On the streets of Arusha with Aristedes
Amani eschews the title “orphanage” for good reason. Rather than simply being a residence shelter for children without responsible guardians, the center is actively involved in uprooting the causes of homeless children in Tanzania through a variety of programs at the community level.
As the sun began to set and the outline of Mt. Meru slowly faded into the night sky, Aristedes led me through the maze of side streets and back alleys where the children live. I wouldn’t want or be able to be on these streets without him. Over the years of frequenting these streets, he’s made many connections – shop keepers, taxi drivers and older homeless people – informants who update him when new children arrive on the streets. We visited a few of these informants before finding Hussein and Juma playing near one of the markets.
Hussein had been to Amani and later reunited with a relative, but had ran away, seeking the autonomy he knew on the streets. He wore a filthy blue winter jacket without a shirt underneath. He took an immediate interest in me, sitting close and putting my hand around his shoulders. He asked me where I was from and why I was there. His lazy, wandering eyes suggested that he was intoxicated. I asked Aristedes what he had taken. What most of the kids use to fight hunger pains and escape their reality, he said – a mixture of shoe glue and petrol which they chew.
Later in the evening, after several similar visits, Aristedes took me to a place he said many of the kids slept. Evenings are particularly difficult for children on the streets. Finding a safe place to sleep is a challenge; sleep being a state of extreme vulnerability. They look for well-lit places, often beneath shop awnings. The darkness invites trouble from older street people, what Aristedes euphemistically referred to as “bad things”. Rape is a physical display of a street hierarchy; It’s borne out of aggressive peer dynamics. Some of the children use the money they’ve earned during the day to pay older street people as night watchmen.
Aristedes bought a group of kids chicken and French fries from a street vendor. “Asante, Teacher.” He spoke at length to one of the kids who had previously expressed an interest in coming to Amani. Aristedes was hopeful the young boy was ready to make a genuine commitment and leave his life on the street. The boy, Stephan, agreed to meet us the next morning at the bus stand.
We left our hotel the next morning about 8:00 a.m. Aristedes led me to the banks of a small stream where the kids bathed. On one of the banks were four posts draped with scraps of plastic. He explained that the site was used for cooking whatever food they could scrounge. Nearby was a small park. On Thursday mornings, Rovina, Amani’s full time nurse gives health lectures to the children there. She also provides first aid for any of the kids who are injured.
We arrived at the Arusha bus stand again around 10:00 a.m., the scheduled meeting time with Stephen. He wasn’t there, but this didn’t seem to surprise Aristedes. We waited until about 11:30 and just as we were discussing leaving for Moshi, one of the boy’s friends ran up to Aristedes and explained that Stephen had been given 1,000 Tanzanian shillings (about a 1USD) that morning by someone for work done the previous week. With the money in his hand, Amani no longer seemed necessary and he would not be coming, his friend explained.
I’ve seen thousands of hungry, homeless people in the past couple of years. I’ve seen people digging through piles of garbage, the stench of which made my stomach heave. I’ve seen people suffering the effects of diseases long since eradicated from the developed world. After the night in Arusha, I thought a lot about whether or not I was becoming desensitized by the sight of such abject poverty, whether I should have felt sadder or angrier. What is the proper reaction when witnessing such miserable conditions?
The experience confirmed for me what I already knew, that global inequities are staggering; that the way we’ve arranged our economies is flawed, a complacent act of violence. We tell ourselves that the harder one works, the more one endures, the greater the benefits one will receive. We tell ourselves the basest of lies.
Amani’s Street Educators, Aristedes and Godfrey lead one such program. Five nights a week these two social workers walk the streets of Moshi - and nearby Arusha - meeting with hundreds of kids who sleep in gutters, bath in polluted streams and beg and steal for food.
Thursday afternoon, I boarded a bus heading to Arusha, 45 km West of Moshi, to join Aristedes on the streets. Arusha trumps Moshi in population, income levels and number of street children. The streets are filled with bleating taxis and a dizzying crush of touts, Technicolor-clad mamas and animals being led to market. Tanzania’s paradox is magnified in Arusha. Lanky Maasai tribesmen carry a spear in one hand, a cell phone in the other. Disfigured paupers sit beneath neon signs advertising flat-screen TVs.
The ride to Arusha was mesmerizing. Descending Mt. Kilimanjaro’s foothills, the foliage becomes greener and denser. Banana, mango and avocado trees extend out from the road, acre upon acre. The sounds of soukous music fill the packed bus. I sat on a little seat that folded down in the aisle between the permanent seats. The back was broke and I had to sit leaning forward. A toddler behind me kept reaching for my hair. Alighting from the bus at the Arusha station, I was met with 10 men who wanted to take me somewhere, sell me something or get something from me. “Hapa. Rafiki” – Here. Friend – I said, hoping to communicate with my little Swahili that a friend was meeting me at the station. A fistfight broke out in front of me. A scrum of young men circled around the two with flared nostrils. Despite holding fiercely to the other’s collar, both wore smiles. Minutes later, one of the fighters staggered over to me. “Hey nigger,” he said. He wasn’t smiling anymore. One of his friends held his fist up to me, a common greeting here. I held up mine. He punched it. “We like to fight,” he said. Just then, I saw Aristedes across the loading area and waved to get his attention.
As the sun began to set and the outline of Mt. Meru slowly faded into the night sky, Aristedes led me through the maze of side streets and back alleys where the children live. I wouldn’t want or be able to be on these streets without him. Over the years of frequenting these streets, he’s made many connections – shop keepers, taxi drivers and older homeless people – informants who update him when new children arrive on the streets. We visited a few of these informants before finding Hussein and Juma playing near one of the markets.
Hussein had been to Amani and later reunited with a relative, but had ran away, seeking the autonomy he knew on the streets. He wore a filthy blue winter jacket without a shirt underneath. He took an immediate interest in me, sitting close and putting my hand around his shoulders. He asked me where I was from and why I was there. His lazy, wandering eyes suggested that he was intoxicated. I asked Aristedes what he had taken. What most of the kids use to fight hunger pains and escape their reality, he said – a mixture of shoe glue and petrol which they chew.
Later in the evening, after several similar visits, Aristedes took me to a place he said many of the kids slept. Evenings are particularly difficult for children on the streets. Finding a safe place to sleep is a challenge; sleep being a state of extreme vulnerability. They look for well-lit places, often beneath shop awnings. The darkness invites trouble from older street people, what Aristedes euphemistically referred to as “bad things”. Rape is a physical display of a street hierarchy; It’s borne out of aggressive peer dynamics. Some of the children use the money they’ve earned during the day to pay older street people as night watchmen.
Aristedes bought a group of kids chicken and French fries from a street vendor. “Asante, Teacher.” He spoke at length to one of the kids who had previously expressed an interest in coming to Amani. Aristedes was hopeful the young boy was ready to make a genuine commitment and leave his life on the street. The boy, Stephan, agreed to meet us the next morning at the bus stand.
We left our hotel the next morning about 8:00 a.m. Aristedes led me to the banks of a small stream where the kids bathed. On one of the banks were four posts draped with scraps of plastic. He explained that the site was used for cooking whatever food they could scrounge. Nearby was a small park. On Thursday mornings, Rovina, Amani’s full time nurse gives health lectures to the children there. She also provides first aid for any of the kids who are injured.
We arrived at the Arusha bus stand again around 10:00 a.m., the scheduled meeting time with Stephen. He wasn’t there, but this didn’t seem to surprise Aristedes. We waited until about 11:30 and just as we were discussing leaving for Moshi, one of the boy’s friends ran up to Aristedes and explained that Stephen had been given 1,000 Tanzanian shillings (about a 1USD) that morning by someone for work done the previous week. With the money in his hand, Amani no longer seemed necessary and he would not be coming, his friend explained.
I’ve seen thousands of hungry, homeless people in the past couple of years. I’ve seen people digging through piles of garbage, the stench of which made my stomach heave. I’ve seen people suffering the effects of diseases long since eradicated from the developed world. After the night in Arusha, I thought a lot about whether or not I was becoming desensitized by the sight of such abject poverty, whether I should have felt sadder or angrier. What is the proper reaction when witnessing such miserable conditions?
The experience confirmed for me what I already knew, that global inequities are staggering; that the way we’ve arranged our economies is flawed, a complacent act of violence. We tell ourselves that the harder one works, the more one endures, the greater the benefits one will receive. We tell ourselves the basest of lies.
