Partnering with an international community to build something is a lot like an interpersonal relationship: you both have to make compromises to make it work. You don’t compromise just to keep them happy; you do it out of a genuine desire to see them get what they need.
For example, the village of Asisiriwa really wants to steward the money we brought well, which in their minds means getting the most floor space per dollar they can. Kaitlyn and I, on the other hand, want to create the highest quality learning environment we can with the money we have. It’s the classic struggle of quantity versus quality.
We agreed to compromise with them on some aspects of our design. For instance, they wanted to add a small office in one of the rooms. If that serves the community more, fine. They wanted to move the site to one that was more prominent in the village, which meant working with less of a slope (thus giving fewer steps to the amphitheater). If that serves the community better, do it. But there was one thing they wanted to change that we could not give up: the roof.
In a desire to make an economical roof, the locals wanted to do what they always do: wooden trusses with metal paneling. But there is a huge problem there that we see and they do not, and it goes like this. We are all living in a climate that averages 95 degrees Fahrenheit and 100% humidity every single day throughout the year. The default building materials in this country are concrete blocks with metal roofs—both of which are heat-absorbing. Oh, and they don’t use insulation, roof decking, or roof vents. So basically, all the houses here are hot-boxes, greenhouses that absorb heat during the day and radiate it all night. Schools are made this way too, and students are forced to study in saunas. If they can’t concentrate there and they get bad marks, then there goes their shot at higher education. They would, in fact, be better off sitting under a tree than studying inside.
There are certain lucid moments in humanitarian work when—in the midst of all your cultural appreciation and sensitivity—you need to say, “No, I have a better way.” This is one of those moments. The roof that our architects designed was sketched out with several goals in mind: 1) protect against the elements 2) don’t blow away 3) let cool air in 4) let hot air out 5) let natural light in 6) provide shade from the heat. It will accomplish all of these, while the local roof will accomplish only two. Ours is a hanging roof—held in place by a web-like network of steel rebar—which allows the cool breeze to come and sweep away the vented interior heat, while strategically-placed corrugated fiberglass panels allow in some natural light. It’s a brilliant design—actually used in several places in West Africa—that could revolutionize the way the locals see shelter and natural cooling.
The problem is the cost. The locals look at our roof design and see only the enormous amount of steel that will cost much more than wood. The steel is locally available—it just doesn’t compute for the villagers why we would want to spend more on the steel. And it makes sense; they have never been in a building that was naturally cooled like this. They have been grinning and bearing trapped heat their entire lives (some of them actually sleep outside because it’s cooler at night). We just have to say, “Trust us,” and when they ask about the money, we can only respond with, “We have faith that it will come.”
We need about three thousand dollars to do the whole roof structure, which includes the flat ceilings with clay pot vents, the steel, the panels, and the specialist welders we will have to bring in from the city. Given the longevity and impact this building could have with this roof, I think it is more than worth it. Kids could actually want to be in the library. Isn’t that a revolutionary concept? The power of that positive connotation, that reading and learning are enjoyable and comfortable, is incalculable—worth far more than three thousand dollars in my opinion. Hundreds and thousands of students and adults will use this facility over the next decade; people will likely come from the next three villages to use it—that is, if we can create a space that humans actually want to be in.
Do you ever look back at phases in your life and wonder what the heck that was all about? I worked with a start-up roofing company in Colorado for about six months as a project manager and marketing director. Why? I have no passion for roofing. I absorbed all this information about an industry that did not even tickle my fancy, and for what?
For this.
I think that if God can use me like that, set me up with arcane knowledge to be in the right African village at the right time, then he can bring in three thousand dollars for a roof. And if you’re out there on the other side of the internet—enjoying your vented roof and HVAC system—thinking that you could contribute to a roof like this, then you’re in the right place too. I implore you to donate. I know we can do this together. If you know someone with a passion for roofs, education, or all of the above, please introduce them to this project. These villagers are out there every day, working like mad to get this building up, counting themselves blessed to have foreigners helping them take control of their education.
One of our core concepts as an organization is that storytelling leads to innovation. Let’s prove it.
