Christmas Present

Christmas Present

December 25, 2010

As I reflect on Christmas past (my first at Mkuu) and Christmas present (my last at Mkuu), I am awed at the difference a year can make.  Last year, Cheryl and I tried our level best to make this day a special day to ease our loneliness.  This year, I have a large extended Tanzanian family to keep me company.

Many children in Tanzania do not really know when they were born.  Yuda says he is 15, but to me, he looks about 12 or 13.  However, his youthfulness and innocence helped me to see Christmas again through the eyes of a child.  This year we had a real evergreen Christmas tree, a gift from Aggie’s friend Lucy.  Yuda put it in a bucket of dirt and rocks and added a bit of water and set it in our sitting room.  I purchased a short string of fruit lights and a flower garland.  Beatrice and Yuda added balloons and garlands of toilet paper.  Underneath the tree, Yuda put a small table to display a picture of Jesus and Mary.  (After all, Christmas is about Jesus).  Yuda was absolutely mesmerized.  I am sure that he wanted to sleep there in the sitting room so that he could look at the tree all night, but I sent him off to bed.

On Christmas Eve, Beatrice, who is Pentecostal, went to church in the early afternoon.  She planned to stay the whole night and return in the early morning.  I baked banana bread in my double sufuria, one for us and one for Lucy.  When it had cooled sufficiently, Yuda and I went to greet her.  Of course, we had to stay for a while and drink sodas, but she had a TV with one station and it was playing Christmas carols.  I was able to sing my favorite, O Holy Night, as well as a few others.  Yuda, Lucy, and her little sister were quite impressed, especially when I tried to hit those high notes.

When we returned home, Cheryl was there.  She had come to celebrate the holiday with us.  While we sat and talked, I had another visitor.  One of the young teachers brought me a gift.  How exciting!  It is not often that I am given gifts from my colleagues.  I opened the cardboard box and was speechless.  There, huddled in the corner of the box with her feet bound, was a frightened little red hen.  Now this really is a valuable gift, and I thanked Agripina profusely, but after she left, I sat down with the box on my lap to contemplate my dilemma.  You see, I had come to a profound realization about myself; I cannot meet my meat before I eat.   There was no way that I could prepare and eat Little Money Penny.  I had seen her eyes.  I had seen her fear.  I suggested that we make her a little house and raise her as our own.  Maybe one day she would reward us with eggs.  However, Yuda and Cheryl voted to eat her, so I took her to the neighbors and asked if she could spend the night in their chicken coop.   On Christmas day, Fatuma would help Yuda and Beatrice prepare her properly and she would be a delicious treat for all but me.  I would eat cow parts in my pilau.  I am not against eating meat; I just do not want to know it.

That evening at about 10:00, Yuda and I set out in the dark for the church.  We were going to midnight mass.  I do not think Yuda had ever been before because he was very excited (living alone in the bush probably makes it a bit difficult to get out at night).  I had to walk quickly to keep up with him, but the new headlamp worked great.  The church was still closed when we arrived and there were many people already there waiting by the doors.  We joined them, and waited and waited, standing, squatting, or sitting on the ground.  Finally someone came and opened the doors in the back.  We were in the front.  When our door did not open, Yuda grabbed my hand and pulled me along with the crowd to the open door.  We made it inside in one piece and were able to find seats close to the front.  Once more we sat and waited, but the church was all decked out for the holidays, and Yuda just looked around in wonder.  An evergreen enclosure had been erected around the statue of Jesus and twinkling lights and nativity figurines had been added.  Two big Christmas trees were on the altar and glittery garland and twinkling lights adorned the sanctuary.  Hundreds of worshippers, many dressed in bold, colorful clothing had filled the pews.  In its own way, it was beautiful.

Finally the mass began.  I noticed Yuda struggling to keep his eyes open during the service, but he was determined not to miss a thing.  Last year, I knew very little Kiswahili and just stood and sat along with the others.  This year I was able to participate in the responses and even sing along.  OK, I made up a few words, but the tune was right.  Mass ended about 1:30 am and we followed the masses out into the dark.  Yuda was exhausted (I was too), but he looked up at me and said, “Thank you Madam.  It was so very beautiful.” 

When we got home, he went right to bed.  I stayed awake long enough to arrange a couple of small gifts beneath the tree.  The next morning, Yuda and I were both up early (6 am).  He wanted to get to the butcher’s early.  I guess I am just used to getting up with the sun.  When Beatrice returned, we had tea and banana bread, and Yuda and Beatrice opened their gifts. They were both overwhelmed.  There were really gifts for them?  This certainly was a special day.  Yuda received a Bible and a rosary, a shirt and a pair of socks, a package of peanut M&Ms, a pencil, a pen, a small calculator, and a toothbrush.  Beatrice got some lotion, chapstick, nail polish, a journal, a pen, a pencil, M&Ms, and a toothbrush too.  (Some of you might recognize some of these things.  Thank you very much).  Both were thrilled and they eagerly hurried to the kitchen to prepare our Christmas feast.  (Remember Little Money Penny).  I preferred not to watch, so Cheryl and I took a walk down to the shop for a soda.  At the store, we encountered an old woman who was a bit touched.  She was especially annoying Cheryl so I whispered nonsense in the old woman’s ear and gently steered her away.  The plan did not work exactly as I had hoped, because while Cheryl and I were sitting on the bench drinking our sodas, the woman came over and sat down very close to me.  Now she was my best friend.  She was making whispering noises and nodding her head a lot and she smelled a bit like a barn, but I patted her hand and told her “not today.”  She sat quietly there beside me for a while, and then she left.

Christmas dinner was wonderful!  We ate pilau (spiced rice with beef), banana stew, roasted bananas, sweet bananas, mango, and pineapple, banana chips, roasted potatoes, cucumbers, cabbage, and the others ate something from a small covered dish.  After eating and cleaning up, we were totally exhausted but now it was too late to nap and too early to go to bed, so the kids asked to see a movie.  They chose Avatar.  Yuda did not make it to the end, but Beatrice was fascinated.  She asked me if it was real.  I explained that it was not; rather the creatures were computer generated.  Our teenagers would probably never ask such a question, but for these children, beyond the banana trees, anything is possible. 

Cheryl went home and the kids went to bed.  Finally I lay in bed thinking about Christmas.  I wondered what my children were doing.  What would they eat?  Would they enjoy their gifts too?  Did they miss their mother?  I wished that their Christmas would be as magical as the one I had experienced today.  Indeed, today had been a glorious Christmas present.

Merry Christmas.

Ruth

Climbing Kilimanjaro

Climbing Kilimanjaro

December 21, 2010

In less than a year I will be leaving Tanzania and all those who I have come to know and love.  I have especially been thinking about Yuda.  I do not want to give him a lot of things, but I do want him to have many pleasant memories of the times we spent together.  Yesterday I took him and two other Tanzanian children on a day hike up Mt. Kilimanjaro.  I prayed that it would not rain and would you believe it was a gorgeous day?  As the bus pulled into Marangu, we could clearly see the mountain, Kibo Peak smooth and covered with snow and Mawenzie Peak, stark and rugged, standing high above the landscape of lush green banana trees.  The sky was bright blue and cloudless.  Gloria and Yuda have lived on the slopes of Kilimanjaro all their lives, but since they had never traveled to the lowlands, they had never seen the entire mountain.  They were so excited!

We arrived at the bus stand in Marangu and we were met by our guide and his assistant.  We hired a taxi to take us to the Kilimanjaro National Park gate, and the six of us piled in: me and the three kids in back and the guide and his assistant sitting in the passenger seat.  Even in taxis, we ride like bananas.

 

We arrived at the park and the guide registered us and paid our fees, most of the cost was for me.  The guide appeared a bit distressed and then explained to me that he had left his license, insurance card, and some other important documents on the bus traveling from Moshi.  He was going to send his assistant to find them while he took us on the hike.  

We hiked from Marangu Gate to Mandara Hut, a distance of slightly more than 8 kilometers but almost 1000 meters rise in elevation.  The hike up took about three hours but the hike down was about half that.  The guide encouraged us to walk steadily on the way up while it was cool and we were fresh.  He told me we would have time to take pictures on the way back down.  So without our assistant, we began our hike, the guide, Yuda, and Gloria taking turns carrying the backpacks.  Beatrice is a city girl and not use to hiking long distances, so she concentrated on walking.  I am the “mzee”, the old one, and was not allowed to carry the bags for any long distance. 

The kids seemed so happy as they walked along the path.  The guide told me that very few Tanzanians climb the mountain.  At the start of the hike I felt bad for them.  At the end of the hike, I realized that they are not fools.  Seriously, I had a great day. The scenery was beautiful.  It was like walking on an uphill tread mill for three hours in the African Pavilion at the North Carolina Zoo.  The main difference was that this was real. Only at the end of the hike did I have to force myself to continue climbing.  My legs were tired but I think it was more a matter of running out of fuel.  My two slices of peanut butter bread at six in the morning had been depleted.  At one point, I asked the kids if they wanted a water break.  They said yes, but as I was pulling the water bottle out of the bag, they were running down to the stream.  I guess we were all drinking Kilimanjaro water; I just prefer mine boiled and filtered.

We passed many porters on the path carrying large bags full of gear and supplies for the foreigners.  We passed a few of the foreigners as well.  When we reached Mandara Hut, Beatrice exclaimed “Hallelujia!”  Yuda and Gloria said, “Amen.”  We had arrived!  Gloria asked me, “Madam where is the mountain?”  I said, “We are on it.”  She expected to see the peak but we were still too low.  We had passed through the forest and had just begun to enter the Moorland, but it would take another day or two to reach the Alpine desert and see the peak once more. However, the kids were glad (me too) to rest and eat.  They had made a bunch of chipatis the night before and I had made banana bread.  Cheryl had given us peanuts and small packages of cookies.  I had thought I was hungry.  The chipatis were delicious, but I could barely get one down.  Water was what I wanted most.  After eating, we toured the hostel to see where the foreigners sleep when they climb the entire mountain.  The kids were impressed by the long room full of bunk beds.  They had to try them out and have their pictures taken.

After a short rest, we began our descent.  This, I must admit, was the highlight of my day.  The guide sent Yuda and Gloria to the front and they fairly flew down the mountain.  He took my bag, leaving me with only my camera, and told me to be free.  Come at my own pace.  Then he walked along with Beatrice who was still tired from the climb.

I was alone to enjoy the beauty of the mountain.  I walked slowly taking pictures of wild flowers: orchids, violets, and Kilimanjaro impatiens. The sunlight dappled the path ahead.  Massive trees, adorned with vines, stretched out their arms to shelter the way.  I listened to the rustling of the breeze in the forest canopy.  Trees rubbing together sounded like organ music.  I could hear the bubbling of the brook and water cascading over a small waterfall.  The birds were singing with delight, and I imagined I heard monkeys chattering overhead in “monkey trees”.  It was nature’s concert, soothing and refreshing, just what I needed  after the past few weeks.  I could have stayed here all day.

However, we had to return home and still had a way to go.  Back at the gate, we met the assistant again.  He had found the guide’s documents and for the guide, that made his day.  We walked across the parking lot to the taxi and it started to rain.  God does listen to our prayers, doesn’t he?   

We crowded into the taxi and returned to town.  We were going to get sodas and something to eat, because I knew the kids would be too tired to cook tonight.  As we walked from the taxi stand toward the restaurant, Yuda took my hand and smiled at me.  The hike had been wonderful but this truly was my reward.  I thought of his mother and wondered if he remembered her.  How old had he been when she died?  Was she watching her baby from heaven?  I had hoped this trip would be the memory Yuda would cherish, but suddenly I realized that for him, maybe it would, instead, be the memory of a mother’s love.

Merry Christmas!

Who Will Fight For Them?

Who Will Fight for Them?

December 15, 2010

We have many O-level students here at Mkuu, but our A-level school is very small.  Now that O-level has closed for the term, it has been very quiet around campus.  Classes are scheduled to begin at 8:00 am each day, but students are required to come an hour earlier to do their morning chores (sweep the dirt, mop the floors, collect and wash yesterday’s dirty dishes, cut the grass with a blade, carry the maize to the kitchen.  Almost all hard labor is done by the students).  The rains have also returned, so many mornings it is damp and cold and drizzly until the sun lifts the clouds off the mountain.  I arrive at school at 7:30 with my backpack full and take my place under the overhang by the staffroom door.  At 7:30 it is still locked.  There are no teachers around. The only adult is me.  I watch the students at work and I wait.  At 7:45, a student strikes the tire rim (our bell) and most of the students assemble on the parade ground.  A student leader comes forward and makes a few announcements (about what I do not know), then asks for some time for silent prayer.  When O-level was here, they used to sing the anthem, but now after praying, the students just return to their classroom to begin their work.  For most of them, it is self-study because their teachers do not come, if they even have a teacher.  At 8 or 8:15, another teacher or two, or even an administrator has arrived.  The staffroom door is unlocked and we sign the attendance register.  I look at the times they have recorded: 7:00, 7:05 and I sign my name and take a seat at my desk.  One teacher turns on the TV (if we are lucky enough to have electricity that day).  A couple of others go outside to talk on their phones.  I look over my notes for the day.  I think about my students and wonder about their dreams for the future.  I feel a heavy sadness here at Mkuu.

Last week as I sat at my desk grading papers, writing exams or preparing marking schemes, I noticed the assistant academic master and one of our temporary teachers reviewing some file folders.  I assumed that they were verifying names and student photographs for upcoming national exams.  They did not consult me, so I went on about my business.  Monday when I asked for a form to submit my students’ projects grades, I also inquired about their first term class grades.  I had never been asked to submit them even though I had offered to leave them before going home in September.  I was told that they had already been submitted!  “By whom?”  No one had asked me for my grades.  The second master told me that the assistant academic master had completed the forms last week.  He had asked the temporary teacher (not a professional teacher, a form six leaver) to fill in my students’ grades on my behalf.  I was stunned!  The disbelief and anger was evident in my voice as I questioned the second master.  How could this happen?  I was there!  I saw them with the files.  Why did they not consult me?  It was not fair!  For an entire year I had watched my students struggle to learn without teachers.  I had seen fear in their faces and tears in their eyes.  I had encouraged them to keep working despite the odds stacked against them.  I had told them not to give up hope.  Now this!  For what reason?  I was not just angry, I was through with Mkuu.  I was through with Tanzania.  I decided to terminate my service with Peace Corps and go home to sanity.  I had nothing left to give.

However, that night I woke up at 3:00 am.  I tried many tricks but could not go back to sleep.  It was quiet and still and very dark.  There was no power again.  I opened my curtain and looked out at the sky.  From horizon to horizon, there were a multitude of stars.  As I watched, I saw three shoot across the sky.  Another one was brighter than any I had ever seen.  In fact, it was so bright that I could actually see it through the curtain.  I wondered if it was really a star.  Maybe it was a satellite or the international space station.  Then I thought about the Bethlehem star and I thought about Christmas.  I missed my children and my family so much.  It would be nice to go home.  But the Bethlehem star was a sign, a sign of hope.  A thought appeared in my head, “You cannot go because who would fight for them?”  Who would fight for Mary, Philipina, Amina, Upendo, Beatrice, Mwanaidi, Neema, Christina, Glory, Arbogast, Mathias, Cosma, Larki, Sabas, Domina, Eugen, Yudathade, Anna and Heriet? Who would fight for their future?  Then the voice said, “Speak to them.  Deliver the message.”  What message?  I knew this could not be a mefloquine dream (antimalarial drug) because I was wide awake.  Maybe I was overtired.  Despite trying to rationalize these thoughts, I knew in my heart that it was God.  I was not going home and I would speak to my students.  I might be quiet and easy going, but I am also very determined (stubborn?).  I would fight for them.

The next day, I contacted my Tanzanian education supervisor and explained the problem.  She agreed that an injustice had been done, and she said she would contact my headmaster at his conference in Arusha and get back to me.  I went to teach my form six.  When we finished reviewing for their mid-term, I told my students that I wanted to speak to them.  I had a message to deliver but I was not really sure what it was, so I would just speak from my heart.  So I told them my story of how and why I had come to Mkuu.  I spoke about faith, hope, and loving one another.  I spoke about opportunity and not choosing “easy” over doing what is right.  I reminded them not to be a “victim” of their circumstances, but to choose to be a “thriver.” Many of the lessons that I had learned in life were there in the words I spoke.  When I was finished, I told them that I hoped that I had delivered the message and that I hoped that I had helped them find their peace.  Most were quiet but a few were sobbing, even a couple of the boys.  Some were praying.  Some had their Bibles open on their desk.  One girl handed me a small piece of paper.  It said, “Although trobles are always, God will never live you alone.  He is with u always.  Thank you Madam.  I love u.”

After finishing my work for the day, I took a bus to Moshi.  I had a package to get from customs and some pictures to pick up for my students.  I met Cheryl for lunch.  She has been vacationing in Moshi for a few days.  As I was walking home at dusk through the field (now grounds for the Catholic Church’s Revival of the Holy Spirit), they were closing up the vendor stalls.  A young man approached me with some rosaries.  I bought one for Yuda for Christmas.  I was tired and just wanted to rest.

The next day, the second masters summoned me to their office for a meeting.  Evidently the headmaster had called them to ask about the problem and to tell them to fix it.  We talked about what had happened and about life here in general at Mkuu Secondary.  I gave them my observations and offered some professional advice.  They listened.  I told them that I thought most of the teachers were good people who had just lost their way.  Many are young and have no good role model to follow.  Mkuu is a sad place where no one seems to care about anything.  If teachers do not care, students will not care, so how will we ever improve?  Teachers come to eat and to get their pay, but I believe that one who takes money for a job that they have not done, is no more than a thief.  Maybe there are one or two bad apples in the bunch and it is important to recognize them and stop them from spoiling the others.  Maybe with encouragement, with training, the others will even come to enjoy what they do.  One second master asked me if I would begin a series of teacher workshops in January when we return.  I agreed.  Now I hope that I remember all of the right things to say to them.  Pray that I can make a difference for these teachers.

The second masters apologized for my disturbance and told me that new grades would be submitted.  I pray that they follow through.  This has been a distressing situation but maybe it has been a catalyst for change for Mkuu.

Now on a lighter note: In America, when we hear the word “taco” we think of something to eat.  In Kiswahili, the word “taco” means backside.  In Kenya, they speak more English than in Tanzania.  Recently I have come in contact with a Nairobi Fly (aka the” blister beetle”).  Being from Nairobi (Kenya), maybe he had heard the word taco and thought food.  Maybe I sat on him.  I guess I will never know the reason, but I did get quite a stinging on my taco.

A new cinema (the first) just opened in Moshi.  Cheryl and I decided to take Yuda and Gloria to a Sunday matinee to see Ironman 2.  Yuda had never been to a big city (actually a small town) before.  His eyes were like saucers all the way.  It reminded me of the time I took my son Jonathan to see Peter Pan on Ice when he was a small child.  Yuda is a teenager, but he had the same look on his face.  We arrived at the theater early and sat in the lounge to wait.  There was a fairly large flat screen TV showing a soccer match.  The kids sat down to watch.  I told Cheryl that I bet that the kids thought that was the cinema.  After a while, the usher came to tell us that we could now buy tickets.  We went downstairs, bought tickets, popcorn and water.  Cheryl and I turned to go into the theater while the kids were already on their way up the stairs.  I was right, they thought the movie was going to be on that big TV.  When we called them to follow us in and they actually saw the real movie screen, Yuda just said, “wow!” 

Monday I am planning to take Yuda, Gloria, and Beatrice (one of my form 6 students who cannot go home for break and instead will stay with me) on a day hike up Mt. Kilimanjaro.  I hope the weather is nice and we can see some sights.  In order to do the hike, I had to hire a guide and an assistant and maybe a porter (for a day hike).

Soon it will be Christmas again.  This time I will know to go to church early and this time I will not go alone.  I will sing and dance and give thanks to God for all of the gifts he has given me.  Soon after Christmas, we will welcome in a new year, 2011, the year that I will be going home.  Hopefully I have taught some here how to fight for themselves and how to reach out to those who need someone to fight for them.  I pray that I have made a lasting difference in each one of these young person’s life.

* I have just finished filling in a new grade report for my students.  I was told that it will be submitted to the examination council to replace the one with errors.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Thanksgiving 2010

November 30, 2010

Thanksgiving

The O-level school year has ended.  I have sent Fidesta to Morogoro to stay with Victoria while she waits for her form 4 results.  She is taking a short course on computers while she is there.  Hopefully it will open up her world just a little bit more and allow her to communicate with me when I return to the United States.  The trip has been an adventure for her.  She has never traveled far from her homeplace before and Morogoro is a good day’s safari.  Unfortunately, it was even longer for her, because the bus broke down outside Dar, and they had to wait hours for a replacement bus to arrive. 

Fidesta is a country girl.  Morogoro is a city.  She is learning the difference.  One lesson learned is that you do not put your purse in the front pocket of your back pack while wearing it on a crowded bus. Most likely the bag will be open and your purse will be gone when you get off the bus.  Fidesta has always been poor, so she was devastated by the fact that she had foolishly lost 32000 shilingis (less than $30).  I told her not to worry, but reminded her that it was best not to carry all of her money in one spot. 

Aggie finished her exams and then followed Fidesta to Morogoro.  She is going to stay with her mother and attend tuition classes there during the break.  She has been working hard at her studies and is doing quite well.  I tell her often that I am very proud of her for deciding to return to school.  Respect and encouragement seem to be rare commodities around here and are given only sparingly.  Aggie celebrated her 25^th birthday on the 18^th.  We had spaghetti with store bought sauce and real cake!  A few friends stopped by to give her cards and wish her well.  I think it was the best birthday party she has ever had.  I jokingly said that she may not want to return to Mkuu (the bush) in January after spending time at home in Morogoro.  She was astounded.  “No madam, I will return!” 

Yuda arrived a few days before Aggie left.  His feet seem to have healed from the beating.  He is playing soccer again with the boys.  Maybe the whole event had a bigger impact on me than it did on him.  It is just life in Tanzania.  He loves his school and does not want to leave.  I warned him to stay away from trouble, and besides, where else would he go?  I am hoping that his grades are good.  His parent report will be ready on the 20^th of December.  I will go to Shauritanga and pick it up at the gate. 

Fidesta and Aggie gave Yuda strict instructions to take good care of me while they are gone.  That means cooking and cleaning and going to the market.  He is doing his level best, but his cooking is just not quite as good as Aggie’s.  One night we had plain boiled potatoes, plain spaghetti, and stiff porridge.  Anyone care for starch?  I thought the tea would be better, but no, it was worse.  I looked around for a place to dump it while we cleaned up, but Yuda insisted that I sit and relax and finish my tea while he did the work.  So I drank it quickly, and then went to my room and took two Rolaids.  Actually, they were pretty good!  However, with practice, Yuda’s cooking is improving.

I am working pretty long hours on school work and I wonder if Yuda is bored during the day.  Usually he sits and studies and listens to loud staticky music on the radio.  He goes out to play soccer for a couple hours in the afternoon.  Occasionally I send him on errands or ask him to do some special chore.  Today he scraped a termite tunnel (yes termites, they appeared during the night) off the wall near the door in my room and then sprayed it with some chemical he bought at our small, all-purpose shop. In America I am sure that I would have had to pay quite a pretty penny to rid my room of termites.  Here it cost me 500 shilingis (50 cents).  Sometimes in the evening we watch an American movie on my computer.  He even likes the chic flicks, although so far Eragon is his favorite.  It does not take much to make him happy.  We went shopping for his first pair of jeans (not blue, green) but still he is thrilled.  He wears them to church every Sunday and he wore them when he went to visit his older sister (Damiana).  He does not want to get them dirty. 

Yuda is really a very sweet boy.  I am trying to avoid over-indulging him, but he has not had much joy in his short life.  I want these times to be special.  I want him to feel like he has a mother who loves him. I am hoping to take him to Marangu this month to visit the Chagga museum (his tribe) and to take a day hike up Mount Kilimanjaro.  Although he has lived on the mountain all his life, he has never had a chance to just enjoy its beauty. 

Living here is not easy.  Many days I am tired of camping and I just want to go home.  Actually I had a dream recently (I think it was a dream, it might have been real) that will give you an idea of how low my standards have become.  I dreamed that I could not sleep because there was too much dirt in my bed.  So I pulled back the covers and began brushing the dirt and bug parts off the bed into my bucket.  There had to be at least an inch of dirt in the bucket when I noticed something else sticking out.  I reached in and pulled it out of the debris.  After blowing off the excess dirt, I realized that it was three squares of dark chocolate!  How did that get there?  I did not wonder too long however, because I ate it. Even in a dream, it was delicious!

Water and electricity have both been a problem ever since I returned in October.  They are gone more than they are present.  If one returns, the other leaves.  You cannot have both at the same time.  That would be a holiday.  When water returns, Yuda and I shout with joy, and quickly run to fill our buckets and flush our toilets.  If electricity appears, I charge my phone and computer.  I do not know why we have water problems; it seems to rain every day.  One morning Aggie and I almost filled our buckets in less than an hour with runoff from the roof.  Don’t worry.  I did not drink that water.  I used it for washing clothes and bathing.  It does wonders for the hair: all natural and organic.

It would be easy to become cynical here, surrounded by so much need.  Every day, at least one person, usually more, asks me for money or a gift.  Those who know me best know that I really am a better giver than I am a taker, but sometimes I am exhausted by so many demands to give.  It would be easy to say that I have had enough and pack my things and go home, but I cannot leave.  I remind myself that this is not a game.  I say the names out loud: Fidesta, Yuda, Agness, Maria, Neema, Diana, Victoria, my students.  The list continues to grow.  To them it matters that I am here.  I must finish the work that I have begun. 

What is my task here?  I think it is to offer hope, to open doors to opportunities that may have been closed before.  The real work must be done by each person who accepts an opportunity to change his or her life.  I pray that each one of these people succeeds, but the reality is that some will not.  Diana may be the first.  She did not do well at Shauritanga.  Cheryl has never had children of her own, and her first one happened to be a 14 year old in the throes of adolescence.  Diana did not adjust well to living with an American.  It went to her head, and she acted like she was better than her friends and family.  After much deliberation, Cheryl decided to send her back to Morogoro.  I was hoping (and still am) that I can find a vocational training center there where she can learn a trade to make a living.  However, Victoria told me that Diana’s mother is happy that she is home.  Diana can help with the farming and also get a job to help support her mother and sisters.  Diana’s Cinderella tale has come to an abrupt end.  Her mzungu clothes will fade and tear.  Her life will become hard again. It makes me very sad, but I know that I cannot save the world.  Only God has that power.

Last year on Thanksgiving Day, I was traveling to Mkuu on a cross country bus.  I ate crackers for my meal. I arrived in the rain to an empty house.  This year, Cheryl and I met two other volunteers, Nathan and Owen, in Marangu for lunch at one of the tourist hotels. We sat outside and talked and enjoyed the Englishstyle gardens while we waited for our food.  It was a beautiful day. Kilimanjaro is a beautiful region. I silently gave thanks for all my blessings, for my friends and family at home and for my new friends and family here in Tanzania.  I also thought about three things: faith, hope, and love.  Indeed, love is the greatest of them all.  Loving others is what makes life rich and complete.   Happy Thanksgiving!

Pain

November 5, 2010

I do not really know how to begin to tell this tale.  In our world it would not make sense.  Here in Tanzania, it is the way it is.  I am so angry but there is no one to rage against.  I am frustrated and disappointed, but the solution is out of my hands.  I can see and I can feel pain, but there seems little that I can do to ease it.  No one understands.  I am alone.

My students began to return on Tuesday, the first day of the new term.  However, there were only a few so I did not teach.  Wednesday morning the students gathered on the parade ground for morning assembly. After singing the national anthem, the headmaster began berating the form VI students for their poor mock exam scores.  He told them that they were not being serious.  Here at Mkuu they had everything that they needed to do well.  They had professional teachers and many resources.  (I do not believe that we are working at the same school).  My PCM (physics, chemistry, and advanced math) students have one professional teacher: me.  This past term they have had a temporary teacher to help them with mathematics, but now he has gone to university.  They had a temporary physics teacher from university for about two or three weeks, and then he stopped coming to school.  Even in America, where we truly do have abundant resources and qualified teachers, many students find these subjects difficult to master.

After assembly, I went to the classroom.  My students were huddled in a group sharing one book.  Only about a third of the class had returned.  They were all very solemn as I entered the room.  I greeted them, and then I told them that the headmaster was wrong.  I knew that each and every one of them was serious about their future.  I praised them for their efforts to learn the material on their own.  Then I wrote the performance scores and rankings on one board.  On another I wrote “Why?” and on the third board I wrote “What can we do?”  When I turned to face them, I saw their pain, their discouragement, and their fear.  Some had tears streaming down their faces.  For the others, their eyes were glistening with tears that they refused to shed.  What good would it do?  This is Tanzania: the land where hopes and dreams die early in life.  I knew that I had to encourage them.  I must be the one to help keep their hope alive.  Tanzanians are not accustomed to being critical of authority, but I finally managed to make them understand that they were free to speak their mind.  They should not be afraid.  I could not help unless I knew what was needed.  What did they want?  They wanted teachers.  They wanted books, not just question and answer review books, but textbooks that would help them understand the concepts.  They wanted more in class assessment so that they would know how they were doing before taking the exam.  They wanted more practice doing practicals, especially in physics.  They wanted the opportunity to learn.

The next day I was planning to go to Moshi, so I told my students to write a list of the books that they would like to have.  They were afraid to write any because they said that they were much too expensive.  I reassured them that I only wanted the list.  I would not buy more than I could afford.  They gave me a list of three books: two physics and one math.  I visited every bookstore I could find in Moshi (four, and one I went to twice), and was only able to purchase two books.  I bought one copy of each of the physics books for a total of 100,000 shilings. (a bit less than $100).  I could not find the math book.  One shop said that they would order one, and it would be here next week, but I will not hold my breath.  Two books for 19 kids, but I guess it is a start.  My students were very grateful for the two I bought. 

I talked to the second masters and to the academic assistant about the possibility of having guest teachers from other schools come on the weekends to do practicals and to teach concepts.  I would be willing to pay if the school could not.  They liked the idea but said that it would be very difficult to find a good physics or math teacher who would be willing to come.  I will continue to follow-up with that, but for now, I guess all they have is me.  I hope I am enough.

Now that I have vented about that situation, maybe I can tell a sadder story without crying.  While in Moshi yesterday, Francis, a Tanzanian friend, called and said that there had been a riot at Shauritanga.  Students were angry about the food, the headmaster, and several other things.  Teachers had demanded their pay.  Students and teachers had walked out.  Boys had thrown stones.  Girls had stood on the hill and made noise.  The police had been called.  Francis' two nieces and Diana are students there, but I do not think he knows that I also have a child there, Yudathade.  I try to keep that quiet.

When we got off the bus and could actually hear, Cheryl called Francis to find out more details.  He said that the problem was over and students had gone back to class.  Knowing that Francis sometimes exaggerates problems, we went on with our day.  That evening, Cheryl called me and said that she had asked Diana about the day's events, and Diana told her that Yuda was “mbaya.”  She was not sure what Diana really meant by that, so I had her speak to Aggie.  Apparently Yuda had been beaten by the police but was ok.  Aggie suggested that I go to Shauritanga the next day to see Yuda.  I thought that was a very good idea.

 It had rained heavily during the night, and it was raining again, as I began walking to Shauritanga.  I resigned myself to the fact that I might have to walk the entire 6 or 7 miles to the school because buses going in that direction are scarce in the morning and all the mud would not help. However, I had not gone far when I saw a bus coming.  I did the whale tail flip of my hand but it passed by.  Then it stopped!  The konda motioned me to hurry, “njoo mzungu!”  (sometimes being mzungu does help).  It was standing room only, but that was ok.  It would get me to Shauritanga much faster than I could walk. 

When I arrived at Shauritanga, I went to sign in with the guard at the gate.  He asked me who I was there to see, so I said “the matron.”  He directed me to the main office.  A small group was gathered there outside the office.  The matron greeted me and asked if she could help me.  I said that I had come to see Yuda, because I had heard that there was a problem at the school the day before.  I said that I would have called, but it is difficult for me to understand kiswahili on the phone.  She told me that there had been a small problem but it had been resolved.  Yuda was fine.  Some students had refused to eat their food.  They wanted rice every day.  What did I think about that?  I made some kind of reply, and then asked to see Yuda again.  I said that I had heard that some boys had been beaten by the police, and I wanted to make sure that Yuda was ok.  She reassured me that Yuda had not been beaten.  He was fine.  Finally, tired of her stalling, I insisted that I see Yuda, so she sent a student to get him.

I watched Yuda come across the yard, walking very gingerly on his feet.  When he arrived, he greeted me, but continued to stand.  After several urgings, he sat on the bench.  The matron said, “See, he has not been beaten.  He is fine.  The police would not beat the small ones.”  I said, “Then what has happened to his eye?”   One eyelid was swollen and there was a small cut near his eyebrow.  She said that he must have hit it on something.  I asked Yuda if he had been beaten and he looked away and said, “no.”  I did not believe him.  I said, “Yuda, take off your shoes.”  He tried to resist.  “No madam, I am fine.”  “Yuda, take off your shoes.”  He did as he was told, and he also rolled up his pant legs.  His knees and skinny little legs were dark blue.  His legs were shaking as I looked at and felt the bottoms of his feet.  They were hot to the touch.  I also wondered about his back and bottom, but did not want to embarrass him anymore.  I asked him to tell me what had happened.  He promised that he had not been involved in the rebellion.  He had not been throwing rocks, but he was standing nearby with some others watching the commotion.  However, when the police came, he got scared and ran.  The police caught him and beat him.  They beat him on the feet.

My poor Yuda!  He is just a child!  How could the police beat this small, sweet child?  I felt so bad.  I had sent him to Shauritanga so that he would be safe from the dangers of his homeplace, and now he had been beaten here.  I sat with him awhile and was able to talk quietly with him while the adults were preoccupied.  The matron had kept insisting that he had not been beaten, even while I was inspecting his wounds.  Maybe saying it out loud repeatedly would make it true.  I asked him again, “I want the truth Yuda, were you beaten?”  He tried to look away, but I held his face.  He whispered, “Yes Madam, I was beat.”  I gave him a gentle hug and asked him if he was afraid.  Did he want to come home with me now?  He said, “No;” he wanted to remain at Shauritanga.  Exams begin Monday.  He was not afraid.  He would come soon, after exams.  We sat there side by side, Yuda a little closer than normal.  “You are sure Yuda?”  “Yes Madam, I am sure.”  I slipped him a few 1000 shilings and told him, ok, he could go back to class.  He stood up, and I saw him wince.  He hugged me and in an effort to show me that he really was ok, he tried to run back to class.  He did not go far.  He turned and said, “Madam, do not tworry.  It is not so bad.  Do not tworry.”

After he had gone, the matron sat down beside me.  I had been doing my best to speak kiswahili all morning, but she said she understood English.  It would be ok to speak my native tongue.  Maybe to placate me, she told me that Yuda is a good boy.  She has never heard him complain about anything.  She has never seen him be disrespectful or break any rules.  She talks to him sometimes and encourages him, because she knows that he has nothing.  He knows why he is here.  Then she said that if he was beaten, he was only beaten a little.  Others were beaten much worse.  I asked her to give him something for pain and to let me know if he did not improve.  She said “no problem, in one, two, five days, he would be fine again.”

I was angry.  I was sad.  I was frustrated and disappointed.  But I knew I would not get anywhere if I continued to press the issue of whether or not Yuda had been beaten.  Besides, I already knew the answer.  I had seen with my own eyes.  What recourse did I have?  File a complaint with the police?  They had done the beating.  Complain to the school authorities?  They denied that it had happened.  Talk to my fellow teachers?  They are Tanzanian.  This is their life.  They laughed when I told them.  It happens all the time.  Shauritanga is not unusual.  Why should I be upset?  What do we do with unruly students in America? 

I caught a bus right outside the gate.  It actually stopped without me signaling.  I found a seat in the back.  Shida kubwa nyingi hapa Tanzania.  (There are many big problems here in Tanzania).  My heart was heavy.  I felt tears run down my cheek.  I looked out the window and saw water falling from the sky.  Even God was crying.

Readjustment

  October 27, 2010

I have been back at Mkuu now for more than a week, and at times I wonder if I ever really left.  Maybe I only dreamed that I did.  Was I really in America for an entire month, or was it just another crazy fantasy like the time that I dreamed that I flew home to get my hair cut at Great Clips? (maybe it was a $5.99 special). If it was a dream, then it was a very pleasant one.

America, the beautiful!  So green and so clean!  I did not have to wade through any mud or breathe any dust-laden air.  There was always a place to put my trash, and I had electricity and hot, running water every day!  I did not have to ride any buses, but if I had, I am sure that I would not have had to share my seat.  There would be a space for everyone.  Actually, riding in a car (or driving one; that skill must be instinctive after almost 34 years) was pure luxury.  Although, I was rather embarrassed to find myself driving from one store to another across a large parking lot.  In America, anything that I wanted, I am sure I could find, especially food.


Is America obsessed with food?  In Tanzania, it is rare to find a small "supermarket."  In the Cary area, there seems to be one on every street corner, each with aisles and aisles stocked with goods.  How many brands of cereal do we really need? I must admit, I did appreciate the variety; something different to eat everyday.  My first taste of non-Tanzanian food was on the plane: scrambled eggs (when did scrambled eggs become white), sausage, yogurt, fruit, and a small pancake.  What a treat!  Airplane food and I loved it!  How sad.

The thing that bothered me most about our food, however, was that we eat too much and we waste too much.  My kids took me to Jason's Deli for lunch one day, and I ordered my favorite sandwich: a reuben.  There was more meat on that one sandwich than I eat here in a month.  At another restaurant, I ordered a salad.  It looked big enough to feed a family of six or eight.  I could not even eat it all.  That made me think of my little "watoto wachafu" (the dirty little children, dressed in rags, who come to my house to greet me) whose eyes light up when I give them each a finger-sized banana to eat. Imagine if they had even a portion of this food?  Even now, as I write this, I am thinking about pizza, reubens, steak, ice cream, even just a small bowl of raisin bran with milk.  Food in Tanzania is not very exciting, but then most people here "eat to live, not live to eat".


It was nice being back in a place where I understood the language and could actually take part in real conversations.  Although, I am sure that during the early days of my visit, some of you may have detected traces of "special" English in my speech.  I am happy to have seen so many of you, and I am very grateful for my friends.  However, I did notice quite a big difference in casual interactions between people in each country.  In Tanzania, when I go anywhere at all, people always stop to greet me.  This is their custom; it is not just because I am a "mzungu."  They shake my hand, maybe double hug me, and ask about my day, my health, my family, my job, and about many other things which I still consider my personal business.  Then many will ask for a small handout (that is because I am a "mzungu"). Sometimes these encounters are exhausting, but I have realized that they also make me feel less isolated in a place where I really am different and alone.  In America, I did a lot of walking (for fun not necessity) and as I passed people, I would smile and say "hello" or "good day."  I was quite surprised by the number of people who avoided eye contact and walked by without saying a word.  Are we so busy that we have forgotten how to be polite?

Before my trip, my students asked me which country I liked better, Tanzania or the United States.  I told them that, of course, Tanzania is a beautiful country.  The people are very friendly and the animals are amazing.  However, America is my "homeplace," and I love my home.  (Even though I was a bit of a nomad during my visit, because I no longer have a house of my own, but a "house" does not really make a "home").  My trip was wonderful.  It was just what I needed to re-energize me for another year of service.  My dad continues to improve, and on the last day of my visit, he was allowed to come home.  For the first time in many years, I saw a bit of lingering color in the autumn leaves of upstate New York.  I got my hair cut (at Great Clips of course) and I gained back a bit of weight. I indulged in conversations, watched TV to my heart's content, and played on the computer without racing time.  It was so nice to be home.

My trip back to Tanzania was interminably long (4 days): one day by car to the airport, two overnight flights through London to Dar, and then the longest leg of the journey, a ten hour bus ride from Dar to Mkuu.  However, I received a very warm welcome when I finally arrived.  They were all so glad that I had actually returned.  A few things have changed here, most noteably, the school calendar.  The opening day for A-level has been changed from October 18th to November 2nd.  Not really sure why, but I find it amazing how easily and unexpectedly schedules are changed.  No approval is needed from anyone.  It is just "done".

Fidesta has completed her form 4 exams and now must wait until January or February for results.  Then we will decide which direction her life will take.  (Pray that she is accepted to A-level).  In the mean time, I have sent her to Morogoro to take a short course about computers.  She will stay with Victoria.  She was very excited, because she has never traveled any further than Moshi.

Victoria is facing problems of her own.  The house she is living in does not belong to her.  The owner has rented it out, and now Victoria and the girls will have to leave.  She has a brief reprieve, because the renters have asked that a wall and gate be installed around the property.  Victoria will remain in the house to oversee construction.  Where will she go then?  She has a small plot of land but no money to build a house.  Curiously, I felt an urge to help her, so I sent 500,000 TZS (about $400) with Fidesta.  It should be enough to build a small two-room mud house.  My only request was that Neema and Maria continue to go to school.  Needless to say, Victoria was overwhelmed by the gift.  She said that I was her only "good Samaritan."  Many others, including family and church members, had ignored her plight. 

Aggie will be taking exams in a couple of weeks, and then she will be on break until January.  She has asked me if she could attend "tuition." These are extra study sessions held between terms.  She has been studying very hard and really wants to succeed, so how could I say "no"?  She will follow Fidesta to Morogoro and attend tuition sessions there.  They will return to Mkuu after the new year.

That means it will only be me and Yuda for the holidays.  He will be coming to stay at the end of November.  Fidesta insisted that I make him study, cook and clean.  I will, but I will also give him time to play soccer with the boys. 

So what is it like being back?  What do I look forward to for another year?  Well, there has been no running water in my home for a few weeks now, even though the rains have returned.  There is no dust, but there is plenty of mud.  Mkuu welcomes me home!