August 3, 2011
I am becoming increasingly aware that my days here are numbered, in only seven weeks, or in 51 days, September 23rd 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.
