The foundation of a house in the Lower 9th Ward left as monument and testament to the destruction wreaked by Hurricane Katrina

Three weeks in a row, after we
have made the obligatory trips
to Café du Monde and the French Quarter,
I drive visitors to the Lower Ninth Ward
to see the empty lots and abandoned homes.

First, we go to the base of the levee
and climb to the top. The Mississippi
is flat and calm, the shore crowded
with the skeleton trunks of trees,
tangled and sun-bleached, wolf grey.

Then we drive slowly through
the deserted neighborhoods,
slow enough to avoid gaping potholes,
to peer into gutted houses
rotting in the clutches of weeds.

“Did it flood here? How high?”
We seek out the damage,
want to know the numbers dead,
a morbid arithmetic weighed against
our paltry experiences with loss.

I’ve only lived in New Orleans
for three months. More than six years
have passed since Katrina
crashed to land and showed us
what failure and breach can mean.

The careful remembering of smells,
of fleeing, of a snake’s white skeleton
dangling from the branch of a tree,
uprooted, has been a task for others.
I recall only the dull glare of a tv screen.

As a child I fell often and my parents,
gathering me up, would say,
“Show me where it hurts”:
by pointing here, I gave my pain
a witness and therefore an escape.

So I take my friends over
the bridge, looking for destruction.
We go for the same reason we are drawn
to cemeteries and to looking at scars.
We want to point to where it hurt.

But the injury is not our own;
it belongs to you and your songs.
And though we don’t say it
we know we’re just voyeurs
on your landscape of pain and rebirth.

What do you think of our prying eyes,
you who rebuilt your ruined, reeking
houses brick by brick? Still, we seek
traces of all that came undone,
hoping that by looking we might see.

But the potholes are not deep enough.
The tearing of the walls, the cankered rot,
the bridge across the river and the road home
are not enough to be enough
at all.

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 5,000 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

The hardest part about traveling is surely the friends you leave behind. Today I learned from my dear friend Brian that Salma, our neighbor and friend in Bagamoyo, Tanzania in 2007, died sometime in the past two years due to complications during a botched surgery. Salma was one of the two “house girls” that lived with the Dihenga family next door to the Kunjombe’s house where I stayed. Her wild laugh, exuberance, and absolute kindness are still vivid in my memory. The day I left Bagamoyo to return to the United States, Salma paid a man with a film camera to come take photos of us. When I returned to Bagamoyo in the fall of 2009, Salma had the photos from that day in an album next to her bed. She also had a baby who was only a few months old. Brian was not able to find out what happened to the child after Salma’s death. The sadness I feel about Salma’s death bears with it a certain shame that I could not be with her and that it took me so long to find out about her passing. I’m also reminded that the injuries I sustained in Tanzania would certainly have been fatal if not for my relative wealth. I am sick with anger at the injustice that I should survive when she did not because of this fact.

The first time I said goodbye to Salma, she pressed me to tell her when I would return. “As soon as I can, ” I promised. “It’s very expensive. But maybe in a year or two.” She was solemn (and Salma was never solemn) when she replied, “Ah yes, but I may be dead by then. You will come back, and they will say, ‘Oh, sorry! Salma is gone, she has died, you are too late! She is buried deep!’” I was nineteen years old then, and I don’t think she was much older. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You are young.” She looked at me and shook her head. Then she laughed and pulled me into one of her signature hugs: arms wrapped my neck, face pressed against my cheek, and her weight bouncing against me as she jumped up and down. I hugged everyone while my host father Jimmy helped load my bags into a waiting taxi. As the car pulled away, Salma and Gracie, the other house girl, were jumping and  singing “Happy Birthday”; they waved until I was out of sight.

Below is a short excerpt from a chapter of the travel memoir I wrote about the time I spent in Bagamoyo. It describes the first time I met Salma. For context, Jimmy was my host father and Kenny was his two-year-old son. Rest peacefully, sweet Salma. Nakupenda wewe. Asante kwa urafiki yako. Nitakukumbuka na wewe daima. Lala salaama na mungu.

***

When I woke up my feet were sticking out from under the net and all of the sheets were twisted beneath me. The door creaked. When I looked up I saw two wide eyes lower than the doorknob and a small hand wrapped around the wood.

“Hello. Are you Kenny?”

The eyes continued to stare at me.

“Come here,” I said softly.

He disappeared behind the door. I heard his feet slap against the concrete floor. A few minutes later I was still in bed and I heard the small feet approach again. They stopped at the door. I didn’t look. After a few still moments, they came closer. A hand touched my hand. I turned to face him slowly.

“Mambo.”

He looked at me for a long time. He had a long face and short curled lashes like his mother’s.

“Poa,” he whispered.

Then he turned and ran away. Jimmy was right. Kenny did look like his mother.

“Labeckah!” Jimmy’s voice stopped me from drifting back into sleep. “You are sleeping all day and all night! Are you alive? Should I call the hospital? I will tell them, ‘oh I am so sorry, Labeckah has died!’”

“I’m up.” I called, and shuffled out.

Jimmy was in the doorway, and Kenny was behind his left leg, clutching it with both hands.

“You have met my son Kenny. He is two yeahs old. He is a good, strong boy. He is named after an American woman. It was her second name. She came here for three months. She even taught me to drive. Eh, Kenny?”

Kenny was silent.

“Come Kenny, come around,” Jimmy said, pulling his son from behind him. Kenny wasn’t wearing a shirt. His stomach was round and protruding. It made him look like an old, pot-bellied man in miniature. His short legs were plump and pigeon-toed.

“I don’t think he likes me, Jimmy,” I told him.

“Ah! Kenny, be a good boy. Nenda kucheza, go play with your toys. He only likes his mother,” Jimmy said, looking at me. “Kenny is sometimes being a bad boy because he will not eat his food. He is always saying he is full. I am worried for my son.”

His round belly and puffy cheeks made it look like he was getting enough to eat, but I nodded. I didn’t see Mama Kenny. From outside I heard a shriek.

“JUNI! Wewe, acha! Ha ha ha. Gracie. Gracie! Njoo!” A loud female voice interrupted Jimmy’s concerns.

“Oh, it is Salma,” Jimmy said, smiling. “She lives with the neighbor. She is craze. She and Gracie (they are both working for the Dihengas), they are so craze.”

When we walked outside I saw two young women, both large and robust. The one was still shouting, chasing around a tiny little boy wearing a sweat suit and tottering unsteadily. She had very dark skin, big eyes, and cornrow braids in her hair. She had a piece of yellow kanga cloth wrapped around her waist. The other had small features that seemed crowded in the middle of her face. She always looked like she was squinting.

“Salma! Gracie!” cried Jimmy, stopping them in their tracks. They both straightened and looked at me.

“Ooooh,” said the short one with the braids. “Mzunguuuu. Wow.”

“Ah!” the other said. “Mzuri sana! Very pretty, very pretty!” The both began to jump up and down, clapping their hands. They burst into song.

“Happy bethday to you! Happy bethday to you! Happy bethday dah friend… Happy bethday to you!” I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I am Salma,” said the one with the braids, rushing over to grab my hand. She patted it with her own.

“And the other one is Gracie,” said Jimmy. I smiled at Gracie, who blushed and grinned.

“Oh, and Juni, Juni,” said Salma. “Here is Juni!”

She snatched the tiny thing from the ground. He was barely old enough to walk. He had bright eyes, far apart on his face, and a small acorn nose.

“Junior Dihenga,” Jimmy told me, placing his huge hand over the child’s head.

“We must go. You must leave Labeckah alone. She does not like your singing. It is not good and you will never be famous! The dogs are running away now that they hear you,” Jimmy told the girls. They laughed at him and batted their eyelashes, humming loudly. He shook his head and clucked at them. As we walked away they broke into another rousing round of “Happy Birthday to You.”

In the four weeks I’ve lived in New Orleans, I’ve heard this statement from nearly ten different people. Glancing around at the Wal-Marts, the boutique frozen yogurt shops, the SUVs, and the stately houses on St. Charles Ave., it’s been hard for me believe the comparison. But the complaints about the city do parallel those I heard about and witnessed in Tanzania: there is rampant corruption. Nothing works the way it should. Everything happens slowly. The labrynthine bureaucracy slows progress. Change is slow to occur, or absent altogether. People are satisfied with the status quo. Poverty is persistent and pervasive. It’s not safe. The roads are awful and people are bad drivers. And I mean, really bad drivers.

I’ve witnessed some similarities myself: abandoned and dilapidated buildings are a common sight. Homeless people walk up and down the medians at stop lights, peering into windows that stay rolled-up, more often than not. It’s oppressively hot and there are a lot of mosquitoes (but at least they don’t carry Malaria). And don’t get me started on the pot holes. But the negative comparisons stop there. And then a flood of the positive. New Orleans is a place where relationships matter. People are friendly, welcoming, generous, and warm. They are talkative. It’s unbelievably easy to make friends. The music settles down deep in your chest and won’t let your feet stop moving or your body stop swaying. People dance. And they sing. And they eat, a lot. And they are, or at least seem to be, very happy. So maybe these two places, some 8,799 miles apart, really are alike.

Ashley, a Kiva New Orleans borrower

Happy, a Tanzanian Kiva borrower

The familiar joy in my soul is back. Sometimes I’ve struggled to communicate to people why I loved living in Tanzania so much, despite the many frustrations and inconveniences, the dangers and the fears. Maybe I should just tell them to come to New Orleans to get a little taste of what I mean when I say that the positives just outweigh the negatives, that sometimes a place can make you feel alive.

Another thing that New Orleans seems to have in common with Tanzania and the developing countries I’ve visited: it is a tourist destination, rich in culture and history, in local flavor and ritualized tradition. People travel long distances to see a place that resists change, that is unique, that in some ways defies modernity. Perhaps they recognize, subconsciously, that their lives elsewhere are safe and comfortable but somehow sterile, less striking, maybe even stale.

Shaka and Na’imah Zulu are members of the Mardi Gras Indian tribe “Yellow Pocahontas.” The Mardi Gras Indians are descendants of escaped slaves who were sheltered and hidden by Native Americans.

I’ve been guilty in the past, I think, of idealizing poverty. I’ve always had the ability to leave. I’ve never experienced true need or institutionalized injustice or oppression. The odds have very rarely been against me. Where I have failed, I have had no one and nothing to blame but myself. But I have witnessed the resilience and courage of people who are called “less fortunate” than myself, and I do not believe that my admiration of their character has been misplaced. Maybe I am so impressed and moved by what goes on in the lives of the poor because it is with them that I’ve seen most clearly the triumph of the human spirit, the ability to overcome difficult circumstances with gratitude and persistence.

Somali rapper K’Naan recently wrote an editorial for the New York Times in which he called Somalia “a paradise of paradox,” a place of both breathtaking beauty and unspeakable pain. New Orleans, in its way, offers the same confounding combination of opposites inextricably linked. The scars of Katrina are still visible here, as “x-codes” spraypainted on houses by coast guard crews to show which dwellings had been checked for bodies, as credit scores destroyed when livelihoods were swept away, as the grey lines high on the sides of buildings that mark the floodwaters’ reach. But bright new buildings and businesses, rebuilt neighborhoods, and continued recovery efforts stand out against those darker backdrops.

A mural on a building near Good Work Network, one of the Kiva New Orleans partners

The other day I walked in a Second Line, the famous New Orleans tradition of a bass brand parade. A second line usually follows a wedding or a funeral procession. I was told that a jazz funeral second line is a celebration of life; it lets the creator know how much a person was appreciated and loved. I was also told that second lines were a way for New Orleans “pleasure and social clubs” to advertise their life-insurance policies. “If you are one of us,” the spectacle would promise, “just look at what a party your funeral will be! We will celebrate you with style!” The music was infectious. Everyone danced together. Dancers twirled fringed and bejeweled parasols. Strangers embraced. Bodies became instruments of beats. But as we shimmied and bobbed down the road, my companions whispered about the violence that sometimes accompanies these joyful events. “A two-year-old was shot last year,” one person said. “And make sure you don’t fall behind the parade, because that’s where it gets dangerous.” We had to park strategically so that we wouldn’t walk certain irreputable blocks as we left the parade. I couldn’t separate my joy from my anxiety; a single river of adrenaline flowed through my body.

Second Line dancer

As I drove away from the Second Line, I thought of a poem by Langston Hughes called “Let America Be America Again.” He articulates the persistent paradox of America, saying:

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed–
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

[...]

For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay–
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

[...]

O, let America be America again–
The land that never has been yet–
And yet must be–the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine–the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME–
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

[...]

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath–
America will be!

In a way, I see New Orleans as what America could be. It is a place that is aware that it is in constant flux. Those in the present take stock of a rich past and promising future, while holding an open conversation about the inherent risk and great potential of diversity. The heterogeneity of New Orleans, it’s mottled history of Spaniards and Frenchmen, Canadians and freed Slaves, native people and pioneering colonialists, has left a legacy of both conflict and enduring vitality. American culture has reaped the benefits of New Orleans’ beautiful, hybrid traditions. And yes, there is a certain uncomfortable paradox at the realization that the jazz and blues traditions that led to Rock ‘n’ Roll only existed because of the cultural resilience of enslaved Africans. That the enigmatic Mardi Gras Indians marched in their elaborate masked costumes during Mardi Gras celebrations because this was the only time blacks were allowed to “parade without a permit.” That the famous ‘po’ boy’ sandwiches were so named because poor people could only afford a simple meal of fried meat on a plain bun. But it’s a tribute to New Orleans that the people here have stubbornly and repeatedly turned darkness into light. And into very delicious food.

The entrance to Louis Armstrong Park

What all this thinking about New Orleans as a “developing country” has led me to (re)consider is the very language we use to talk about development. We’re all familiar with the concepts of the “developed world” versus the “developing world.” This paradigm of thought suggests a very real phenomenon: the belief that there aretwo distinct worlds on one spinning planet. And if there are these two worlds, then the concerns of the one half must be quite different than those of the other half. In fact, individuals in the other world must be very nearly aliens. The racist justifications of slavery and genocide make more sense if we split the earth in two. You might say these are concerns of the past, but the economic exploitation made common and acceptable by the corporate globalized system have replaced old forms of oppression. The work of Kiva, I would argue, is to fight the poverty created by unequal local and global systems and to empower all individuals to participate meaningfully in the market.

So, in our terminology we have divided countries and societies (which consist of people, of course) into those we consider “developed” or “developing.” And at this point, the English major in me, perpetually fascinated by language, interjects. These words themselves, what do they suggest? And how do they shape our society? First of all, we only have to look at campaigns for aid and charity to see that those in the developing world are often portrayed as passive victims. Compare this to the “free” people of the West, empowered by their choices, first measured by their ability to choose leaders, religions, and lifestyles, but increasingly guaged by the breadth of their consumer choices. “Buying power” as freedom. But at what point does commodification become it’s own particular type of cage? When we measure value in terms of what we possess rather than how we act and what we are able to do for others, what is lost? By promoting microfinance, sharing the personal stories of Kiva borrowers, and connecting Lenders and Borrowers with these stories, Kiva reminds us that people matter more than profits and that making a living is about more than money. When I ask Kiva borrowers how they have used and will use the additional profits gained from their loans, rarely do they mention wanting to buy more things. They talk about providing education and healthcare for their children, better food for their families, and more opportunities for their communities.

Charles and friends. Though the men came from Mississippi, Mombasa, Kenya, and Honduras, they all call New Orleans home.

So if the United States is a developed country, then why does Kiva have a presence here? Once a country is considered “developed” (modernized, industrialized, democratized, capitalized), then people want to wipe their hands, pat each other on the back, and say the work is done. Institutionalized greed and inequality are given the leeway to exist, because we become convinced we have achieved development and reached an endpoint. The action is completed. Stasis reached. Shouldn’t we be satisfied? By bringing Kiva City to the United States, Kiva has made a brave statement about what development means and who can benefit from it.

What I have been getting at from the beginning is that maybe New Orleans should be proud of being compared to a “developing country.” Maybe the words we have chosen to describe the project of development should be changed to reflect the fact that all countries are developing. What is alluring about the classification of the “developing country” is that the label reminds us that society is always a work in progress. Until some utopian civilization is achieved, no country can be truly developed. As long as their is homelessness, poverty, inequal access to credit, healthcare and education, a wage gap between genders, etc., then yes, we are still developing.

A wall painting on Oretha Haley Castle Boulevard

Many of the people I’ve met in New Orleans came to volunteer after the storm, intending to stay for a few months, but ended up making the city their home. Even after Katrina killed 1,835 people, destroyed 275,000 homes and 400,000 jobs, caused $81 billion in property damage, and forced the evacuation of 80% of the New Orleans population, over 140,000 have returned to rebuild. All of the Kiva borrowers with whom I’ve spoken left New Orleans for a while, but each one affirms the same thing: “I always knew I’d come back to New Orleans. There’s no other place like it on earth.” I’ve never seen so many people identify with and love their city with such fervent passion, with such abounding joy, and with such commitment to making it better. I thank them for their hard work and optimism.

Rebecca Corey was a Kiva Fellow in the 9th class with Tujijenge Tanzania, Ltd. in Dar-es-Salaam, Tanzania. Now, she’s back for round two, helping Kiva to launch Kiva New Orleans, the second Kiva City. To learn more about how to bring Kiva to your city, go here. To read about ASI Federal Credit Union, Kiva’s financial partner in New Orleans, go here. You can also follow Kiva New Orleans on facebook, join the Kiva New Orleans lending team, or make a loan to one of their wonderful clients.

This blog was originally posted on Oct. 14, 2011 on the Kiva Fellows Blog: http://fellowsblog.kiva.org/2011/10/14/new-orleans-a-developing-country-in-america/

In 2009 when I told friends and family I was moving to Tanzania to study international development and to work for Kiva in the field of microfinance, or the furnishing of small loans to the working poor, we all had certain pre-formed ideas about how impactful and necessary my work was sure to be. We understood that in terms of GDP, literacy, infant mortality, and other common measures, Tanzania is a “developing” country, Third World, periphery. In another word: poor. As a recent college graduate, I had established ideas about poverty. It is there as opposed to here, it happens to the Other or them, not to me or mine, and so on. Therefore, a $200 loan for the purchase of a few goats to a thin, ebony-skinned woman with a brightly patterned cloth turbaned around her head made sense; it fit into my worldview, my idea of the face of poverty. The same held true for the fishmongers, the roadside bicycle repair men, and the juice vendors whose loans I helped process and post to the Kiva website. Oh yes, I knew there was poverty in the United States, but a part of me believed that for Americans, it was different. Better. Safer. More comfortable. And who in the U.S. didn’t have access to credit? I was sure that an entrepreneur with a solid business plan would find it relatively easy to acquire working capital.

But already, Kiva was challenging preconceived notions about poverty and microfinance. At training in San Francisco in 2009, I learned that the leaders of the young organization had decided to start funding loans in the United States. There was immediate backlash. A lending group was formed protesting the decision. Articles were written denouncing the move. But Kiva posted the first U.S. loans, and they were funded almost immediately.

One of the reasons I admire Kiva is that the organization has what I see as an unparalleled commitment to transparency, fairness, and reciprocity. Sometimes, I have come to believe, our attitudes about poverty are just as oppressive and unfair as poverty itself. We stick to a narrative that protects entrenched interests and ideas about the distance and difference between the haves and the have-nots. How fascinating, then, and wonderful, is the idea that a lender in Tanzania, or Colombia, or Thailand, or any “developing” country, could lend to a borrower in the United States, the so-called Leader of the Free World? How would this new direction change the relationship and the understanding between people and across boundaries? Could it break down those pre-conceived notions about need and privilege that sometimes prevent the recognition of our shared humanity? Could it draw attention to the injustice and inequality in our own back yards?

One of the first texts assigned to me by a professor at the Institute of Development Studies at the University of Dar-es-Salaam was “Development as Freedom,” by Amartya Sen. Sen’s Nobel-prize winning assertion was this: Development is not just about the speed of economic growth, Gross Domestic Product, or the military might of a nation. It is not even justabout access to food, water, and shelter. It is about the freedoms that individuals in a society enjoy, defined by their economic, political, and human rights. So while the United States may enjoy a greater average wealth than every other nation, what about the plight of our poor? Do they have the opportunity to realize their full human potential and to pursue their dreams? Because if not, perhaps we are not quite so “developed” as we want to believe.

The backlash against Kiva for introducing U.S. loans never actually materialized. The Kiva lending community has voted with their feet (their dollars, rather), and consistently funded every U.S. based loan that has been posted, often within hours. Furthermore, the economic recession that began in 2008 has made people more aware of poverty here in our own neighborhoods and cities. As we analyze the state of our economy and the rate of unemployment, the buzz-words for politicians and financial experts remain “small business.” According to the Small Business Administration, more than 99% of businesses with payrolls in America are small businesses, and those small businesses historically employ more than half of all workers and create 80% of new jobs. So the “Buy Local” movement has arrived in its new form: Lend Local.

And Kiva is at the forefront of this new opportunity. Just a few months ago, Kiva (in partnership with Visa) launched a new program: Kiva City. Kiva City will leverage the influence and commitment of civic leaders, community organizations, and financial institutions like credit unions to extend microloans to small businesses all across America. Detroit was America’s first Kiva City, and New Orleans is the second, launching just a couple of months after Kiva Detroit. So here is where I come in. I arrived in the Crescent City about a month after the launch of Kiva New Orleans for my second fellowship with the Kiva Fellows Program, fresh from an arduous two-year recovery from the motorbike accident that ended my first fellowship in Dar-es-Salaam.

In my first two weeks I’ve found myself comparing Tanzania to New Orleans at several levels: in the office, among new friends, walking the streets. I am certainly in a modern, developed place with all the conveniences to which I’ve grown accustomed as an American. No cold bucket showers, no language barrier, no frequent power outages, no absurd technological slow-downs, no malaria, and no “local local lifestyle,” the term that I first learned in Tanzania to describe the frustrating aspects of survival in the developing world. The Kiva borrowers I’ve met make a great deal more money than their Tanzanian counterparts (though perhaps not, if we were to adjust for cost of living), and probably live more “comfortable” lives, but their stories are just as compelling and they seem just as deserving of the investment of Kiva Lenders for their commitment to providing jobs and boosting the economy in New Orleans, often struggling to re-open businesses they lost in Hurricane Katrina and have worked tirelessly to revive since then.

Some people may want me to come right out and say that these borrowers in New Orleans need business loans just as much as people in Tanzania. Some people may want me to say that they definitely don’t. The one thing I’m sure of is that the issue is much more complex than comparing income, or internet access, or appearances. Muhammad Yunus’s work with female agriculturalists in Bangladesh and the emphasis in development literature on microloans’ impact on women’s empowerment has created a singular profile in many people’s minds about the face of microfinance. I’m excited that the Kiva City program may change that stereotype and help people realize that microfinance is a tool with a great deal of power and potential, not just in developing countries but anywhere that entrepreneurs struggle to access credit because of the risk-averse nature of traditional financial institutions. And that anywhere might just be abouteverywhere, including here in the U.S.

Because of the generosity of the Kiva lending community, I don’t foresee any borrowers posted on the site going unfunded. But that may not always be the case. And if the supply of loans ever exceeds demand for funding them, the question of who needs a loan more will become crucial. Who would you lend to, if you had to choose between an African farmer and an American daycare owner, or a South American taxi driver versus a South East Asian fisherman? Why? I’m not yet sure of what conclusions I’ll draw here, how my opinions might change, what nuance I’ll discover about poverty in the richest country in the world. But I promise to report here, to the Kiva Community, the honest truth, however complex, contradictory, uncomfortable, or controversial it may be. This is what Kiva does– it pushes the envelope. I’m excited to be here, to see what this new territory holds.

Rebecca Corey was a Kiva Fellow in the 9th class with Tujijenge Tanzania, Ltd. in Dar-es-Salaam, Tanzania. Now, she’s back for round two, helping Kiva to launch Kiva New Orleans, the second Kiva City. To learn more about how to bring Kiva to your city, go here. To read about ASI Federal Credit Union, Kiva’s financial partner in New Orleans, gohere. You can also follow Kiva New Orleans on facebook, join the Kiva New Orleans lending team, or make a loan to one of their wonderful clients.

-Talmud

A Photo Essay of New Orleans

Click to view slideshow.

‘Malaika’ is one of the most famous Swahili love songs, often attributed to the Kenyan musician Fadhili William. He first recorded the song with his band the Jambo Boys in 1960. I heard this song for the first time in 2007 while living with the Kunjombe family in Bagamoyo, Tanzania. My host mother, Mariam, sang this song often. Later, I found this beautiful version performed by Harry Belafonte and Miriam Makeba.

As I’ve done with the other songs, I will provide the original lyrics in Kiswahili, the chords (as best I can), and the English translation. Enjoy!

Malaika

First verse:

D               A                   D          A

Malaika, nakupenda malaika,

D                A                  D         D7

malaika, nakupenda Malaika.

.                    G                                Em    A

Nami nifanyeje, kijana mwenzio,

A                                    D        A                   A7       D       A

nashindwa na mali sina, we, ningekuoa Malaika,

A                                    D        A    A7                     D       A

nashindwa na mali sina, we, ningekuoa Malaika.

 Second verse:

D       A                           D         A

Pesa zasumbua roho yangu,

D      A                             D        D7

pesa zasumbua roho yangu.

.                    G                                Em    A

Nami nifanyeje, kijana mwenzio,

A                                   D       A     A7                     D       A

nashindwa na mali sina, we, ningekuoa Malaika,

A                                   D       A     A7                     D       A

nashindwa na mali sina, we, ningekuoa Malaika,

Third verse:

D            A                      D         A

Kidege, hukuwaza kidege,

D            A                      D         A

Kidege, hukuwaza kidege,

.                     G                                Em    A

Nami nifanyeje, kijana mwenzio,

A                                   D       A     A7                     D       A

nashindwa na mali sina, we, ningekuoa Malaika,

A                                   D       A     A7                     D       A

nashindwa na mali sina, we, ningekuoa Malaika,

Repeat first verse.

English translation:

Angel, I love you Angel.

Angel, I love you Angel.

And I, your young lover, what can I do.

Was I not defeated by the lack of fortune,

I would marry you Angel.

Money is troubling my soul,

Money is troubling my soul.

And I, your young lover, what can I do.

Was I not defeated by the lack of fortune,

I would marry you Angel.

Little bird, I dream of you little bird.

Little bird, I dream of you little bird.

And I, your young lover, what can I do.

Was I not defeated by the lack of fortune,

I would marry you Angel.

‘Tanzania Nakupenda Kwa Moyo Wote’ is a beautiful Swahili song that I heard often while living in Tanzania. It is also featured in the documentary “Darwin’s Nightmare,” a film about the exploitative weapons and fish industry on the shores of Tanzania’s Lake Victoria. I highly recommend the documentary to anyone interested in understanding ‘development,’ poverty, and human rights in Africa.

After an unsuccessful search for the tabs to “Mungu Ibariki Tanzania,” I attempted to figure them out myself. I’ve done the same thing here! Again, corrections are welcome. Also, please let me know if you know the lyrics to additional verses.

Tanzania Nakupenda Kwa Moyo Wote

C*         F                  C
Tanzania, Tanzania
G7                                      C
Nakupenda kwa moyo wote
C        F                     C
Nchi yangu Tanzania
G7                             C
Jina lako ni tamu sana
F                                C
Nilalapo nakuota wewe
G                                           C
Niamkapo ni heri mama we
C          F                 C
Tanzania, Tanzania
G7                                      C
Nakupenda kwa moyo wote

verse 2:

Tanzania, Tanzania

nanapo kwenda safarini.

Kutazama Maajabu, biashara nayo Makenzi.

Sitaweza kusahau mimi, nambo neme yakwetu kabisa,

Tanzania, Tanzania

nakupenda kwa moyo wote

The first verse translates (roughly) into English as:

Tanzania, Tanzania
I love you with all my heart
My country Tanzania
Your name is very sweet
When I sleep I dream of you
When I wake I am at peace
Tanzania, Tanzania
I love you with all my heart

*note: The “C” chord sounds good played  like this (I don’t know what the chord is called):

C
–3–
–1–
–0–
–2–
–3–
–0–

is played by men on horseback

and the decapitated carcass of a goat.

The object is to toss the cadaver

into a circle drawn in dust.

It is called the circle of justice.

They whip and beat each other

to make it there, heels digging

into the heaving sides

of the beasts below them.

Spectators smoke opium and hashish

while children run bets to bookies.

They all hope the goat-flesh will last

as the men tear it roughly

from each other’s bloody hands.

*

Under the former regime, the game

was called ‘immoral’ and banned.

But now that the Taliban is gone,

replaced by U.S. tanks and troops,

there is money in buzkashi.

Warlords and tycoons created

in the moral vacuum of war

pull men from shanty towns

and into the ring, mounted

gladiators with a brutal glory

it is hard to fathom.

Working for tips and favor,

the riders are grateful to trade

parched fields for this savage arena.

*

Even games are stories we tell

to quiet the sounds of our weeping souls.

In the performance of defeat–

itself a form resistance–they say:

Genghis Kahn and his Mongol men

once snatched livestock this way,

thieving at full gallop.

So Afghan villagers learned the same.

Hooves beating one worn path

between occupier and occupied,

the terror of bleating goats

and the murder of men between them.

That is the history of this sport–

another pastime that plays at battle.

How dearly we cling to the worst in us.

*

The men compete in a violent frenzy,

mistaking abandon for freedom.

But in the end,

there is no justice for the goat,

headless and torn and later eaten,

that much is obvious.

There is no justice for the man,

having no other way to build

assurances in an unsure world

without this, the tossing of flesh

for the amusement of tyrants.

There is only justice for the horse,

whipped but prized above all else,

for he has won wars

which men are always

losing.

On the turbulent flight northward, I can barely breathe. Throughout the course of the two weeks I spend in New York I experience several stretches like this, in subway tunnels or careening taxis, glancing down from a 43rd floor window in Brooklyn, in the rattling elevator of an apartment building in the Lower East Side. Pain, catastrophe, death rattle in my ribcage with a grotesque and imminent familiarity. When the fear passes a rush of gratitude swells within.

Here I collect accents. The soft Russian of the beautician who gives me a facial at a 50% discount. The clipped West African of the street vendor who says, “cash, give me cash” when I buy a pair of cheap faux-designer sunglasses. The unidentifiable lilt of a dark-haired man in Chinatown who mutters, “Louie, Louie, Louie, Chanel, follow me. Louie Vuitton, Chanel, follow me.” The Ecuadorian Spanish of the woman who pours bitter coffee into my mug at a diner I only enter to escape the numbing cold. The sensuous French of the couple behind us at a Broadway play, whispered during the dark of scene changes. The murmured intonations of the taxi drivers who speak low and quick into cell phones with the cadence of prayer as we wend through the dark of our individual lives. Like coins forged in many distant lands, these voices clink and ring together, heavy in my pocket with the weight of the things for which none of our languages have words.

Friday night I go to a recital at Carnegie Hall. The Japanese pianist wears a black velvet suit and purple bow tie. His straight hair is overgrown and flat against his forehead, his skin pockmarked and pale. He plays Bach, Schubert, Chopin. After each impossible rendering he stands and bows. He does not smile. His furrowed brow is solemn acknowledgement of the genius he channels, the utter seriousness of beauty.

The train to the Bronx bounces out of the subway tunnel and into the thin February sunlight. Brick apartment buildings hunch behind a row of trees, their wintery branches adorned with plastic bags that fill and collapse with the breeze. They seem to have gathered there like white sea birds blown inland by some errant wind; when they take off all at once the sound of their wings would beat like the flap of a single giant sail.

In the Bronx Zoo a young gorilla approaches the glass wall between us. He sits on his haunches and peers through. For minutes, none of us moves. Then he lifts one hand and places it tenderly against the glass before turning and slouching decisively away.

I spend the days trekking the long avenues in search brief meetings with friends who call this city home. At the edge of Chinatown, I meet with Steve. The last time I saw him we were in Dar es Salaam and he was in his last month of a two-year stint in East Africa. We slip into a Chinese dumpling joint, get four for a dollar, and find a bench nearby to watch stringy, uncoordinated middle-schoolers play soccer on a concrete court. For reasons I can’t explain, we find very few fond memories from Africa with which to wax nostalgic. Instead we talk books and movies, future plans, our vague discontent with lives still blessed with youth and uncertainty. On the way to a bar for some early-afternoon beers, Steve detours into a ground-level Buddhist temple, a space that was probably converted from a grocery store or laundromat. A young monk in grey robes sits near the front door, patient with our intrusion. Gold-painted Buddhas line the walls, offerings of oranges and vegetable oils cluttering the shrines below them. On one wall, a few dozen black-and-white photos of solemn-faced Asians watch over scribbled prayers pinned neatly to a board. Steve offers pithy observations that I hardly acknowledge as I breathe in air heavy with smoky incense. One block down, we try to enter a Jewish synagogue but it’s under renovation, according to the Hispanic man who answers the door in paint-splattered cover-alls.

In the Metropolitan my friend Claire and I wander through the vast wing of antiquities. We have no map. The statues of gods, and the pots, and knives, and caskets for the dead remind me that the mortal business of living and dying is itself eternal. I pause before a display of ancient Egyptian jewelry. That I would wear it, without irony, is tantalizing. Standing over a mummy encased in glass, I notice she seems so small. I feel alone at the precipice of the long arc of human history. She seems so very very small.

A sliver of light along the edge of a windowsill in a painting by Vermeer holds me captive for nearly twenty minutes. Twenty more lost in the blue of a single fold in the woman’s dress.

The kiss of a former lover leaves something to be desired: another.

There are so many things to taste, to touch, to try in this city. In the theatre district alone at night I stroll around a corner and Times Square blossoms into a  bouquet of light before me. The bright muchness of it all leaves me breathless and dizzy. Do I remember being here before, or has my mind joined the quantum consciousness of a city as organism? I feel a part of something large and waking.

This trip marked the first anniversary of my motorbike accident in Tanzania. One year ago I nearly died but what else can I say about that? Now there is only this–living and wanting and watching and walking every street with wonder.