wove them together in a tight lattice, which she arranged like a circular fence about fifteen feet in diameter. A single opening served as the door. After fashioning an additional dome-shaped lattice for the roof, she packed the walls with a combination of mud and cow manure to form a natural plaster. She completed her home with a thatched roof. There was no opening in the roof to act as a chimney, so the smell of smoke permeated Maasai clothing.

Naisiae wore her hair cropped short. Beaded earrings dangled from her ears like mini wind chimes. Necklaces and bracelets made of colorful beads complemented her bright blue kanga, a woman’s wrap-around blanket. Like her husband, she wore sandals made from the tread of discarded tires. Olenderrop means “son of the short one” in Maa. He was a wiry man with a proud demeanor dressed in similar bright colors with two red and black sheets, worn toga style with a knot over both shoulders. He carried a walking stick and a sheathed knife that clung to his waist.

Naisiae handed her husband the gourd of kule nauto, the sour milk considered a Maasai delicacy. Olendorrup poured the lumpy slurry into three tin mugs. He added a couple of teaspoons of granular sugar to each, handed one cup to Colin, my American host, the second cup to me, and kept the third cup for himself.

Dr. Colin Anderson, his wife Linda, and their two children were missionaries with Christian Veterinary Mission. They had been sent to serve the Maasai using Colin’s skills as a veterinarian. The Andersons had invited me to share in their ministry for a couple of weeks in what CVM referred to as a “shuttle mission,” a short-term opportunity for veterinarians to become acquainted with mission work related to veterinary medicine.

Colin was tall and lean, and he wore his hair cropped short, a habit he retained after his stint in the army. He also ran every morning before he joined his family for breakfast and devotions, a habit that made him irritatingly fit.

Olendorrop invited Colin and me to duck into the hut while he conversed with his wife. Our eyes watered from a smoldering fire as we adjusted to the dim light. We each took a seat on a log. I looked into the mug and saw a few black specks swirling among the curds. Colin laughed and assured me that it was safe to drink. “Don’t worry,” he said. “The Maasai cleanse the gourds with cow urine and ash. Remember…urine is sterile!”

I looked around for a place to discreetly empty the contents of my mug before Olendorrup joined us. “But what about Brucellosis?” I asked Colin. “Or Leptospirosis? Aren’t they both endemic here?”

“Yes. They are endemic here,” said Colin, “but I’ve done a brucella card test on this herd. I’m sure we’ll be fine. I’ve been sipping on this beverage for months now and haven’t gotten sick.”

I thought of the paranoia I felt about becoming ill as I prepared for this, my first short-term mission trip: malaria, typhoid, cholera, hepatitis, yellow fever, dengue fever, rabies, even plague. They were all here just waiting to invade my body and overwhelm my delicate immune system. I had taken all the recommended vaccines and repeatedly used my squirt bottle of hand cleanser, but here I was faced with the simple prospect drinking something I knew had to be risky. I had already consumed multiple cups of sweet chai, the local tea, but at least that had come from boiling water.

“What about anthrax?” I asked. “Earlier in the week I met a Maasai who told me about a cow that had died acutely out in the bush. He claimed that he knew it died from anthrax, and that he planned to eat it.”

“That’s right,” said Colin. “If they find it early enough, they’ll eat it.”

“You can’t be serious! Anthrax has been used as a chemical weapon. How did he know it was anthrax?”

“The Maasai rush to the carcass to butcher it before it spoils,” said Colin. “If the carcass has no rigor mortis, if it bled from the nostrils, and if it had an enlarged spleen, it’s most likely anthrax.”

“Aren’t they worried they could die?”

“A Maasai herder who butchered one of those cows told me he may get some raised flat lesions on his arms,” said Colin, “but that is all. He said they don’t eat the spleen, and they make sure to cook the rest of the meat well-done.”

I still didn’t believe it…until I looked up anthrax in my Merck Veterinary Manual that evening. It confirmed what Colin and the Maasai had told him—that cutaneous carbuncles can form on the skin of a person if a small wound is exposed to the bacteria. These people were hungry, they knew their pathology, and they were aware of the risks.

Sitting in that mud hut, I was aware of the risks of drinking a beverage made from unpasteurized milk. I looked behind the log I was sitting on. Perhaps I could dump at least half of it there. No. That would be rude and would surely offend my new Maasai friends. Before I could do anything so foolish, Olenderrop came through the door. I offered a short prayer and took a sip.

English and Swahili are the official languages of Tanzania, but the Maasai speak the local dialect of Maa. Colin was reasonably fluent in Maa and had accumulated enough Swahili to converse with Olenderrop who spoke Maa and a smattering of Swahili. Colin had already fulfilled the mandatory small talk, called “chewing the news,” which was a necessary beginning to every Maasai conversation. When we met Olendorrop at the gate outside Colin’s home that morning, Colin greeted him with a singsong, “Opiya, Sopa.”

“Opiya,” replied Olendorro, a greeting identifying Colin as “man.”

“How are your wives and your children?” asked Colin.

“I am good, my family is good, my sheep and goats are good, my cattle are good. We didn’t lose anyone last night. We are happy. And how is your family?”

“Linda is a little homesick today,” said Colin, “but she will be busy today home-schooling Sam and Ester.”

“I hope that my children will someday be able to go to school,” said Olendorrop. “It is the hope of all Maasai parents, but schools are expensive, and many children do not have the opportunity.”

Colin then turned to me. “This is Dave. He is a veterinarian from the States who is visiting us for a couple of weeks.”

“Opiyan,” said Olendorrop with a slight bow of his head.

I returned the nod.

Colin continued, “Dave plans to go from here to Arusha where he will meet another couple of missionaries who specialize in fish farming.”

“Fish farming?” laughed Olendorrop. “Fish need water. Where will they find enough water to make a lake?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I hope to find out.”

As we hiked up the dusty path to Olendorrop’s farm (or shamba), I asked Colin why Olendorrop had greeted me differently when we were chewing the news at his gate that morning. “I heard he used ‘Opiya’ to greet you,” I said, “and he used ‘Opiyan’ when he greeted me. What’s the difference?”

Colin laughed. “Opiyan means ‘old man.’”

“I’m only forty-five. Does that sprinkle of grey in my hair show that much?”

“It’s a sign of respect. Take it as a compliment.”

Oldendorrop squatted down across from us in the dark hut and addressed a more serious topic. “How did you find my herd of cattle today?” he asked as he took a sip of the fermented milk.

“I think they are a little thin,” said Colin. “We injected all of them with a dose of ivermectin that Dave brought from home. It is a de-wormer that should help.”

“Ashe,” said Olendorrup, the Maa word for thank you. He smiled, turned to me and asked, “How do you like the kule nauto?”

“Very tasty,” I lied. “It reminds me of yogurt—or maybe buttermilk. Thank you for adding the sugar.”

Olendorrop beamed.

“Where do you get the bull to breed your cows?” I asked.

“I always save the best bull from my cows,” said Olendorrop proudly.  “I will have him mate with my cows so that my herd will make more milk than any of the others in Gelai.”

“Aren’t you concerned about inbreeding?” I asked. “It can sometimes lead to deformed calves.”

“Dave is right,” added Colin. “If you use a neighbor’s bull that is unrelated to your herd, you wouldn’t have to worry about abnormal calves and the offspring will be more productive.”

“I would never trust a neighbor’s bull to be better than mine,” said Olendorrop with a frown. “He would tell me it is the best animal in his herd, but I know it would be a poor doer that he wanted to get rid of.”

“What if a European breed like a Freisen bull were crossed with the local Zebu?” I asked. “Your cows produce one-half to two liters of milk a day. If the men of Gelai agreed to cooperate and purchase a Freisen bull, you could share the bull and breed it to your indigenous Zebus. I’ve heard that it could double your milk production.”

Colin smiled at my suggestion. “I know a Freisen cow can produce ten to eighteen liters a day,” he said, “but European breeds usually died soon after they were introduced because of lower immunity, and they were often bred to the animals the Maasai weren’t willing to risk, so the genetics were quickly diluted.”

Olendorrop shrugged his shoulders. “We are comfortable with the old ways. Any change comes with great risk.”

Colin whispered to me, “You can see that old ideas are hard to change. No one trusts one another, so progress is slow.”

I choked down the last of my Maasai buttermilk and handed my empty cup to Olendorrop with a thank you. Colin and I left him with his wife at the shamba while we began the trek back to the village of Gelai.

As I hiked along the red-earth path, Colin told me more about Olenderrop’s herd. “He has a few goats, and generally speaking, raising goats would be a better idea for the Maasai than cows. An indigenous goat can produce almost the same amount of milk as a cow—up to half a liter a day, but with far less food—and they are browsers rather than grazers. Browsers can digest shrubs, whereas grazers can only digest grass. A purebred Toggenberg can produce six liters a day, and if a purebred buck was crossed with an indigenous doe, her female offspring could produce one to two liters per day.”

A few steps later, he said, “Of course, cows are more prestigious than goats, so most Maasai prefer cows—cows and wives. Numbers are all that matter: the more the better. Tomorrow you will meet my friend, Daniel. He’ll be your interpreter for the seminar later this week. His father has nine wives. Unfortunately, he fell in love with wife number nine. Now the rest of his wives are simply a burden that he must visit and care for.”

I smiled and looked across the valley to a mountain that rose in the distance. It was called Ol Doinyo Lengai, the Mountain of God. Colin and his wife Linda, along with their two children were stationed west of the mountain in Gelai Meru-goi, a small outpost northwest of Arusha, not far from Lake Natron and Tanzania’s border with Kenya. It was a short drive on the blacktop north of Arusha, but it had taken an additional three hours of off-road bouncing through the bush to get to Gelai Meru-goi.

I tromped along the path and thought about what it was that brought me to this remote location in the middle of East Africa: I had been in private veterinary practice for more than twenty years, I felt restless during the slow season, I liked the idea of travel combined with service, and I was spiritually motivated to investigate mission work. At the time, I considered the possibility of full-time mission work after I retired from practice. A short-term mission trip would allow me to explore this idea and might lead to a new, but related career.

After having considered several organizations, I settled on Christian Veterinary Mission (CVM). I found their theology to be somewhat more conservative than I was used to, but we agreed on Christian principles, and the organization seemed happy to embrace a liberal Lutheran like me. I wanted to serve in the winter when our practice was typically slower, and CVM offered more flexibility than other organizations. When they asked me where I would like to serve, I said, “I will only be available during the winter in Minnesota, so how about some place close to the equator?” As an afterthought, I added, “I also have friends serving as missionaries in Tanzania. Does CVM have a long-term missionary serving there?”

“Colin and Linda Anderson are there now,” came the reply, and I began my preparations.

I am blessed with an understanding family: my wife, Sue and two sons—one a sophomore in high school at the time and another in seventh grade. To be away from them for a full month would be a challenge for all of us, but they had encouraged me to take on this new adventure.

The history of Christian missionaries in Africa has had a checkered past. Much of the early work focused on “converting the heathens.” During the colonial period in the late nineteenth century, missionaries were appalled at the injustice of slavery. They decided the best they could do was to purchase individuals destined to become slaves, but in return the missionaries required the would-be slaves to convert. They were freed from slavery but were required to give up their ancestral beliefs in return.

Early in the twentieth century, after the African countries began to declare their independence from their European colonists, the African leaders saw the missionaries as an opportunity to educate their children. The missionaries agreed and felt that they could more easily convert children than adults. Soon, however, most of the schools reverted to government control.

In order to feed a growing population, the need for agricultural technology became more apparent. Since then, there has been a focus on sustainable agriculture. Missionaries offer advanced technology while striving to understand local culture and beliefs before they invite people to consider Christianity as a way of life. This is a philosophy I can embrace.

Those in the mission field want to share their wealth with those they intend to serve, but this can create a toxic dependence. While I stayed with the Andersons, there was always someone waiting at their gate in hopes of getting something from them—whether it be a ride to town, a tool to borrow (which, in most cases would never be returned), medicine for a child, or a meal for an elderly parent. The choice of who to help and who to say no to was a constant struggle.

Red dust puffed under my hiking boots as we continued our way down the mountain. Is that my stomach rumbling?

I stopped short. I was distracted by something I saw on the path. “Look at this, Colin!” We stooped to examine a pair of pawprints that were bigger than my hand.

“That’s a lion,” said Colin. “It’s a big one. No wonder the Maasai consider it a great honor to kill one.”

“Is that still a thing?”

“Oh yes. It’s a mark of bravery for a warrior to kill a lion—especially if he uses a spear. The men often have spear-throwing contests at local gatherings. All of the men take turns throwing a spear at a tire that hangs from an acacia tree. The warrior who sends the spear through the tire wins.”

“I don’t think I’d do very well at that sport,” I said.

“We’ve organized a seminar for later this week,” said Colin. “You’ll be the featured speaker. We’ve invited all the Maasai in the area, so I’m expecting a good turnout.  I’ll bet the seminar will include a spear-throwing contest. We’ll see what you can do then.”

The Anderson’s home in Gelai was a simple brick building with a corrugated roof and a front porch. When we arrived, Linda was preparing dinner.

Linda was a fraction of Colin’s height and wore her thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Olendorrop and Colin had given her the nick name “Sambu,” the brindle color of a cow. Even though she was still young, a few streaks of gray had snuck into her hair. While we were visiting Olendorrop’s shamba, in addition to conducting home-school classes for their two kids, she taught a Bible study for a group of women, and later in the afternoon she walked through town just to chat with the shop owners.

She flashed us a winning smile as she stirred the pots on her propane stove. “Beef stew tonight,” she said. “Dinner will be ready in about an hour.”

“It smells great,” I said, “but I may have to pass this evening. I think I’ll turn in early.”

In the middle of the night, I left the house and stumbled along a path to the cho, the Swahili and Maa word for a pit toilet that served as a bathroom. I had been advised to carry a flashlight whenever I left the house after dark because of the risk of stepping on a snake. The bite from a black mamba could be deadly. That night, snakes were the least of my worries. About half-way to my destination, I stepped off the path and released the kule nauto that had been wrestling with my stomach since mid-afternoon. I returned to bed and slept soundly the rest of the night.

The following afternoon, we were called to the village. Several Maasai herders were huddled around a cow that had a six-inch laceration across the top of her back and several scratches on her rump. They claimed that the cow had been attacked by a lion in the night and were hoping we could suture the wound.

“It was probably the lion that left the tracks on the path,” I said to Colin.

“I think you’re right. Would you care to sew her up? I’ve got a laceration kit and a bottle of local anesthetic at the house.”

“Sure. It’ll give me a chance to show off my surgical skills.”

While Colin ran back to the house to retrieve the supplies, the Maasai men restrained the cow. They grabbed the Zebu’s long horns, cast her to the ground, and kneeled on her to hold her firmly in place. When Colin returned, I scrubbed the wound, shaved the area with a razor, injected the area with lidocaine, and sewed the skin flaps together.

“I’m glad it was a cow rather than a person,” I said to Colin as I stood up to stretch my back. “If we don’t have other plans, do I have some time to prepare for this seminar you’ve been talking about?”

“The rest of the day is free,” said Colin. “Spend it as you like.”

I had several opportunities to use my public speaking skills on this trip. Colin had given me fair warning about the approaching seminar in Gelai, so I had a couple of days to think about what I was going to say.

Toward the end of my trip when I had returned to Arusha, I was less fortunate. I had scheduled a morning meeting with Erwin Kinsey, the director of Heifer Project International. He wore a short-sleeve plaid shirt, a well-groomed mustache, and appeared to be a trim man full of unbridled energy. He rose from behind his desk to give me a handshake and a hearty welcome. “Welcome to Arusha, Dr. Wright. I understand you are an expert in cattle reproduction.”

“I don’t know if I qualify as an expert,” I said modestly, “but I have done plenty of reproductive exams on dairy cows.”

“Excellent,” said Erwin. “You are just the man we need. I’d like you to be the featured speaker at a seminar on artificial insemination for our Heifer Project farm managers. They are keen to offer A.I. to area farmers as a means of improving the genetics in the region.”

“That sounds great,” I said. “I was hoping you would find a way for me to contribute to your project. When does the seminar begin, and what would you like me to speak about?”

“The seminar begins this afternoon.” He looked at his watch. “And you are scheduled to speak at 2:00 p.m. You can pick any topic you’d like.”

“Ooh…kay,” I said slowly. “Maybe we should begin with anatomy.”

“Perfect. Mr. Asanga will pick you up this afternoon at one and will take you to Tenguru on the other side of town.”

At that, Erwin returned to his desk and directed his attention to his next appointment.

Two hours, I thought. This will be like giving an extemporaneous speech. My mind wandered back to my only formal speech class in ninth grade. Class was almost over when Miss Doman, a demanding teacher with a face that reminded me of a weasel, told us that everyone needed to give an extemporaneous speech at some time during the quarter. “Tell us about one of your experiences,” she said. “You can embellish the story, but it only needs to be a few minutes long. Now, who wants to go first?”

I had recently been duck hunting with my dad and one of his teacher friends. The duck boat capsized when we all shot at a flock of ducks that flew overhead. I did a summersault underwater and dropped my 4-10 shotgun in the chest-deep slough. This would be a good story, I thought, and I may as well get this extemporaneous speech over with. I raised my hand.

“David,” said Miss Doman. “Go ahead.”

I stood up in front of the class and my mind went blank. I had not taken a moment to organize my thoughts. I did not consider the message I wanted to deliver. I had not considered sharing a description of the choppy water under a slate-gray sky. I did not explain to the class how numb my fingers were before we all raised our guns to shoot. I did not tell them about stomping around in the mud to find the shotgun that I had dropped. I did not admit that Dad had to reach into the freezing water to retrieve it. And I did not tell them about my feeble attempts to bail the boat with my hunting cap—particularly when I discovered that the back of the boat was still underwater as I bailed. This might have been interesting. Instead, I began, “I was hunting with my dad and one of his friends when the boat flipped over in the water.” That was it. I looked at the back of the room where Miss Doman sat at a desk staring out the window with her chin in her hands. A falling leaf was more interesting than anything I had to say. She gave me a C, but I deserved a D. I learned a valuable lesson that day: to speak extemporaneously does not mean to speak without preparation—even if it is just organizing your thoughts.

I spent the next hour outlining my message: draw a picture on the chalkboard; identify the anatomical structures of the reproductive tract; explain the purpose of each structure and how that will relate to a successful conception using artificial insemination.

Back in Gelai, I had to prepare something for the seminar in two days. Veterinarians are expected to talk about disease, and I had many to choose from. I decided to use East Coast Fever (called Olikana by the Maasai), a common protozoal disease spread by ticks, as an example of how the disease triangle influences illness. A combination of too many pathogens, too little immunity, and too much stress can lead to a sick animal.

The Maasai are familiar with war, so I likened the pathogens to an invading army carried by a tribe of ticks. Too many infected cows crowded together carrying too many ticks increased the size of their army. Immunity is like a sleeping tribe of warriors waiting to protect a cow. Vaccines can train the tribe to be ready for an attack. Likewise, a previous infection can prepare the tribe for war since it knows what to expect from its adversary. An army has to be fed and watered to respond to an invasion. When the invasion occurs, it is best for the immunity tribe to have many offspring available to defend the cow. Stress, the third corner of the disease triangle, includes factors that give the invading army an advantage: lack of rest, long safaris over rough terrain, inclement weather, hunger, or thirst.

In the case of East Coast Fever, the number of ticks could be reduced by running the cattle through a cattle dip filled with insecticide or by picking them off. I have treated horses that have succumbed to tick paralysis simply by having family members gather around the animal and pick ticks. By the time the ticks no longer cling to the horse, it can get up and move about again. The British installed a number of concrete cattle dip tanks while they were the colonial rulers of Tanganyika, but most of them were abandoned or contained no insecticide. There is also a vaccine for East Coast Fever, but it is expensive, so a minor infection causing natural immunity is a more likely source of protection. Stress can be reduced by providing the Four Free Medicines: grass, water, shade, and rest.

We finished the seminar with demonstrations on how to conduct a physical exam, how to draw blood—in the hopes that a surveillance program for Brucellosis will be implemented, and suggestions of what to look for in a postmortem exam. The response of my Maasai audience to my presentation was far more gratifying than the one I received from Miss Doman.

At the end of my second week in Tanzania, Colin drove me back to Arusha to deliver me to Dennis and Meredith Murnyak, my hosts for the next two weeks. A full load of local Maasai had clambered aboard Colin’s Toyota Land Cruiser to hitch a ride to town. We honked the horn at Murnyak’s residence and waited for their Tanzanian guard to open the gate. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, a huge black and tan Rottweiler bounded from the front steps and started barking ferociously. The dog ignored the front seat where Colin and I were seated, but it snarled and jumped at the back of the Land Cruiser where the Africans huddled in fear.

Dennis heard the ruckus and came out of the house. He pulled the dog away with its spiked collar and said, “Sorry. The dog doesn’t like Africans.” It was the first time I encountered a racist dog.

The Murnyaks offered me a one-room guest house in the corner of their front yard. The entire yard was landscaped with flowering shrubs around the foundation, and a dense hedge grew next to a high, steel-bar fence that surrounded the home. Each night I lay in bed with the windows open trying to fall asleep while listening to the traffic and neighborhood activities. Tanzanians socialized well into the night, and whenever one of them walked past the secure residence, the dog attacked the gate with a vengeance. I rolled over and pulled the blankets over my head.

There was no bathroom in the guest house, so each night when duty called, I ventured into the yard to water the shrubs. I looked over my shoulder to see the African guard and the dog sitting quietly on the veranda. The dog seemed to have established a friendly relationship with the guard despite the color of his skin.

I had been friends with Dennis and Meredith while they were members of our congregation in Buffalo before they accepted their call to do mission work in Tanzania. They were biologists who met when Meredith hired Dennis to assist on a fish farming project in Minnesota.

I didn’t know Meredith in her early years, but I imagined her to have been a fun-loving, rebellious flower child who wore a guitar strapped to her back and a wreath of daisies over her bronze-blond hair. She emerged from the 60’s as a cheerful woman committed to her God, her career, and her family. Her fierce independence prepared her to navigate the restrictive role imposed on women in Tanzania where she no longer was Dennis’s employer, but his assistant. She managed their two rambunctious kids, oversaw the household duties, and coordinated church activities in Arusha.

Dennis was the perfect complement to Meredith. He was a lanky six-footer who was going prematurely bald and spoke with a soft, New Jersey accent. He had the patience required to implement a new program with people who were reluctant to change.

Both Dennis and Meredith shared a deep faith and a sense of humor—absolute requirements for the frustrations of life in a developing country. They told about opening one of their first “care packages” from a supporting congregation. It had been filled with used teabags. The clear message: “We will never use this again, but it’ll be good enough for Africa.”

I attended a church service with Dennis, Meredith and their two sons the first Sunday I was in Arusha. The service was packed with a mixture of ex-pats and Tanzanian nationals. The service ran only slightly longer than an hour—unlike the services in Gelai that ran a full two and a half hours, followed by a meal. At the end of the service, it was customary to introduce guests. After Dennis introduced me, someone across the room stood up and said, “This is Daryl Rustad. He is a veterinarian from the States who is enrolled in a seminary internship.”

Another vet from the States? Rustad…Let’s see. I recognized that name.

I met Daryl in the hall after the service and introduced myself. He had graduated from the University of Minnesota College of Veterinary Medicine the year before I did. We ended up travelling together the next week as we toured fish farming projects. I had to remind myself that you can’t misbehave anywhere in the world. Someone is bound to recognize you.

The Great Rift Valley is a 4,300-mile trench that runs the length of Tanzania and extends north through seven countries in Africa. Runoff from the escarpment that looms over the valley provides an ideal water source for fish farming. Early adapters failed because of poor pond design, inadequate feeding management, or poor fish selection. Eventually, farmers discovered that tilapia was the species best suited to fish farming in this region of Africa. Tilapia thrive in water temperatures of 72-90 degrees Farenheit, do well in water with limited oxygen content, and can be harvested within three to four months of being introduced as fingerlings.

Rectangular ponds were dug along a contour at the base of the escarpment. Trenches allowed water to flow into the pond, and a dam on the downhill slope controlled the water level. A square lattice-sided box made of sticks woven together served as a compost fence. It was submerged in the water adjacent to the side of each pond and was filled with manure and organic material to produce plankton, which was eaten by the tilapia. Green leaves and corn or rice bran spread over the pond were another recyclable fish food.

The tilapia were harvested by slowly dragging a seining net across the length of the pond. After the two ends of the net were pulled together at the end of the pond, the fish were scooped and sorted. In addition to being a source of tasty protein, fish served as a cash crop to supplement the family’s income.

Part way through the week, while I was touring fish farms with Daryl, we were driving through Babati, a small town south of Arusha. Daryl complained of having felt weak and feverish the last couple of days and was worried that he might have contracted malaria. Our driver suggested that we stop at a small clinic so that he could get tested. A nurse met us in the waiting area, a plaster-walled room with worn tile and a few mismatched chairs. She took Daryl’s history, did a short physical exam, and drew blood for the malaria test. She assured us she was using a new needle and syringe. “I’ll have the results in about a half hour,” she said.

We ate a light lunch at a nearby café and returned to the clinic as directed. The nurse met us with good news: “Your malaria test is negative, Daryl. I think you’re just suffering from a mild case of heat exhaustion. Drink plenty of water. Take a couple of Tylenol and stay out of the sun the rest of the afternoon.”

“Thanks,” said Daryl. He reached for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“That’ll be 200 Tanzania Schillings.”

Daryl and I looked at each other with a shocked expression. “That’s thirty cents U.S.!”

I left Tanzania with a renewed belief that relationships are more important than accomplishments, that education overpowers ignorance, and that Christ’s command, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” applies across continents.

As I boarded the plane for my return trip to the United States, I thought of how worried I had been about getting sick on this trip. I remember stepping off the plane a month earlier at the Arusha airport, taking a deep breath of humid tropical air, and saying to myself, “Am I sick yet?” Although I endured one night with an upset stomach after my encounter with Massai buttermilk, I don’t regret the cultural experience.

Throughout the trip, I ate every meal as if it might be my last. I didn’t spare a calorie, thinking I may shrink away if I contracted a prolonged bout of traveler’s diarrhea. I settled into my seat and ordered a celebratory glass of Merlot. When I got home, I looked at my profile in the mirror and stepped on the scale. Wow! I’d better concentrate on my health at home.

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