(EDITOR’S NOTE: Nick and Anna May Castricone, parishioners of Corpus Christi in Stone Mountain, were among those couples from the United States taking part in the “Familia 74” Assembly held in Tanzania. The world-wide conference drew some 250 delegates from 52 countries and was sponsored by the International Christian Family Movement. Mrs. Castriocone recalls some of her memories of a visit to a village in Tanzania. The Castricones are available for a slide presentation and summary of their experiences).

By Anna May Castricone

It was mid-morning when our small group of four couples from England, India and the United States arrived at the village of Ndali, high in the mountainous district of Iringa, approximately 300 miles from Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.

We were most anxious to begin this encounter experience with the Ndali people. It was one of five stages of movement provided within the “Familia 74” Assembly, a world-wide conference of 250 delegates from 52 countries.

These delegates came together to study and take effective action on family-related topics. My husband and I were invited by the International Christian Family Movement (an organization whose purpose is to support and strengthen the family unit with a Christian framework to attend this world assembly.

The village to which we had been assigned has been operative for three years, and comprises about 200 people engaged in communally developing their resources through tobacco and cassava production.

While still very poor economically—a two-room schoolhouse educating children and adults, a first-aid station, a village council and increased tobacco production have been the results of their labor.

While it was still cool, we were invited to walk through the village. As we began, we were followed at a safe distance by many of the young children, they youngest hiding behind the others. There were smiles and giggles as we communicated with them; some were brave enough to respond.

We viewed with interest the mud huts with thatched roofs and some of the newer concrete homes, a few of which were whitewashed. One home was very attractively decorated with vividly painted flowers and vines, reflecting a very proud owner.

Although the ground was dry and dusty and the grass very sparse, a large variety of wild flowers and bushes gave the village some color. After viewing the homes, we quickly made our way to the fields where most of the adults were already at work in the tobacco sheds—grading, sorting and baling.

After we were introduced to the chairman of the village council, I met with a group of the women. One of them, and older woman, was very small – her shoulders drawn together, dusty and barefoot, with a worn kitange wrapped around her (the kitange is the typical native dress). I greeted her, using the few Swahili words I knew, while hesitating to clasp her right hand, which was only a stump.

We exchanged a few more pleasantries and began to work in the shade of one of the sheds, untying the leaves from long poles. After some time had passed, she pointed to my jeans and asked of the other women what manner of dress was that. I motioned to her to wait while I went back to the lorry which brought us to the village. I had in my bag a kitange purchased in town that morning, and I showed it to her while wrapping it around my waist.

She looked at me, puzzled, and shook her head. I tried it around the other side, but her face was twisted in disapproval. I then held out the material to her for her to arrange it properly. She agreed, and proceeded to wrap the kitange around my body from the chest down, in the more traditional way.

Then she stepped back and took in the results of her work: “Ah,” she said obviously pleased. I heard other “ah’s” and upon looking around, I saw that many of the men, women, and children had stopped their work and had been observing all of this. They were laughing and much in agreement with the old woman’s work.

Later that afternoon, as we rested on the dusty ground, she related to me through gestures and sounds that many of her babies had died. She did this with her one hand in a digging motion near the ground.

The intonation of her voice and the resignation reflected in her face gave all the communication I needed. Everything became still in that hot sun, and we silently shared our tears. No further words were needed, for we experienced an emotion common to all –that of sorrow.

When we left the village for the last time, amidst friendly cries of farewell from the bus, I waved to her, knowing that it was not good-bye, for she would always be part of my love for Africa and its people.