A Sad Day

Pascal Antony's wife died on Friday.  Pascal Antony is our night guard.  You have seen his picture in a previous post.  He arrives at dusk riding his black Phoenix bicycle and walks around our yard wrapped in his black and red plaid blanket until dawn, keeping us safe.  He does this seven days a week for 80,000 Tsh, or about fifty dollars, a month.

Pascal's wife has been sick for a few weeks.  He took her to the local hospital for treatment.  There was no diagnosis, so they sent her home.  A week later she was still sick and so he took her back to the hospital in a taxi, a major extravagance for a man like Pascal.  Something was seriously wrong.  After a blood sample was analyzed Pascal Anthony was told she needed a blood transfusion.  During the time Anthony and his friends were running all over the town looking for blood donors, she died.

She was in her middle twenties.  She was buried yesterday.

Pascal is now left with his seven year old daughter and a one and a half year old son.

We found out about Pascal's wife's death while we were in Dar es Salaam buying books and teaching materials for our primary teachers.  We were travelling back to Kibaya when she was buried so we couldn't attend the funeral.

Mr. Ndee, our Tanzanian manager and local partner, offered to take us to the wake this morning.  Without a shadow of a doubt, Mr. Ndee is one of the most supportive bosses that I have ever had and I don't say this lightly.  He told us what to expect over tea and cookies at our house and even advised Debra to wear her traditional kanga and head scarf and how much money was appropriate to give the grieving family.

We followed a maze of dirt paths to get to Pascal's house guided by Lucas, the fellow standing in for Pascal as our guard during this time.  Tanzania has thousands of miles of paths and as we were walking down them I kept thinking that they had probably been here for hundreds, if not thousands of years.

Upon turning a corner, there we were.  Pascal's home is made of mud bricks.  Just outside the house there is a clearing surrounded by corn and sunflower fields.  In the clearing the family had spread out plastic tarps for the twenty or so mourners to sit on.  A wood fire was burning and pot of meat was supported over it by three stones.  In one corner there were a few stools.  We were welcomed warmly.  We shook everyone's hand and offered our sympathy.  “Pole sana” is the correct thing to say.

Pascal, wrapped in a white sheet, was sitting with his immediate family.  We sat with them and shared rich, smoke flavoured, sweet tea.

I feel so sad about this. 

At VSO they say that volunteers learn more than they teach.  I know the population figures of Tanzania and, if I choose, can spout development speak, but that's not what it's about.  It's about experiencing the lives of the people we serve, the good times as well as the bad. 

Today was the bad.