Kwa Heri Tanzania! Karibu Tena Marekani!

Kwa Heri Tanzania, Karibu Tena Marekani!

September 23, 2011

            It will be easy to walk away from this place and all of the challenges that accompany life here.  I will not miss the dust or the mud or the lack of electricity and running water.  I want to enjoy a hot shower again, and not have to make do with scoops of water poured over my head while sitting on a cold bathroom floor.   I want to have internet every day and I want to know what is going on in the world.  I am tired of pushing my way onto uncomfortable, overcrowded buses hoping they will make it to where I want to go.  Yes, I love America, and I want to go home.  However, I know that leaving Tanzania will not be easy.  Although I am eager to experience life in a developed country once more, I cannot begin to describe how I feel about leaving behind those whom I have come to love: especially those who love me for who I am and not just for what I can offer them.

            My first parting was with Yuda, and it was the most difficult of all.  I will always remember the day I first met him; he was a scruffy, lonely little boy surprised to see a “mzungu” at his home.  Now he smiles a lot, he seems more confident, and he has hope for his future.  I have found him a place to stay for school holidays with an older couple that I met at church.  The Leopolds are kind and compassionate.  They will be good to Yuda; however, why did my heart hurt so much as he sobbed in my arms when I said good-bye?  Is it possible that I had truly become his mother?  I must admit that I cried too, because somehow I know that this African child has become my son.

            I have said good-bye to many students over the years, and I may have felt a bit of regret at the loss of the relationships for a short time.  However, I did not feel too bad, because I knew that almost all of them would be moving on to something better.  That is not the case with my students in Tanzania.  When I walked into the form 6 classroom for the last time, the students all stood to greet me.  I was overwhelmed with emotion as I noticed their tears.  How could I leave them?  Would they be able to maintain their confidence or would they lose their hope after I was gone?  I could sense their fear.  Oh God, please be with them and give them peace!  I have only taught form 5 for one term, but I have grown quite fond of them too.  Who will encourage them now?  Who will teach them how to teach themselves?  Who will see that every student has occasional access to a book?  The students wanted to thank me for all I had done for them, but they were embarrassed because all they could give me was a song.  It was a beautiful song, a song about angels.  To me it was worth more than anything money could buy.

 

            When I am stressed, I tend to turn inward for strength.  I prefer to be alone to work through my problems; however, Fidesta and Aggie wanted to escort me all the way to the airport in Dar.  I told them that it would be painful, but they insisted on coming.  Victoria and Maria traveled from Morogoro.  Aggie’s brother and Mr. Leopold’s daughter also came.  I said farewell to Fidesta’s uncle and brother and many others by phone.  Aggie and Fidesta sang me our favorite song one last time (Nimepata Yesu moyoni wangu: I have got Jesus in my heart).  Maria traced the bones in my hand with her finger and seemed to be trying to memorize its color.  Victoria gave me a long letter thanking me for all I had done and reaffirming her belief that all that had transpired over the last two years had, indeed, been done by the grace of God.  Aggie begged me not to forget them.  I assured her that that would not be possible.  Hearts broke; tears flowed, we said good-bye.  I entered the airport alone.

            Kwa heri Tanzania! (Farewell Tanzania).  Kwa herini my friends!  Thank you all for your support and pray without ceasing; that is, live each day of your life as if it were a prayer to God.    

    

Wanting Water

Wanting Water

September 7, 2011

            I have had much to think about lately, but many of my thoughts have been about water.  In America, I think we take the availability of fresh, clean drinking water for granted.  If you are thirsty, you are able to turn on the tap and fill a glass and drink.  However, in many parts of the world, that is not the case.  As Elizabeth and I traveled across the flat, dry Arusha highlands, I began to realize just what it means to have no water.  Most of the Arusha plains seemed to be just dust fields dotted with dry scrub brush and fragmented by barren river beds, which will rapidly carry away any rain that happens to fall, because it has nowhere else to go. 

Finding water during the dry season is the most important daily chore and everything else revolves around that task.  Going to school is not an option for many children during this time, because they must herd the cattle, donkeys and goats to the water holes.  When they find one, they join the others filling their buckets and jugs at one end, while the animals wade in the water and drink at the other.  The water hole is no more than a large mud puddle, yet for most people in this region, it is water for drinking, for bathing, for cooking, and for washing clothes.  That muddy, green, bacterial infested, parasite-laden water is life.

            Fidesta recently returned home for term break.  Her school happens to be far out on the Arusha plain.  With more than 1000 students and no water, the administrators had no choice but to close school early.  She told us how difficult it was to obtain water.  Water holes in this region are carefully guarded by the Masai people. Students are allowed to fetch water only once a week: boys on Saturday and girls on Sunday.  The water holes are several kilometers from school and students must never go without a guardian.  If the Masai are there with their animals, students must wait until the animals have finished drinking before filling their buckets.  Sometimes the Masai decide that there is not enough water to share and they chase the students away.  Fidesta buys bottled water at the school shop for drinking because she is afraid of disease, but she uses the dirty water in her bucket for bathing and washing clothes.  She describes her daily micro bath as “passport picture size” bathing.  The school toilets are flush toilets which are no longer flushed.  She said that it is so unpleasant to use them that many students have begun going outside in the bush.  At night when it is not safe to go out, many just go inside on the floor.  

            As thoughts of cholera, dysentery, and typhoid ran through my head, I asked Fidesta if she wanted to shift schools again, but she said it was too late, and despite the problems there, she said that Longido does well with academics.  They have teachers, and the teachers actually enter the classroom and teach.  She likes her school and she wants to stay.  I searched through my first aid kit and found some water purification tablets.  I gave her every pack of wet wipes and hand sanitizer that I had left.  Then I prayed that the rains would come again soon and that God would keep her safe.

            Conditions like this may seem appalling and unusual, but lack of clean water is a problem faced by many people throughout the developing world.  The next time you flush a toilet, water your lawn or get up in the night to get a drink, thank God for this blessing and say a prayer for the men and women and children who suffer because they lack clean water to drink.   

        

Safari Njema

  Safari Njema

 (A Good Journey)

September 3, 2011

     My daughter recently came to visit me here in Tanzania, and since it may be a once in a lifetime trip for her and also because I wanted to see some of the best of Tanzania before I leave, I decided to put aside my kanga and head wrap, pull on my one pair of ill-fitting jeans and become a tourist.  We took the Dar es Salaam to Zanzibar ferry and spent a delightful day and night in Stone Town.  The thing that was delightful was that it was not crowded and there were not many street vendors to harass us.  This was probably because we arrived on Friday (Muslim holy day) during the holy month of Ramadan. The hotel was luxurious (at least I thought so, but then anything with a hot water shower and electricity would seem luxurious to me).  We found a quaint café nearby with a nice view of the Indian Ocean and we spent the late afternoon talking and eating ice cream.  
 

Our Zanzibar trip was wonderful, but the trip back to Dar was not so fun.  The sea was rough and even though I took motion sickness medicine, I had to join many of my fellow passengers outside at the railing, including the aides to the former president of Tanzania.  The former president stayed inside to regurgitate his lunch in a bag. (I wondered why he would choose to travel by public ferry and not by private plane).

        
Early the next morning Elizabeth and I boarded the Dar Express, a luxury bus, to travel back to Mkuu. A luxury bus means that everyone must be seated.  Most likely you will have your own seat, although sometimes a small child may sit on your lap.  Often the seats are overbooked, and if you are unlucky, you may have to sit on a bucket or a soda crate in the aisle even though you are still required to pay full price for your ticket. If a good Samaritan gives you something to pad your seat, make sure to say “thanks” because the plastic ridges on the bucket get very uncomfortable during the ten hour ride.  

    
    I was really excited to have Elizabeth visit my site.  I wanted her to meet all of the people that I have written about.  I wanted her to see all of the things that I have seen.  I wanted her to experience everything that I have experienced here in Mkuu.  However, after four days of greeting strangers, struggling to make sense of an unfamiliar culture, listening to me speak an odd mix of English and Swahili, even to her, and not understanding a word anyone said, she was thoroughly overwhelmed. I realized then that I was exposing her to too much too soon.  I have lived here for two years.  What seems ordinary to me now may have at one time seemed extraordinary.  I remembered all of the times that I longed to talk to someone, anyone, who could speak fluent English.  Now, although I might speak very bad Swahili, I can carry on a fairly long conversation. I remembered wanting to get out of the limelight but having nowhere to hide. Now I do not seem to be such a novelty in my community, but on days when I do, I know where to go.  There was a time in my life when I would have been disgusted by some of the foods that I eat here, and I would have been annoyed by some of the habits of my Tanzanian friends.  Now many things do not seem so bizarre, although I still refuse to eat goat intestines and cow stomachs.  It seems ironic that when I have finally adapted to this culture, I am preparing to leave it behind. 

Elizabeth may not have felt so nostalgic, because she seemed quite happy to get out of town.  After the cultural overload in Mkuu, we donned our tourist clothes again and went on safari to Ngorongoro Crater and Lake Manyara National Parks. Last year I went in a school bus; this year I traveled in an air conditioned land cruiser.  There was also a big difference in price, but still the trip was wonderful.  It was awesome to see so many African animals up close.  It was like being in the “Lion King.”  In fact, I might actually have been humming the theme song along the way.  I was nice to share that adventure together.

            After a brief stay at a beach resort in Dar, Elizabeth went home to America and I went home to Mkuu.  Her life will continue as she left it, my old life in America is gone.  When I return in a few weeks, I will begin anew.  Some days I spend too much time thinking about what it will be like, about what I will do, about how I will survive, and I begin to feel tense and uneasy.  Then I take a deep breath and remind myself to just follow the road.  Wherever it leads, the journey will be good.  Safari njema and follow the road!  A traveler always does.

Miscellaneous Thoughts and Observations

 Miscellaneous Thoughts and Observations

August 3, 2011

            I am becoming increasingly aware that my days here are numbered, in only seven weeks, or in 51 days, September 23^rd to be exact, two years to the day when I first arrived in Tanzania, I will be going home.  Maybe I am not sleeping well because I have too many things on my mind; maybe I am just trying to imprint every sound, every smell, and every image on my brain so that I will never forget my life here in Mkuu.  I know it is wasted effort however, because I will never forget.  I came here wholly American, but a ”whole” American is not returning home.  My eyes have changed; my kaleidoscope wheel has turned.  A part of me has become African.  For that small part of me, Tanzania is my home.

            I noticed a large green praying mantis on the ceiling in my bedroom the other night.  In the morning it was gone.  I thought maybe one of my lizards ate it, but after making my bed, I looked down and saw it clinging to my pajama pants. As I walked out in the kitchen to let it out the door, Aggie saw it there and cried out, “Madam, did that bug fight your leg? You should kill it.  It is not good.”  I tried to reassure her, “No, it is a praying mantis.  It eats bad bugs.  In America we have laws to protect these bugs.  I am going to let it go.” “But Madam, did you know that if that bug bites your belly button, your belly button will become very big, and there is no medicine to heal it.”  With a chuckle, I freed the big green belly button biter.

            We have been having a bit of a building boom here lately.  The school is adding an addition to the A-level girls’ hostel so that the girls who are currently sleeping in the temporary dormitory (an unused classroom) will have a proper place to sleep.  (We expanded our A-level program before we had enough living space available).  The second building project is a new parish office at the church.  Padre wants the exterior to match the original buildings on the mission campus; he wants it to be stone.  Therefore, one Sunday he told us all to bring a stone to church the next week.  I saw a reasonably sized stone along the path near my house and pointed it out to Aggie, but she said it was not big enough.  She showed me a large boulder in our corn field, and she said, “That stone is nice.  If you carry that stone to church Madam, everyone in the community will know you. They will never forget you.  That will become the Mzungu stone.”  Unfortunately, I think I am going to have to disappoint everyone and turn down this opportunity for fame.  I am able to carry a less than full bucket of water or even a large bag of clothes on my head for a quite a distance, but a boulder!  I do not think I can do it.  Oh well, maybe it is a chance for some other bibi (grandmother) to become famous.  Maybe the one who sits in front of me in church; she is about four and a half feet tall and has marijuana leaves on her head scarf.  She could probably carry it, no problem.  That is the thing about Chaga women, they may be small, but they are strong!

            Building represents progress, but it also has its down side.  Timbers and boards are required for framing and building.  That means it becomes necessary to sacrifice trees.  So just like in Cary in the 80’s, they clear-cut the land.  They chopped down almost all the tall hardwoods around my house, around the existing hostel, and in the fields near the church.  They did spare the tree to which my clothes line is tied.  Maybe they were worried that I would stop washing my clothes and that I would develop a strong smell which would attract tembo (elephants).  Tembo are dangerous and they also like to eat bananas and sugar cane.  It would not be good to encourage them to come to Mkuu.  We like bananas and sugar cane too!

            Sadly, the trees were toppled and men spent many days sawing the large trunks into planks.  The women and small children gathered the small limbs and branches and chopped them into pieces for firewood.  Things quieted down again in what used to be the woods surrounding my home, until one day as I stood in my classroom supervising a test, I heard students making noise outside.  I looked out the window and there they were in groups, each gathered around a large tree stump.  They had dug holes around the bases and had begun to hack away at the stumps with their axes.  This continued for several days until all the stumps had been removed.  One afternoon as I was returning home, I saw some students standing near my porch.  One was wrapping his leg with a long, dirty strip of cloth.  I asked what had happened and the boys told me that their friend had cut his leg while chopping stumps.  They were going to help him walk home.

 

            The disparity between education in Tanzania and education in America continues to astonish me.  I tried to imagine this same scenario being played out in the US.  The child comes home and mother asks, “What did you learn in school today?”  The child says, “We did not actually learn anything today.  We worked in the forest.” “What do you mean you worked in the forest?”  “We were chopping stumps.  We will be there all week.”  In shock and disbelief, the mother replies, “That is outrageous!  I am calling the principal and the superintendent and the police! My poor child let me see your hands.  How could they mistreat you like that?”  In comparison, I tried to envision the same situation in a Tanzanian context.  The child comes home and if anyone is around, maybe they would ask, “How was school today?”  The child would probably reply, “It was very good.  We worked in the forest chopping stumps.”  If they noticed the child limping or the strip of cloth around his leg, they might ask what had happened and the child might reply, “I cut my leg with my ax.” I imagine the parent looking shocked and disgusted.  “What do you mean you cut your leg with your ax?  You have been using an ax since you could walk.  How could you have done such a thing?  Tomorrow make sure that you do twice as much chopping as all of the other students as punishment for your carelessness.”

            Many of our students performed in a choir competition last week.  The school rented a small bus to transport them to Moshi.  I was at the road when they were boarding.  The students were packed in like sardines in a can two layers deep: one layer of students sitting on the seats, another layer sitting on their laps.  I said to the teacher chaperoning, “They are sitting like bananas!”  He replied, “No they are sitting like people, and I have arranged them according to their singing voice: alto, soprano, tenor, bass.”  He found a space hanging out the door and the bus pulled away.  The cramped bus ride apparently did not affect the students; they won second place. 

            I was flipping through my Kiswahili dictionary the other day and I was surprised to see Yuda’s name: “masumbuko,” the one the sister did not like.  It means “annoyances.”  I asked Aggie if that was so, and she said yes, it was true.  She believes that maybe that name has already had an effect on Yuda because he likes to touch everything, especially electronics.  (She also told me that Yuda’s older brother’s name is “Sikujui”: “I do not know you.”)  What were their parents thinking? Aggie likes to call Yuda “Enginea;” I will call him “Blessing.”

Maria

 Maria

July 11, 2011

            I had the recent pleasure of spending an entire week with Neema and Maria at my home in Mkuu.  If this is what it is like to be a grandmother, I am really looking forward to it.  I had a lot of fun, especially with Maria.  I say it jokingly, but there really is something special about Maria.  She is six now and is completing her second year of pre-primary school.  Already I am seeing the benefits of enrolling her in a good, private English medium school.  I am sure she speaks English better than Yuda.

            One afternoon, Maria and I were out on the porch coloring pictures.  A man on a motorcycle drove up, stopped, and asked me something in rapid fire Kiswahili.  Maria looked up at him and said in a stern voice, “Speak English!”  The man looked quite flustered and said nothing.  I thought he probably did not know how to speak English, so I saved him from embarrassment and repeated what I thought he said in Kiswahili.  I was right; he wanted to sell me charcoal for cooking.  (Too bad I am leaving soon, because my understanding of Kiswahili is really improving). 

            There are many things that Maria loves: braiding my hair and sticking flowers behind my ears, eating, singing, dancing, drawing pictures, watching movies, and reading books, but the thing Maria loves best is to talk.  One evening when the power was out, we were all sitting together in the living room, so I suggested that we tell stories.  Maria eagerly volunteered to go first.  She told some complicated tale in Kiswahili.  Aggie translated into English.  Maria said she had another story, so we encouraged her to tell it.  I was amazed when she started telling a story in English!  OK, it was a very short story, but the child was speaking English!  Another day we boarded a very crowded bus to go to town.  Some kind old woman told Maria to sit on her lap so that she would not be crushed in the crowd.  I was standing nearby, and I could hear Maria jabbering away.  Several times I heard her say my name in conversation and I heard the bibis laugh.  I am sure that those women now know all of my business.  I was not so upset, but when we arrived in town, Agness gave Maria quite a lecture about talking to strangers.  A few days later, Maria was once again carrying on an animated conversation with a stranger, and the lady turned to me and said, “I am a primary school teacher, and this child will be going to A-level for sure!”

            Thanks to friends and family, I now have many movies on my computer.  Aggie loves to watch American movies, but Yuda often loses interest half-way through because he does not know the language and has not had enough life experience to understand what is going on through context.  When Maria and Neema asked to watch a movie, I was not sure if they would understand enough to enjoy an American movie, and I have no Tanzanian movies.  Anyway, I decided to show them Up, an animated movie about a little boy and an old man.  Aggie had once told me that I really know how to speak to children (she probably really meant that I speak Kiswahili like a child), but I thought I would try my skills at translating the plot.  It seemed mostly to be for Neema’s benefit, because Maria seemed to follow the story pretty well.  Over the course of the week, we also watched Finding Nemo, Madagascar, Over the Hedge, and a couple of episodes of Harry Potter.  Translating a cartoon may not be so difficult, but how do you explain events in Harry Potter?  Leave it to Maria; she shrieked with laughter at all the funny scenes (remember Dudley’s pig tail) and shouted “Ery Pota, Ery Pota, toka! Toka!” (Harry Potter, Harry Potter, get away from there!  Get away from there!) when Harry was in especially precarious situations.  Movies can be so educational.  Throughout the week she summarized the stories for whoever cared to listen, and I often heard her saying, “Mr. Fredrikson, I am so tired!” and singing, “I like to move it, move it.”  When I took the girls to a restaurant in Moshi, we saw some goldfish in a tank.  Maria called out, “Ruthi, Ruthi!  Look, it is Nemo!”  Luckily she did not insist that we help him escape.

            Adorable little Maria, so intelligent, so clever, so funny; she can always make me laugh.  All Maria’s stories make me wonder about her story.  How will it turn out?  I sense her insecurity at times, like the night I woke up to find an arm wrapped tightly around my neck.  As I tried to extricate myself, she latched onto me like a leach.  I held her for a bit and then felt a quick kiss on my cheek.  I kissed the top of her head and after a few minutes, I once again heard the sound of her rhythmic snoring.  I gently rolled her back onto her side of the bed.  In addition to her loving nature, she also has a very stubborn side.  She lives a difficult life, and I wonder which aspect of her personality will become the stronger one.  Will she grow up to have a compassionate heart helping out the needy, or will she become a mercenary soldier fighting only for herself?   She insists that she is coming to America to visit me one day, so maybe I will have the opportunity to find out. 

            God bless Maria, protect her spirit, and help her to grow strong in your love.

Saying Good-Bye

Saying Good-Bye

July 6, 2011

         
     I have always been an avid reader and have read many types of books; however my favorite have always been the ones in which goodness prevails over evil, problems find resolution, and stories have happy endings.  Maybe because of my optimistic outlook on life, I want to believe that this is reality, but I have lived long enough to know that life just does not unfold that way.  Often it seems that unfairness and injustice are the victors in most cases.  Problems may be resolved but are soon replaced by new ones.  Brief respites of happiness are inevitably followed by periods of pain.  

            My work here in Tanzania will soon be finished, and I desperately want to reassure you, as well as myself, that all of the people that I have written about will live happily ever after.  However, I cannot.  After all, this is real life and these are real people.  I cannot tell you how their stories will conclude.  My task was to plant the seeds; I was never meant to stay and watch them grow.   The rewards of the harvest are for God alone. 

            The sadness I feel at the thought of leaving those whom I have come to love is abated by my joy at the prospect of returning home to those I love equally as much, or even more.  Still, I struggle to say good-bye, because I know how difficult it will be for the ones I leave behind.  My heart especially aches for Yudathade and Neema.

            I remember the day when I first went to greet Yuda at his home far up the mountain.  He was a ragged looking, hungry little boy, living alone with no supervision and no love.  He was a child raising himself, facing all of his fears alone.  However, it was not his circumstances that were unusual.  There are many orphans in Tanzania living in similar or even worse conditions.  Rather, what is extraordinary is how dramatically this child’s life was changed.  I do not believe it was by luck or chance.  I believe it was by the hand of God.  It was a modern day miracle.

            In the time that I have known Yuda, I have always sensed that the thing that he needed most from me was a mother’s love.  The memory I will always cherish of Yuda is the one in which I opened the door one morning and saw him standing on my porch, a big smile on his face, joy in his eyes, happy to be “home” for the holidays.  This is what he needed; this is what he will lose when I go.  Yuda has lived without a mother for so many years that he does not even remember when she died.  I glimpsed the depth of his pain when we went to the local church office to obtain a copy of his baptismal card so that he could apply for a copy of his birth certificate.  The sister in charge may have been kindly, but sensitivity was not her strength.  As she filled in Yuda’s card, she looked at his name and said, “What kind of name is this?  Why would your parents name you Masumbuka (his tribal name)?  It is not a good name.  Do you use that name at school?  If you do, you will not have a good life.  Choose a different name.”  Yuda was speechless.  Aggie turned to me and said, “Madam, choose a new second name for Yuda.  Sister does not like the one his parents have given him.” While my mouth was still hanging open in surprise, Sister began throwing out some names: Amani (peace), Baraka (blessing).  Yes, that was the one: Baraka.  Yuda and I both liked it.  He had been blessed and he was a blessing.  Sister recorded his new name: Yudathade Baraka Liberathi Swai.

            Sister continued to talk.  Next, she asked Yuda about his parents, and he told her he really didn’t remember them.  She said, “What do you mean you don’t remember them.  How long have they been dead?  Who has been taking care of you?  What do you mean by no one?  Surely you cannot have been living alone, you are only a child. Maskini!  That is a terrible thing!” I looked over at Yuda and tears were streaming down his face.  I moved my chair closer so that I could put my arm around him. I wanted him to feel my love. I wanted him to know that I cared, even though I wondered how much comfort it would be, because soon I would be leaving him as well.

            Although I feel bad about leaving, I know that Yuda has hope now for his future, and hope is a powerful motivator.  Believing that his dreams are possible brings him closer to actually achieving them.  He goes to a good school, and his performance has improved remarkably in the year that he has been there.  He has food to eat every day.  He has books.  He has nice clothes.  He even has pocket money.  Aggie and Fidesta love him, and I have reassured him that we would continue to support him from America.  Yudathade, the rich little orphan boy: God has certainly blessed him.

            I cannot help but contrast his case with Neema’s.  Neema, whose name means “Grace of God,” is not an orphan.  She has a mother, a mother who would not or could not provide for her and never even sent her to school. Now Neema must do housework for a relative who beats her if she does the slightest thing wrong.  I wonder if she has ever been loved.  Neema and Maria recently came to visit me here in Mkuu.  I know it was only a brief respite, but Neema was able to rest from all her troubles for an entire week.  Aggie and I stuffed her with food and ripe avocadoes, hoping that she would gain a little weight.  Neema was in paradise.  Maybe for the first time in her short life, she was able to just be a child.  She laughed and joked, she sang songs and danced, she colored pictures and watched cartoons, but mostly she enjoyed the love.  Although she is almost 13, she held my hand whenever we went walking.  She sat close to me whenever she could.  She hugged me and prayed for me every night before we went to bed.  Neema does not speak English, so I decided to write her a letter in Kiswahili to remind her that God had not abandoned her.  I had a Native American “dream catcher” key chain that one of you sent me in a package, so I decided to give it to her.  If she hides it well, maybe it will give her courage and strength when life seems especially difficult and dark.  I explained the legend of the dream catcher in the letter.  Neema is not a good reader (remember she just started school about a year ago), so I asked her if she wanted me to read it to her.  She eagerly said “Yes!”  As I read her the letter, I felt her begin to shake. I glanced over at her and saw that she was silently sobbing.  I finished the letter and then we just sat for the longest time, me holding her in my arms and kissing the top of her head.  I could feel her pain radiating out of her.  I wished that I could absorb it all, but it was not possible.  Her well of sorrow is very deep.

            In order to catch the bus back to Morogoro early in the morning, it was necessary for the girls and I to spend a night in Moshi.  That experience was another treat.  While doing a bit of shopping, I noticed a store with a sign saying: We will test your eyes for a good price.  I had suspected that Neema needed glasses, so on a whim, I took her in to be tested.  I was right.  We ordered her glasses (less than $20 USD) and were told to come back in 2 hours.  We went to a restaurant and indulged in chipsi kuku (fried chicken and fries), picked up the glasses, and then returned to the hotel to watch TV.  Maria also took 2 or 3 warm water showers, something she had never done before.  The next morning I escorted them to the bus stand, carrying their big bag on my head. (It really is easier than trying to carry a heavy load with your arms).  As we waited for the bus, Neema asked me if I would be coming to Morogoro again before I return to America.  I told her probably not.  Then she began to cry.  I held her close and told her I loved her, but inside my tears were flowing for her too. 

           You see, while Yuda has hope, Neema has none.  She struggles to learn in a poor government school.  To others it may not seem like much of an accomplishment, but last year she was number 47 out of 49 students.  This year she is number 30 out of 35.  Yuda most likely will pass his exams and go on to A-level studies.  The chance of Neema passing her primary school exams and being selected for secondary school studies is very slim.  Hopefully she will at least learn to read and write.  How she will support herself in the future, I have no clue.  While Yuda has no parents, he at least has Aggie and Fidesta to love him and take care of him.  Neema has no one.  At the end of the school day, she goes home to cook and clean for people who mistreat her.  She has no time to study.  Aggie and I have talked about trying to find her a private boarding school, but it would have to be a very special school with loving, caring teachers.  She is almost 13 and only in the 4^th grade.  She needs a lot of individual help and attention.  I wonder where I would find that in Tanzania, and if I could, would her family let her go?  I so want her story to have a happy ending, but I am afraid it will not.  Only God can move her mountain and if he does, it will truly be a miracle.

Moving Mountains

 Moving Mountains

June 19, 2011

In memory of my father, “Happy Father’s Day”

Dedicated to my mother, “Happy Birthday Mom”

Down in the flatlands surrounding Moshi, I have noticed some unusual free-standing hills.  What makes them odd is that some of them have been nearly carved in half, most likely by human hands.  Every time I see them, I wonder, “How does one move a mountain: bucket by bucket or one stone at a time, and if you were to try to move a mountain, how long would it take?” 

Traveling across the Same desert last week, I was surprised to see that the usual barren landscape had turned green.  But what struck me most were the flowers adorning many of the scrubby bushes, vibrant splashes of color amidst the otherwise bleak terrain.

It was a long bus ride to Morogoro and I had nothing to do but think, so I contemplated moving mountains and thought about recent splashes of color in my life.

  Protas, a young man who prepares the food for the priests, the sisters, and the girls who live at the church hostel, came to my house one day to ask if I would teach him English.  I was not certain that I would be able to help him much, but I said ok.  With a big smile on his face, he thanked me profusely, “Thank you Madam, thank you madam. I will come on Sunday.”  Then he bowed and ran away.  The next Sunday afternoon, he was at my door dressed in his best clothes and with a brand new exercise book in hand.  We started with simple greetings, and although he was thrilled with everything we did, what captivated him most was learning prayers. He wanted to pray the Rosary in English.  Fortunately, even though I am not Catholic, I spent many years helping my own children learn these same prayers.  So together we recited the “Glory Be,” “Our Father,” “Hail Mary,” and the “Apostles’ Creed,” in Swahili and in English.  Aggie was there to help us.  One Sunday, as Protas was preparing to leave, Aggie told him that I would soon be returning to America forever.  His face fell and he said, “No Madam! Please stay!”  I told him that I had to go and then he said, “Then take me with you.”  “Protas, I cannot take you to America.” “But why Madam, is it because of my English?” “No Protas, it is because you do not have a passport.” He laughed at that but I noticed as he walked away, that the usual spring in his step was missing.  Aggie told me afterward that Protas had never been to school and that learning English was making him very happy.  I was shocked!  What I was thinking was ordinary was really extraordinary.  Here was my splash of color in the desert.  Protas had never been to school, yet he could read and write.  Protas had only one afternoon free every week and he was using it to learn the Lord’s Prayer in English.  The small amount of time that I was sacrificing was nothing in comparison to what it had given him: dignity and a sense of self-worth.  With God’s help, Protas had moved his mountain; he had added color to his own dreary life. 

Here at Mkuu, we have one teacher who is in charge of preparing and conducting “practicals” (science labs) with students.  The other day, I went in to observe my form 6 students perform a qualitative analysis practical.  While they were busily engaged in many chemical tests, I talked to Mr. Ludovick, the young teacher in charge.  I gave him another lab manual that I had acquired at some Peace Corps training.  He showed me a pair of rubber safety goggles that he had purchased for himself after reading a manual I had given him about lab safety.  I praised him for his good decision.  Then he said, “Madam, I see you are not like other teachers.  You are so different.  Your students love you.  Madam you have really helped us very much.  Please extend your contract.  Stay for another year.”  I have not really felt like I have made a big impact here at Mkuu, especially among the teachers, so it was nice to hear him say that maybe I have made a difference.  I said to him, “I am sorry.  I like it here but it is time for me to go.  I must go home, but Mr. Ludovick, I have noticed that you are different too.  You do not just come to school to eat lunch and make stories. I have never seen you yell or hit a student with a stick.  You work very hard, and you have done a great job preparing these practicals.  You care about your work and the students see it.  I know that being a teacher is not easy here in Tanzania, however I believe that you can help to change that.  Continue being a good role model for the others and maybe some will follow.”  As he replied, I once again sensed color being splashed across a barren bush. He said,“Thank you Madam, but I have only been copying you. You inspire me.  I will really miss you when you go.  Your students and I, you will hear us crying from the plane.” Again I was amazed by the realization that Mr. Ludovick was also moving a mountain, because he had decided to be different from the rest.  Both he and Protas were embracing change because they wanted more from life.

Small splashes of color, little glimmers of light, unexpected acts of kindness, and lots of love; that is what is needed to move a mountain. 

Moving Mountains

How does one move a mountain?

Bucket by bucket or one stone at a time?

How does one move a mountain?

And if you try, how long will it take?

Maybe as long as your dream.

I struggled to move my mountain

By shouldering the load alone.

I struggled to move my mountain

Believing that God could not be found.

 But when the burden became too heavy

And I fell to my knees in defeat,

It was there in the quiet I sensed it,

Within me, around me:

A presence, a force, a peace

Incomprehensible power

And then

My mountain moved.

Counseling

Counseling

May 21, 2011

Early this month we had a baraza: a whole school assembly.  The purpose of the meeting was to welcome the new students, introduce the teachers and other staff members, review all of the school rules and procedures, and then address student concerns.  Madam Massao was to speak about counseling services and invite students to come to our office.  Unfortunately, she was ill on the day of the baraza, so the task became mine.  I am fairly proficient in writing Kiswahili, so I quickly wrote a short speech, and when the time came, I delivered it.  I was a hit!  Students clapped and cheered.  Teachers congratulated me on my superb Kiswahili; I pronounced every syllable so clearly and correctly.   Maybe they were humoring me, but the students must have understood my message, because soon they began to come to the office, and I quickly realized how under qualified I was to be a counselor.

The first to come was one of my own students.  He is a quiet student and works hard, but he has missed many days due to illness.  He was returning home the next day to receive more treatment.  As he told his story, he began to tremble and I could see that he was struggling to hold back tears.  I was not as successful, because mine were freely flowing.  What do you say to a young person who tells you he has lost his hope?  There was no one else to refer him to, Madam Massao was still sick.  I was all he had at the moment so I prayed that I would say the right thing.  I tried to reassure him that there was always hope, always opportunity, no matter how difficult life might seem at the moment.  Then I suggested he repeat form 5.  His family is poor and he was concerned that they would not be able to pay school fees for an extra year.  I told him to talk to them.  He was also very discouraged about his illness.  The treatment he was receiving at the local hospital did not seem to be working and it was very difficult to study.  His doctor would not give him permission to seek treatment at a better hospital.  I told him to talk to the doctor again.  Although he did not think it would make a difference, he agreed to try.

The next week he returned with a smile on his face.  His parents agreed that it was best for him to repeat form 5 and would pay the school fees.  The headmaster approved the shift.  His doctor had given him permission to go to a hospital in Moshi for more tests.  I gave him his first test as a new form 5 student and he scored an A, the second highest grade in the class (out of 62 students). Hope, it is such a powerful thing.

My second case was even more difficult, mostly because it is so common here, especially among the girls.  This student was an o-level student so her English was not so good, but we managed to understand one another.  She had been living with her grandmother, but her grandmother chased her away because she had parents who should be supporting her.  The child went to her parents’ home but soon encountered problems with her father.  He was a drunkard and refused to pay her school fees.  He told her to go to town and earn some money.  (she is probably 14 or 15 years old).  She went to Moshi and found a job washing clothes and doing some cleaning.  When she had earned enough money, she returned to school.  However, the father did not approve of her studying and told her to leave his home.  He said he would kill her if he saw her there again.  She did not know what to do nor did I have any good solution to offer her.  I wanted to call social services or a child protective agency, but there are none, so I asked if there was another family member she might stay with or who might help her.  She said there was an aunt who might pay her school fees but only if she lived with the grandmother.  I suggested that she return to her grandmother.  She said her grandmother would not allow it. I asked her if there was a church member or neighbor she could talk to, but she said her parents did not allow her to go to church.  I was stymied.  Feeling totally ineffective and useless, I said some encouraging words and told her I would talk to Madam Massao when she returned.  When Madam returned, she called the student in and spoke to her again.  She told her to speak to the headmaster.  Sometimes students are allowed to come to school and take their exams even though they have not paid their school fees.  However, they do not receive their certificate until their debt has been paid.  As far as her home situation was concerned, if she must remain with her parents, then she should do what it takes to survive: keep quiet and stay out of her father’s way, especially when he has been drinking.  My heart is too soft to be a counselor.

Nothing in Tanzania is simple, no task is easy, even sending your child to school.  I sent Fidesta to Bigwa Sisters, a private Catholic girls’ school hoping that she would be safe there and she would have books, and resources, and teachers who cared.  What a joke!  One evening I received a covert call from Fidesta.  She said all of the students were leaving and Sister would soon be calling me, but do not let her lie to me.  I was to demand that she return all of our school fees.  The next day Sister called and said there was a problem at the school.  The science teachers had not come and the girls would not be patient (they had already been there studying with no teachers for at least 6 weeks. Impatient?)  They had all decided to leave Bigwa and go to other schools. Fidesta would be returning home.  I pretended that it was all news to me and made arrangements for Sister to return our money to my account.  I went to speak to my headmaster to see if it would still be possible for Fidesta to go to Longido, the government school to which she had been selected.  He knew the headmaster there so he called him to ask.  Fortunately, it was still possible, (six weeks late, but still possible).  Fidesta came home, we filled out the required papers, found enough money and sent her off to Longido alone.  I had bought her a good phone, but she did not want to get caught with it and expelled, so she left it with me.  I was a bit uneasy because I had no way of knowing if she had arrived safely, but eventually she borrowed someone’s phone and sent me a message.  She said Longido is a nice school but her teachers no.  I am not sure what that means; she has no teachers at Longido or the teachers are not good?   What do you have to do to get a good education here?  Our children in America are so lucky and they do not even know it.

 On a lighter note, one weekend at mass Padre said that if any of us were living together as man and wife without benefit of marriage, then we were living in sin, and we were to come to church the next Saturday to be married.  Aggie told me that 103 people came the next weekend to be married.  (103 people, I thought that was rather funny)

I now have many lizards who share my living quarters with me, small ones, not so small ones, pink ones, brown ones, even ones who talk.  Yes, it is true.  I do not know his language, but while I am sitting on my bed studying or reading in the evening, there is one who clings to the wall near me and chatters and clicks.  I do not mind the lizards because they eat other bugs, but if only I could litter box train them.  They also encourage me to use my mosquito net every night, because even though I think they are sort of cute, I do not want any of them running over top of me while I sleep.