Returning to Kenya raised a lot of questions. At the turn of the year, distressing visions poured into our living rooms. Livid mobs marching, machetes raised in protest. The sparked anger turned to flames and houses, churches, cities turned to ash. Military filled pickup trucks with the fallen opposition. Dead or alive these people would be heard.

When your country is one of the most developed in Africa. When it is looked to as an example of democracy in a continent plagued with political corruption. Then when in election the front-runner by nearly a million votes mysteriously loses to the reigning president, there are bound to be problems. The populous had been asked to choose, then the chosen dismissed. When the process was compromised, and a compromised people saw their hopes dashed with justice, they took matters into their own hands.

Within days over 300 people lay dead, burned and beaten. Nairobi, Kenya’s capital, was in disarray. Another violent center was the western port city-Kisumu, home to the Luo tribe (one of the largest tribes in Kenya and that of the challenging candidate). When I arrived Kisumu the air was no longer tense, but the signs were everywhere. Charcoal skeletons of cars and buildings sat as shadows on the sides of streets. Things were getting better and behind it all was a newly elected mayor.

I met Mr. Sam Okello on the plane from Zurich to Nairobi. After a brief conversation about Barack Obama, whose father as you may know was also from the Luo tribe, Mr. Okello extended his hand, card and an invitation to visit when I passed through Kisumu. So I called the morning after I arrived and within a day I was sitting in a large office in the Kisumu city hall.

He walked into the room with a glowing smile. The line of people waiting to see him told me he was busy but his confident demeanor was relaxed. Before the meeting I had written a list of questions. I was anxious to learn: What happened? Was it justified? How do you move forward? Is there hope? But when we finally sat down to talk, we sat as friends. I told him who I was, my hopes, my plans. He told me a bit of the same. Then he invited me to join him later that night, when he and the trustees would discuss the direction for this troubled town. I was honored to accept.

“This is my friend, Derek.” Okello introduced, explaining to this group of leaders the value of an outside opinion. They were all welcoming and after a short opening prayer we sat.  As I watched these minds mingle, exploring the problems and solutions of their community, I was filled with a sense of hope. I had seen the effects of colonialism in Malawi, of tourism in Tanzania, and now the after effects of a people betrayed. I had also heard story after story of corruption.

Kenya was the supposed light of democracy, but in a moment that light began to flicker, dimming with the hopes of not just a country, a continent. Kisumu was a broken city, with a broken infrastructure and shattered spirit. Yet now in downtown Kisumu, in some hotel around a table of thought with those most affected, the light returned. I heard the concerns of each individual. I saw the long list of needs fundamental to exist. More importantly I saw the vision of a man and group to restore order.

I’m still not sure how or why I was at that table. One guy trying to see the world passing through town. But I’m glad I was. I sat in the back seat of Mr. Okello’s vehicle and reflected as the chauffer led me home. I know it was just a meeting, but I couldn’t help but feel I had seen the beginning or at least return of something special… Hope.

“This one seems a LOT more reputable… ah, but this one is cheaper…”
“Yeah but, it’s only $40.” I tell myself.
To which I reply, “$40 can go a long way in Africa: 3 nights worth of hostelling. A bag full of exotic wood-carvings. 100 avocados the size of cantaloupe… 100 avocados?”
“But what good are avocados if you’re dead, Derek?”
Then I play the “chance” card. “Think about it Derek… how often does a plane crash? (A question I have no idea the answer to, but assume it can’t be high.) And what are the chances that you, one person, would be on that one plane, that one day in history… People take this flight everyday… Derek… EVERY-day!”

Well I can’t argue with that. Cheaper is better, despite the name of the airline alone, Fly 540 (yes that’s the name) has destiny written all over it. So I purchased the ticket: Nairobi to Kisumu, on “Kenya’s First Low Cost Airline”. There are two points I had forgotten about when debating safe or save. One being Mandi, my flight attendant friend who told me on numerous occasions the concerns of her captain counterparts for flying no-name African airlines (where apparently the safety regulations are not quite as high as in the States). Secondly, flying in Africa is always an adventure. Here are some examples:

Nairobi, Kenya to Blantyre, Malawi. First day in Africa, Mandi and I arrive the Nairobi airport early to wait and purchase the tickets we were unable to online. With less than an hour to spare the ticket counter opens and informs us there there is no way to take a credit card for payment (in this the capital and main international airport of Kenya). So whilst, Mandi waits and makes sure no one forgets us, Derek runs all over Nairobi looking for an ATM, withdraws the maximum amount and spends most of the money on-hand for the ticket. We got on and while making one unexpected stop, we arrived safely.

Blantyre, Malawi to Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania. What should have been an hour ended up taking around five. While the tickets read direct, in fact we made two unexpected stops in two different countries to pick up and drop off customers. We arrived-tired but safely.

Dar Es Sallam to Zanzibar. Only a 30-minute plane ride but not uneventful. Everything seemed great as the packed plane took off. Cool, comfy, satisfactory. Then with in 5 minutes I see some thing fall from the luggage compartment on the person in front. Nothing big just something. I look closer and see a cockroach poking its germy disgusting face in and out of the luggage compartment ahead. I begin to look around and see them all over. One scurrying as the lady a few seats up, lowers her food tray. Then one peaks out of the magazine rack in front of Mandi (who as you know has sort of bug problem). She freezes. I swat, pretending I got it, then try not to freak as I feel it scatter to and fro across my foot and ankles. We arrive. Safe but disgusted.

Zanzibar to Dar. Return flight a few days later. Same airline as before but no bugs this time. That’s because it was much too hot for them. I think they decided it was more comfortable flying in a plane wherein the air con was not broken and all it’s passengers sweating profusely as they clinged to consciousness. We arrive. Safe but dehydrated.

Now, finally Fly 540 with service from Nairobi to Kisumu. I’ll admit it’s humbling walking by all these nice ticket counters looking for your “budget” airline. You stop and ask. “Who?” they say, then after a moments pause vaguely reply, “Oh… I think over there…(?)” I locate the counter, get ticketed, and spend the time waiting to board wondering just when the last time I told my mother I loved her was.

Walk across the tarmac. Climb the long lonely stairs into the “low-cost” airplane. I sit in my assigned seat and proceed to buckle my seatbelt. As I tug on the male end of the seatbelt, I notice something isn’t right. Specifically, it’s unattached. I walk might seatbelt up to the flight attendant, who follows me back, looks, and says, “You might want to find another seat.”  Yes… yes I might.

I do. In the back of the plane. Knees pressed firmly into the slightly dismantled magazine pocket on the seat in front. I give the seatbelt a few good tugs, but not too many so as not to undo anything intended to be done. We take off. I watch as we climb around thunderheads, dipping and dropping unexpectedly. Lightning flashes as fast as the memories of life. “Avocados…” I keep assuring myself, although eating was about the last thing I wanted to do at the moment.

Well as you know from the 1st person account, I arrived. Shaken and stirred, but safe. And an extra $40 bucks in my pocket. Now I had one thing to find: avocados… that and a phone to tell my mom I love her.

But when you finally check out of the Rhotia Valley Tented Lodge and Children’s Home, and trust me you will do so reluctantly, you’ll feel better about yourself because you’ve supported a great cause. You see all the profits from your nirvanic experience will fund a children’s home built nearby to educate and provide for the needs of Rhotia Valley’s less fortunate kids. So you don’t drive away feeling sinful for tasting the divine in the land of need. In fact the only guilt you’ll experience is from not paying more than you did. It’s beautiful! Like losing weight after spending the day in an all-you-can-eat hot fudge brownie bar.

When I first heard of Rhotia Valley Tented Lodge and Children’s Home I was in Zanzibar, and was reluctant. Our Dutch friends, who recommended our safari itinerary and Jackson for a driver, also raved about this magical “tented lodge” that we just HAD to do. So before I left Zanzibar, I called Marise Koch to reserve our spot.

Marise is the brains and heart behind this operation. She and her husband are also Dutch but are not strangers to the area. They’ve been serving Rhotia Valley as doctors for years, developing a bigger vision. I tried to negotiate the already low prices over the phone, something I had trained myself to do, but still feel guilty about. I agreed to the price and planned to meet when we arrived.

It had been a long day, filled with close encounters of the African kind. The air was crisp, cool and damp as we approached the property. Sun falling, the rich colors of red earth beneath a lush green spotted with colors from flowers both wild and cultivated. It was landscape neither painter nor picture could ever recapture. I soaked it in as I stood through the sunroof trying to get as close as possible to the source of serenity that swelled in my soul.

Everything exceeded expectation. The landscape. The “tents”, which were nicer than most hotels I’ve stayed in (and I’ve stayed in a LOT). The food. The service. The décor, which I later learned was entirely provided by local skill. Even Mrs. Koch, who joined us later in the evening after having hiked something like 10 miles from Ngorongoro Crater with 10-12 men helping her hack the way. She joined us but just for a moment. She was warm, beautiful, full of life, and after saying hello she returned to the African men who sat visibly exhausted but happy, laughing I presume over the days events.

It’s easy to forget everything, like some type of ancient meditation while sitting on a large deck with a light drink, or smoking a gentle pipe. But when you finally come back down from that cloud which seemed so far from reality, you remember something- the children. The same children who greeted you with glowing smiles and waving hands as you rode by. And you can’t help but smile to yourself at the wonderful work that one special couple has begun so that one special community will never be forgotten.

Do yourself a favor. If you ever plan on visiting Africa and doing a safari-which is one of the coolest things you will ever do-stay at the Rhotia Valley Tented Lodge and Children’s Home. This is one thing you should do for yourself, and by doing so you’ll be doing it for the children as well. Self and service have never worked so well together.

Now, I don’t mean to sound sexist, but when I think of lions I think of the males. Massive maned beasts, crowned with a flowing head of golden intimidation. He is the king, whose voice alone demands undeniable respect, paralyzing its foes before it proceeds to eat their face. It’s true the women do all the work and don’t get the respect, hunting wildebeests and looking after the young whilst the man of the house sleeps something like 20 hours a day. However, when it’s go time and a pack of ruthless hyenas initiate a cowardly but deadly attack, well then there’s no question who you want on your team. After an earth-altering roar, when laughing turns to weeping and trembling hyena scatter like shadows from the sun, that’s when the king claims his crown. That’s what I call a lion, and that’s exactly what I wanted.

So that’s exactly what I told our safari driver, Jackson, I wanted to see. Well I told him I wanted to see everything but especially lions. Jackson did not disappoint. In two days we had checked off nearly every form of African wildlife desirable. Dancing hippos in muddy pits. Awkward giraffes taking full advantage of their long awkward necks as they inconspicuously peeked around acacias trees. Elephants coating themselves with the dust of the earth as they walked feet from our stilled land cruiser. Antelope. Water buffalo. Zebra. Wildebeests. Then finally… the lions.

We had crossed path with another driver, who in native tongue told Jackson there had been lion spottings in a specific area of the crater. We started the car and moved across the floor of the massive crater like a comet tailed by a cloud of African dust. “Elephants…” Someone noticed and pointed out. Impressive, but not worthy of detour, for we were in hunt for something much more grand. We approached the promising area. I stood on the arms of the seat below, head through roof panning the plains for any variance in coloring.

A khaki lump was spotted in the like-colored grass. Lions. Well sort of… it was girl lions. I’d like to tell you a story about how incredible it was. About the herd of buffalos who approached and were attacked and the alligators who fought for rights. But nothing of the sort happened. One stood, crouched promisingly, and after the alert beests moved back, it laid right back down. I’m sure there’s something sinful about being disappointed at a lion spotting, but I was. Fortunately, the story doesn’t end there.

We had checked nearly every animal off the list, even the lion (woopadee doo!), but there was one we had yet to spot. The rhinoceros . Pronounced rhino-SAURUS because it’s pretty much the only “bad-ace mutha” of a species who somehow made it through the prehistoric holocaust that claimed his dinosaur brethren. The day was coming to a close, we would have to leave soon. Then alas! We spotted and with the help of a zoom lens confirmed a rhino. It was far off, but headed our direction. It was big. It was intimidating. It was with child. We stopped the car.

Slowly but surely, the prehistoric beast approached. Closer, and closer. Mother and child-grazing as they moved. The magnificent mammal crossed 50 feet in front of our vehicle. “Jackson…” I whispered. “ Let’s drive closer…” Faithful to his paying friends, Jackson started the car, cautiously creeping closer. We weren’t far off anyway but with in seconds we were uncomfortably close. The startled mother turned instantly. “Pffshhh! Pffshhh!” I watched as the angry air fired through its fuming, flexing nostrils.

Without a second lost, the rhino was moving full speed like a tank through the grass. We had waged war, but it had the stronger army. We were confident too. Jackson pinned the pedal to the floor, and explosion of dust rolled through the sky, wheels spinning, spitting as the infuriated rhino approached. Finally the wheels caught, pinballing us around the sunroof. We got away and after a few intense seconds the air was a still as before. The rhino returned to its alerted child who returned to grazing unaffected. We stopped, breathed, and watched.

Sun setting, sky red, we climbed the walls of this natural wonder. The ride was quiet. A new peace settled our souls as we looked back at this comely, yet savage kingdom. I left satisfied save one question… where the heck was the rhino when the “king” was chosen?

The day was damp. The sun had yet to be seen but you could tell by the lessoning light it had retired for the evening. Already our day had its fill of unnecessary adventure, when our plane landed at a different airport than it was scheduled to. Fortunately things were calming down. The guesthouse we checked into was run by the Catholic Church and was everything you would hope: simple and clean. The workers didn’t speak much English but enough to point the right direction for dinner.

Before I continue, you should know a couple things about Africa. First, tourists are advised never to walk around at night. Even most locals avoid it for safekeeping. Second, the power can go out at anytime. The suggested restaurant was down the street but at least had streetlights to chase the shadows, so with natural light fading we decided it was our best option.

The restaurant was nice: outside, covered, with a fine assortment of Italian and Indian food to choose from. We sat. We ordered. We waited and relaxed in the cool, humid evening air. Then the atmosphere started to change. It began with the purr of a generator, compensating for power that had apparently gone out. Then I notice a slight movement out of the corner of my eye. Bugs, and not just a few. I’m not talking about cute little moths with curly tongues and adorable antennas. No these were long flying worms.

Swarm by swarm they moved through the restaurant. It became clear these soulless larvae had been sent by devil himself the way they flew aimlessly about, repetitively trying to end their tormented lives by pounding into the light. They had wings like dragonflies, but the bodies like grubs. Oh yes, and I forgot to mention something: Mandi, the friend I was traveling with- she has bugaphobia. Not like “oh-that-beetle-is-gross” phobia. More like “that-bug-brushed-my-hand-so-I’m-gonna-pass-out-and-die” phobia. I knew we were in trouble.

I played it cool, pretending I didn’t notice there were flying worms grazing my head, probably in search of some cool cavity to raise a family in. And judging by my friend’s frozen stair and shortness of breath, any attempt at light conversation was going nowhere. So like Moses in Egypt, I knew it was time to leave. I handed Mandi my hooded jacket. “Put this on. Follow right behind me and just look down at my feet.” I said as looked across the room as the ceiling darkened and morphed like a cloud of disgustingness.

I thought if we could just get through the restaurant it would get better. We briskly moved to the sounds wings wizzing past our ears. We made across then passed by the illuminated sign where worms began to pile up like leaves under an autumn tree, squirming and stunned from flying full force into the hard sign. Fortunately, the further we got from the generated-lights of the restaurant, the fewer the bugs. Unfortunately, there was also less light.

I stood and stared into the dark desert across which rested the promise land of a clean room and bug nets. Meanwhile, my thoughts ran with the warnings of the night. Mandi behind, darkness in front, we started down the road. My pace was quick, my words few. An occasional squeal and dry heave assured me my friend was right behind. Then into the darkness my name was all but yelled. I looked back. “Derek… Derek, there’s one on you!! There’s one on your shoulder!!” “Mandi…” I said. “I’ll be ok with the bugs, I just don’t want to get jumped…” I shook my jacket, quivered my spine and continued.

We passed a couple shadowy figures until eventually we saw a light. A man sat, darkly at the entrance of our guesthouse with a lantern lit. The most beautiful sight you ever saw, especially if you were Mandi. We closed the windows, lit a lantern and once our appetites returned, finished the pizza we ordered hours before.

Everything happens for a reason right? Maybe this was to remind me to be thankful. Thankful for lighted streets. Maybe for indoor restaurants. Or maybe it was just to make me stronger. Stronger so I would be ready for something like… say getting charged by a rhino. But that’s another story…

So I did what every savvy traveler would do. I got in. But to make sure it was legit I did the “ask for a receipt” trick. “Receipt?” asked the driver and supported it with an are-you-kidding look. “Ah, never mind,” I replied. “I’ll be alright.” I moved on to my next strategy. Make friends.

One of the first things we learn in life is mankind’s favoritism. The coach who starts his son, the Class President elected by her cute smile, the prom-king synonymous with “starting quarterback”. The examples are endless. So I learned at an early age that befriending unpopular professors can afford you extra time on important papers. Or that a charity laugh will get you a long way in life (though you do increase risk of being tagged “brown noser”).

Now having grown into a strapping young man, I find it just as useful traveling. Everyone wants a friend, and you are less likely to rob or take advantage of your friends… that’s the theory anyway. So sitting in the back of a cab, with a visibly disgruntled driver leading us through dirt roads, I start in. “Are you from here? Did you like growing up here? Is your family here?” Etc., etc.

Within minutes we were talking about the good ol’ days, life on the island, changes over the years. Then the car slowed. It came to a stop in the middle of the road. Police approached the window. I watched as the driver’s demeanor changed. Driver offered a shallow greeting. Policeman returned and looked with casual suspicion to the back seat. A quick exchange was made in Swahili and the driver waved on. With irritated eyes, the he gave more attention to his rearview than the road before, mumbling curse words. “Do you think the government is corrupt here?” I asked.

With that he explained the people’s contempt. “Look around,” he said. I did. The landscape was rich, the people poor. He spoke of the rich soil, the spices that were sold all over the world, and the people whose state was worsening. The people were tired. “Is there no one making a stand?” I asked. There were some but not many. “You need to start a revolution,” I told the man. There was hope in his eyes.

In all of my travels, I have yet to see a place so ripe for revolution. The people are unsettled, but aware. More than once I noticed people roll their eyes at the mention of government. Though living in paradise, they were not happy.

He gave us a tour through the famous Stone Town, pointing out architecture and buildings from different political eras. We reached the airport with time to spare. “I will watch for your name…” I told the man who smiled and handed me his card in return. I shook his hand. We were friends.

The two Amsterdamians had spent the last several months in Africa working at a hospital where they studied medicine as part of their schooling back in home. Not only were they terrifically friendly, they had their stuff together. Dutch friends, Mandi and I split a cab to the Northern part of the island, where we were greeted my another Dutchman who had everything sorted out. We checked in, then over a Tanzanian beer, and under a faded African sky we swapped stories in the cool salty air.

Zanzibar is an island in which the history is as rich as the white sand beaches that separate the turquoise sea from some of the world’s finest spices. Scuba diving, snorkeling, sailing on traditional dhow ships, sampling the spices peppered throughout the island: there are plenty of activities. Or you can simply explore underprivileged alleys, sit with locals over a plate of rice, beans and fish head, and relax on a stunning spread of seaside sand.

It is an intriguing place, this Zanzibar. Women covered by dark veils expose only their focused eyes and a small section of surrounding skin. Men mend the nets that catch their livelihood. Children play football or practice moves in the sand. The beaches are beautiful. The water clean, clear, and home to small simple sailboats of Arabic decent.

As you sit studying the sails wandering across the water, men young and old pose friendship as they practiced their own form of sales. Trinkets, beads, henna, massage, the offers are endless. We were there in the calm before the storm of tourist season. And as I sat in the sand, a people’s reality became more real.

The seas were soothing, but the air tumultuous. I’ll admit I was slightly spoiled from a Malawian people who earned the title: “friendliest people on earth” ; however, the change here was significant. Anxious to interact, I would offer a Swahili “Jambo” to every passerby, and unless there was something to sell, the few who felt obliged to respond, generally did so unenthusiastically and without eye contact. Whereas, in Malawi I felt welcome even given unearned respect for simple hue of my skin, in Zanzinbar it was quite the opposite. Suddenly white did not mean welcome.

Tourism drives this island. In a land over populated with poverty, a tense dichotomy is born. The people are forced to fight for tourist attention just to feed their families. Tourists are annoyed by bombardment. Locals irritated, watch at an untouchable distance the frivolity of funds flowing freely from foreigners on the soil of their own paradise.

I sat on the other side, hoping reach across the divide. To connect on a level less monetarily based. To connect. To converse. It happened a couple times, but it wasn’t easy. I’m sure it meant more to me then them. I was eager, but I suppose I can understand their excitement to make friends was not so enthusiastic as mine.

After an inspiring time in Malawi, I was headed to Dar Es Salam, Tanzania, which, if direct, should be just over an hour flight. However, things work a little differently in Africa, so rather than flying direct, as my ticket indicated, I would fly to North Malawi, then Kenya, then finally to Dar Es Salam. Needless to say, I had a little time on my hands, and when I learned my neighbor worked for the UN Refugee department, I figured I’d jump right in.

He paused when I asked. Then to lessen the pregnancy, I joked, “Maybe more of a philosophical question…” He smiled and returned to reflection. This is a man who sees mankind at its lowest; when their country and people have turned on them; when disaster, natural or mankind, has stripped of them of every comfort they have ever known, and in the final hope of survival, they are forced to leave the only thing they do know-home.

‘Tis better to give than to receive. Yet when it comes to giving your family a meal to survive, the temptation to take what you have not received becomes awfully real. When people are in desperate situations, they become aggressive…” he replied. He began to speak about the tendencies of mankind when pushed to their limits. We talked about the effects that has on neighboring country(ies). The strain-economically, and socially. Desperate times bring out desperate reactions.

I believe in life, nearly everything is self- perpetuating. When you do an act of good, especially underserved, it stirs something in the receiving party who then wants to do something good to someone else. Likewise, if you over react in anger or frustration, the receiving party is stirred by injustice and reacts in kind. Therefore, it’s better to do good. Yet in the drive of self-preservation, these golden ideals break down. If my daughter is starving to death and my neighbor has two days worth of food, I would be terribly tempted to take, which in turn places my neighbor in the same position the next day, forcing him to take what is not his, to preserve what is. And so the cycle of aggression begins. It’s hard to think of tomorrow, when you’re not sure you’ll make it through today.

I’m not sure Mr. Miselini ever answered my question before he left half-way through my trip, although with an empty seat, he did leave my head full of thoughts. I arrived Zanzibar with more questions and less answers.

On the turquoise shores of a small beautiful island, I met another random person. However, this conversation was not quite as stirring as the rasta and I talked about how great Italians are, while he smoked a joint and tried to sell me on a 1/2 day snorkeling trip. No, can’t say that for sure… I wasn’t as stirred, but my rasta friend sure seemed inspired.

“Blah, blah, blah… Africa…blah, blah”  (“Blah” by the way is refers to the level of my attention, not the importance in things being said. That is until “Africa” perked my ears.) “Africa? Were you in Africa?? I’m leaving for Africa today!” I interjected. As it turns out my friend’s acquaintance had traveled through some of the places I was going. I explained to her my interest in humanitarian causes and she told me about a guy in Malawi who was working with prisoners. We exchanged info, and that was that.

Fast forward to David and the preschool. Somehow in conversation I brought up this acquaintance of a friend, who had met a man that worked with prisoners somewhere in Malawi. “Oh Nick?” Answered David, “ Nick’s a good friend of mine.”  And just like that a couple of phone calls later we had scheduled an appointment with “prison-guy” Nick, who agreed to meet and show us around the prison.

But before we can get to the prison, we must get through the police. After a asking a few people for directions we found the smelly little van headed to the “market”. We paid our fair and climbed in. There sat mazungus Derek and Mandi, and a van full of Africans chatting in local tongues, when suddenly the van slows to a near stop. We look around and see a police car had pulled next to the van. The van hesitates then proceeds.

Moments later the van stops completely. This time the police car comes quicker and closer. The officer gets out and through a stern brow says no more than a few words to the driver. The driver says even less. Gets out of his van and into the back of the police car, which drives off into the distance. Keys still swinging in the van’s ignition, I dart my head around to the guy next to me. He shrugs. I shrug. We all look around at each other and then he says to me, “Come. We go now.”

Everyone gets out and extend hands to the man who had taken our fare (different than the driver, of course). Each hand was issued a refund, when another van pulls up. Not quite as savvy as the locals, we were the last to reach the new van, which consequently had reached its capacity. Doors shut. Van drives off into the distance. Fortunately, there was another man standing nearby who noticed our situation and pointed us in the right direction. Eventually, we made it to the small coffee shop where we met Nick.

Nick is soft-spoken British man, a little rough around the edges, between his cigarettes and slightly shifty eyes. He’s also a gentle man, and though not quite understanding why, obliged to my video taping him.  He explained his start. One man, wanting to do something to better this world, he sort of happened upon this prison. The prison was built shortly before the British left, to accommodate (too flattering a term) less than half the number of inmates it now did.

Though drastically overcrowded, the inmates were highly forgotten. Malnourished. Uneducated. Many serving severely for modest crimes. There was a small percentage of women, several with babies, who were reportedly treated worse than the men. Nick sparked with pride as he described his helping one child get admitted to an orphanage for care while the mother served her time. It was his goal to do the same with the remaining children.

There are many needs, most of which Nick had a goal to address. It began with education and providing study books and supplies. Then with health and providing seeds for growing crops. Unfortunately, there are deeper problems, less obvious problems. We talked shortly of corrupt governments, injustice, and the many inconsistencies within the “justice” system. “I trust the prisoners, more than most of the guards…” he said reflectively and we left for the prison.

We walked around to the back of the market/coffee shop and within five minutes we were in another world. Nick spoke with the guards and escorted us back. Suspicious guards watched as we walked toward the women’s ward. In a small room, one older woman taught younger women basic English from a small notebook. All were there voluntarily working from supplies Nick had provided. Close by a young girl, no more than two years frowned crossly, threatening to strike any of us who approached besides her mother. After slipping one lady a couple cigarettes we continued.

Next we entered the men’s ward. Ducking through the steel doorway, there was a certain air. A crowd of inmates sat and stood closely in the room we entered. I shook the cold calloused hands of a couple men. Some appeared nervous, others hard, still others joked. We had come on the wrong day. A guard pulled Nick aside to explain it was the day of a prison transfer and might not be the best day for us to be there. Nick honored the request. With a slight nod, I bid farewell to the desperate eyes that watched us leave. Eyes mine would never meet again.

I followed Nick back along the dusty path we had entered from, tracing his prints with mine. We were on different paths. For me, it was a short walk from another world. For Nick, a long road to a dark reality. One paved with countless challenges. However, at any moment you could look back and know that one man who had come a long way, and would go even further.

* With money donated by yourselves, I helped purchase supplies for the prisoners. Please see the “Charity” tab for details or information on how to help more.  Thanks for your giving. You are making a difference.

One of the hardest things in life is reaching the decision you want to change the world. To do something good. To make a positive difference. Then comes something harder, actually doing it. First is the realizing, “Yeah, I should do something!” Then comes, “Wait…what can I do???” Well if you ever want to jump right in, just get to the source and start right away, I’ve found the place for you… actually the continent for you.

Whether reality or something stirred from Hollywood hype or awareness concerts, no place seemed to have more need than Africa. An entire continent fighting things like HIV/AIDS, malaria, starvation, poverty. Turns out there’s some truth to that inkling. Different areas of course plagued with different problems. It may take a moment to get past the beautiful smiles, but it won’t take long before you find those smiles are covering a life of need. Malawi I learned was something like the third or fourth most impoverished country in the world. Right behind Haiti. Depressing, huh?

Until you get to a little village and hear for the first time a mob of children yell “Mazungu (Swahili for white person)!!!” and run full speed to greet you. To slap a high five. Or to just take hold and not let go. That’s the kind of “warm fuzzy” you can find only in the ink fairytales, or laced in the fibers of your special blankie. It doesn’t matter how dark or depressed your mood, you can’t help but smile as the warmth of your heart raises the corners of your mouth.

We began our morning on a small minivan used for public transit. This is where I met David Leflar. He’s easy to find. Not only is there the obvious ethnic difference, he’s also about 6’3”, wearing overalls and a red ball cap that reads “Ugly Bass Player” on the back. He’s somewhere in his late 20’s (I’m guessing) and after finishing college at a small university somewhere in Tennessee, David and a couple other friend decided they wanted to make a difference. So they did. They shared a vision on importance of early childhood development and started a group called boNGO Worldwide.

We were on our way to visit one of their projects. A preschool in a little village in which the teachers and workers almost entirely come from within the community. After getting off the strong smelling trasport, we walked the dirt road among maize (African corn) fields until we reached the preschool. And then it happened. We turned the corner and about 30 kids started screaming “Mazungu! Mazungu!” .The teachers held them at bay until they could stand still and then like a gunshot at a racetrack, the kids fired towards us. Mandi stayed to keep the kids company, David showed me around.

There were two classrooms painted colorfully with the alphabet and numbers, one kitchen, bathroom (or outhouse with a hole in the ground), living quarters turned storage and a few crops planted in the back of the property. David only recently moved out of the community. When he arrived he lived at the school as he helped build and organize everything. He didn’t speak the language but learned. And now this preschool is educating kids from 12 different neighboring villages.

boNGO Worldwide has since set up 14 schools and community based childcare centers, trained teachers, and is working hard to do more. It’s an inspirational story of one guy who had a vision to make a difference in the world. He joined some friends, moved to an area of need, and has helped communities educate their youth with their people. What’s interesting is maybe for the first real time I noticed there were less boundaries. Less divide. It wasn’t the white guy and the villagers, it was friends and people concerned for the children. It was as I said, inspiring.

I went back to hang out with the kids. All children I am learning are fascinated with cameras, these were especially. At first they would star emotionlessly at me as I took a picture. Then as I turned the camera and revealed portraits of them in the viewfinder, a wave of excitement would wash over them. I’d click, turn and show. They’d look, realize and scream. I mean kind of screams you’d hear somewhere on the shores of Never Neverland with Peter Pan and an army of Lost Boys. Pounding with joy and excitement.

Later that day we visited a much more organized and funded orphanage, known as Open Arms (www.openarmsmalawi.org). You may recognize the name as a place Madona recently visited when looking for a child to adopt. It was impressive. Clean. Well thought. They too were doing amazing things to help children. But I have to say there was something magical about the village. About the dirt and the maize fields. About 30 children yelling “Mazungu” and running barefoot to greet you. Something I think I’ll hold on to for some time.