Student Protest
“Now, that’s a strange sound,” I thought, lying in my bed at 10 PM on a Thursday night.
“By now I’ve become accustomed to almost all of them, the footsteps, goats, chickens scratching. The loud whine of nails against iron as the roof expands and contracts under sunlight and shade. But this sounds almost like charcoal burning. Yes, that’s it, charcoal popping.”
Eyes open staring at the ceiling I focused all energy on listening. Failing to distinguish and audible signs of motion through my wall, I reasoned, “Well, if nobody has entered my compound, the hell with it, I’m sleeping.”
Was the darkness through my window a degree lighter? An optical illusion? The shrill pierce of our school guard’s whistle rocked me bolt upright and already moving. Previous reflection aside, I immediately what to expect. Out my front door and around the side of my house, our school goat herd ran past me, bleating as their ropes trailed, freed from their flaming enclosure. One guard was running full tilt up the hill to the village, the other impotently running back and forth between a hut the size of a small house, our goat shed, and a small toilet. Their grass roofs blazed with such audible fury that it was already clear their destruction would be near total. The flames leapt hungrily across the dry grass of these drafty enclosures. Flinging open the door to my courtyard, I cast the first two buckets of water before any students had arrived, and then stopped, merely watching as the inevitable outcome unfolded as predicted at first glance.
My attitude then, as now, 1 day later, is of resigned depression. I was confused. Who had done wrong? Was this directed at me (given the building’s proximity to my own) or the school? Regardless, had some injustice so deep been done that it could not have been rectified in another way? I had heard of “riots”, “vandalism”, and yes, even fires at other schools. But was it really necessary to burn 3 of my school’s buildings? Beyond passive reflection, I also regret not immediately jumping up and catching the offender in the act.
The following day, it was revealed in meeting that students had also entered the school’s coffee farm and cut the most promising trees, a full year’s investment of student time and energy. Those responsible gave and left no reason for such destruction. Perhaps most disturbing, no concensus or even real idea came up at the staff meeting. Entering the Senior classrooms, each student was asked to write a letter summarizing their knowledge of the event- no leads.
“The reasons will come to light, no doubt, do not worry. This is how community works here.” I was reassured.
I only praise fate that my own roof is of metal (who knows what might have happened), and conclude:
“Build your roof of metal, not of grass, it burns too quickly.”
Student Protest 2
The second fire was much less dramatic. Five days after the first, the scrubland surrounding our school was set ablaze, dry grass quickly scorched as the flames were spread by a strong wind. Again, it was night. Again, I was the first on the scene.
Cooking dinner, my neighbors raised their voices high enough to intrude on my solitude. “Kuna ajali shuleni!” (There’s an accident at the school). I sprinted, seeing flickering light and smoke rising from the school. Gaining the parade ground, I saw that the fire was not among the buildings, but the ferocity of flames, proximity of buildings, and the absence of anyone doing anything prompted me to beat the school bell (a tire rim on a log) until the head of my homemade club fell off. Students came from surrounding quarters, quickly extinguishing the fire.
Clearly the problem was not resolved, despite my Headmaster’s emergency return (a single day) to discuss the matter with students. The staff remain quiet. The students remain quiet.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Crazy Wizards
A day much like any other, I expected. Though this morning the student who knocks on my door 30 minutes prior to school to receive the key to our staff room had an additional request, mumbling softly, “I want you to send her away. I think she will disturb our classes, that woman.” Still groggy from just waking, I paused to rub the sleep from my face, inwardly moaned, “Oh God, what now.” He continued in a volume and tone which did not suggest the content of his message was any more remarkable than every day, “She wants to get firewood to cook here.” Inquisitive creases standing out on my forehead, I stepped over the door’s threshold and saw a dusty, shoeless woman methodically patting her feet on the ground. Wrapped in kanga cloth as most women, her dress underneath was stained and pulled up to unseemly height. Her bare legs were coated in the dry season’s dust, lightening her thighs as she paced, clutching the front of the dirty dress and bunching it to even more offensive heights.
“This is an African issue,” I pronounced. “I’m not ready to step in here. Not my place. Nope, sorry,” closing the door. Introductory courses in anthropology and sociology had made me wary of the unknown issues wrapped up in this culture’s approach to its mentally abnormal members, and I was leery of taking any actions. Heading to class, she remained pacing in front of my house. On that particular day of finals week, testing proceeded much as usual until 4th period when she entered the parade grounds. Invigilating a test, I saw excited students streaming in her direction through the window. Forming a circle with a diameter of about 15 feet to enjoy her enigmatic motions. Among them, lying on the ground on her side in the fetal position, scooping sand with a thermos top cup while sitting on her haunches, and dancing in what seemed a perverse rendition of the popular women’s dance, chioda.
Chaos rained as students gawked, gleefully scream and running to enlarge the circle whenever she got too near to one of its edges. Other teachers stood at a distance. Similarly watching, holding their sticks as though they might be used to drive her off. I immediately began ordering students back to their classrooms. Attempts to systematically establish order were successful on my part, as I drove each class like cattle back into their classrooms. Students continued to cluster at doors and spill out of classrooms to watch her antics, however. The two other teachers seemed content to permit her to continue dancing until she left of her own.
I then continued about my business, as she danced inside the deserted parade ground, all doors closed, without audience. Entering the one classroom without a door, I went about my business of attendance. My task half completed, she meekly entered the classroom, back hunched and moving with a strange, jerky, chameleon-like motion. 2 steps forward, 1 step back. I gently pushed her out of the classroom, and just as I finished roll call she entered again. Taking her firmly by the elbow, I succeeded in leading her out of the parade grounds and to the edge of the school grounds. Whether my physical touch (no others had touched her), white skin, or loud, rambling Kiswahili (I assured her it would be better when she reached her home in a nearby village and could see her family, intimating how even I wished I could go home to see my family.) Her gibberish response seemed to be those of agreement. Trying to continue to lead her away from school, up the hill, she decided she would not be led, but instead began her curious dance again, pausing to enter the underbrush and break twigs off bushes. She gripped my hand and blew on it from a distance of inches in loud, audible exhalations. I instructed several trustworthy students not to force her to leave, but to prevent her from entering (taking one step closer to) the school by forming a human wall until she went away of her own accord.
Ninth period, a group of older Seniors assembled to “catch her and give her an injection.” Apparently she had caught wind of the plan and took flight into the bush.
“You know who sent her there,” I was asked the following night.
“No.”
“Wizards,” the reply.
In class that very day, the roof vibrated with abrupt suddenness. At first I thought a singularly violent gust of wind was the cause. But when the timber supporting iron sheets began dancing, dangerously unstable, before my very eyes, I couldn’t doubt it was an earthquake. Immediately following this, a student in the classroom ventured a comment, and, by way of reply I attributed the quake to, “Uchawi. (Wizardry)”
In the light of day, this drew outbursts of laughter, but as day turned to night, darkness softly settling over our school, the word took on new meaning. Quickly, pitch blackness found me crouching next to the fire, our only source of light, as a student and I cooked dinner. “Hey!,” a short, loud cry pierced the darkness. Sitting in the open air courtyard, it came again from the direction of the nearby forest. Again and again, thirty second intervals.
“Do you know what it is?” my friend queeried.
Naturally, I did not.
“He want to kill someone.”
The reader will forgive me for thinking of my own hide first. The thought of a “very tall, sooooo tall” man lurking in the darkness in the forest outside my house (a good distance from the village and other houses) with a “face you cannot see” and desire to kill seemed to implicate me. Listening, still in the eerie quiet of my home, I was somewhat grateful when Mendrad told me with conviction, “I will never return tonight.”
Thus commenced a brief primer on the wizards of the area. Mendrad himself has only heard such calls once in his life, and educated me that they might also mean, “Somebody had died, or maybe they hadn’t,” a curious statement when left standing alone, as it was. Only once had he himself seen a vampire, one of the unfortunate undead souls forced back into life after burial by potent magic.
At 10PM he had went to market to buy fish with his two sisters. His sisters trailing, Mendrad encountered what might once have been a woman crouching on the path, feet and hands missing. Whatever he saw was unseen by his sisters, but gave him such fright that he bellowed at loudest volume and took flight, easily outpacing his sisters (who similarly began screaming and running), without pausing until he reached his home.
“Don’t play with this magic, Mr. Greg,” he said, face absent of humor, with reverential sobriety. “You go there, you will see many people, so many where they practice that. You might eve nee a lion… or a pig…” A strange juxtaposition to be sure, but he vouched that our school guard had seen such a lion at night on the ground, taking flight and remaining in his office, fearfully awaiting daybreak.
If I “truly” wanted to know, I ought ask my witch doctor friend. He could pass among these creatures unharmed, even watch at their ceremonies. If he agreed to guide me, I would be similarly unharmed due to my “different culture.” “ Maybe they smell. SNIFF SNIFF. You are not attractive as meat.” The man had himself used his power to take the wizard’s car. Unseen by humans, only a special medicine could permit one to see this car, which currently resided in his compound. Through this man, I might gain access to the dark world.
A day much like any other, I expected. Though this morning the student who knocks on my door 30 minutes prior to school to receive the key to our staff room had an additional request, mumbling softly, “I want you to send her away. I think she will disturb our classes, that woman.” Still groggy from just waking, I paused to rub the sleep from my face, inwardly moaned, “Oh God, what now.” He continued in a volume and tone which did not suggest the content of his message was any more remarkable than every day, “She wants to get firewood to cook here.” Inquisitive creases standing out on my forehead, I stepped over the door’s threshold and saw a dusty, shoeless woman methodically patting her feet on the ground. Wrapped in kanga cloth as most women, her dress underneath was stained and pulled up to unseemly height. Her bare legs were coated in the dry season’s dust, lightening her thighs as she paced, clutching the front of the dirty dress and bunching it to even more offensive heights.
“This is an African issue,” I pronounced. “I’m not ready to step in here. Not my place. Nope, sorry,” closing the door. Introductory courses in anthropology and sociology had made me wary of the unknown issues wrapped up in this culture’s approach to its mentally abnormal members, and I was leery of taking any actions. Heading to class, she remained pacing in front of my house. On that particular day of finals week, testing proceeded much as usual until 4th period when she entered the parade grounds. Invigilating a test, I saw excited students streaming in her direction through the window. Forming a circle with a diameter of about 15 feet to enjoy her enigmatic motions. Among them, lying on the ground on her side in the fetal position, scooping sand with a thermos top cup while sitting on her haunches, and dancing in what seemed a perverse rendition of the popular women’s dance, chioda.
Chaos rained as students gawked, gleefully scream and running to enlarge the circle whenever she got too near to one of its edges. Other teachers stood at a distance. Similarly watching, holding their sticks as though they might be used to drive her off. I immediately began ordering students back to their classrooms. Attempts to systematically establish order were successful on my part, as I drove each class like cattle back into their classrooms. Students continued to cluster at doors and spill out of classrooms to watch her antics, however. The two other teachers seemed content to permit her to continue dancing until she left of her own.
I then continued about my business, as she danced inside the deserted parade ground, all doors closed, without audience. Entering the one classroom without a door, I went about my business of attendance. My task half completed, she meekly entered the classroom, back hunched and moving with a strange, jerky, chameleon-like motion. 2 steps forward, 1 step back. I gently pushed her out of the classroom, and just as I finished roll call she entered again. Taking her firmly by the elbow, I succeeded in leading her out of the parade grounds and to the edge of the school grounds. Whether my physical touch (no others had touched her), white skin, or loud, rambling Kiswahili (I assured her it would be better when she reached her home in a nearby village and could see her family, intimating how even I wished I could go home to see my family.) Her gibberish response seemed to be those of agreement. Trying to continue to lead her away from school, up the hill, she decided she would not be led, but instead began her curious dance again, pausing to enter the underbrush and break twigs off bushes. She gripped my hand and blew on it from a distance of inches in loud, audible exhalations. I instructed several trustworthy students not to force her to leave, but to prevent her from entering (taking one step closer to) the school by forming a human wall until she went away of her own accord.
Ninth period, a group of older Seniors assembled to “catch her and give her an injection.” Apparently she had caught wind of the plan and took flight into the bush.
“You know who sent her there,” I was asked the following night.
“No.”
“Wizards,” the reply.
In class that very day, the roof vibrated with abrupt suddenness. At first I thought a singularly violent gust of wind was the cause. But when the timber supporting iron sheets began dancing, dangerously unstable, before my very eyes, I couldn’t doubt it was an earthquake. Immediately following this, a student in the classroom ventured a comment, and, by way of reply I attributed the quake to, “Uchawi. (Wizardry)”
In the light of day, this drew outbursts of laughter, but as day turned to night, darkness softly settling over our school, the word took on new meaning. Quickly, pitch blackness found me crouching next to the fire, our only source of light, as a student and I cooked dinner. “Hey!,” a short, loud cry pierced the darkness. Sitting in the open air courtyard, it came again from the direction of the nearby forest. Again and again, thirty second intervals.
“Do you know what it is?” my friend queeried.
Naturally, I did not.
“He want to kill someone.”
The reader will forgive me for thinking of my own hide first. The thought of a “very tall, sooooo tall” man lurking in the darkness in the forest outside my house (a good distance from the village and other houses) with a “face you cannot see” and desire to kill seemed to implicate me. Listening, still in the eerie quiet of my home, I was somewhat grateful when Mendrad told me with conviction, “I will never return tonight.”
Thus commenced a brief primer on the wizards of the area. Mendrad himself has only heard such calls once in his life, and educated me that they might also mean, “Somebody had died, or maybe they hadn’t,” a curious statement when left standing alone, as it was. Only once had he himself seen a vampire, one of the unfortunate undead souls forced back into life after burial by potent magic.
At 10PM he had went to market to buy fish with his two sisters. His sisters trailing, Mendrad encountered what might once have been a woman crouching on the path, feet and hands missing. Whatever he saw was unseen by his sisters, but gave him such fright that he bellowed at loudest volume and took flight, easily outpacing his sisters (who similarly began screaming and running), without pausing until he reached his home.
“Don’t play with this magic, Mr. Greg,” he said, face absent of humor, with reverential sobriety. “You go there, you will see many people, so many where they practice that. You might eve nee a lion… or a pig…” A strange juxtaposition to be sure, but he vouched that our school guard had seen such a lion at night on the ground, taking flight and remaining in his office, fearfully awaiting daybreak.
If I “truly” wanted to know, I ought ask my witch doctor friend. He could pass among these creatures unharmed, even watch at their ceremonies. If he agreed to guide me, I would be similarly unharmed due to my “different culture.” “ Maybe they smell. SNIFF SNIFF. You are not attractive as meat.” The man had himself used his power to take the wizard’s car. Unseen by humans, only a special medicine could permit one to see this car, which currently resided in his compound. Through this man, I might gain access to the dark world.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Snakes
It all began rather innocently. While preparing the area for my garden, my students came across a snake and immediately determined to kill it (standard Tanzanian response, widespread). I swept in, bag in hand, seized it, and prepared as best a home as I could utilizing a 20 gallon bucket and adding all the natural trimmings (sand, some weeds, etc.) Since this first snake, Bahati (meaning luck), no less than 15 snakes of varying size and ferocity have passed through my home, brought by students as well as villagers looking for money (I turn the latter away). At any one time I have had no more than 4, but it turns out I am a rather lax keeper and inevitably forget to fix the wire mesh across the top of the bucket, permiting them to flee. Thus there is a sort of revolving door at my home. Snakes come, they stay for a couple of weeks, and then they usually take their leave.
You might assume that, living closer to nature than Americans, the Tanzanians in my area would have some wisdom to impart, but I have not yet been privy to it. Most are deathly afraid and unwilling to touch even the most docile. More than one suggested that I feed the snakes corn flour, and this would be a sufficient diet. Though perhaps keeping one's distance and assuming that all snakes are dangerous is a decent survival method, I have not adopted it.
The way in which Tanzanians regard the natural environment/ animals in general is markedly different from that of Americans. Here I will provide just one brief example. Recently to improve my swahili I have been working through Tanzanian elementary readers, and the stories pertaining to wildlife are interesting. In "Ajali ya nyoka" (Accident with the snake), a student steps on a snake, which bites her, leaving its fangs behind as black blood pours from the wound. Another story in this reader is titled "Kusaka ngedere" or to hunt down the monkey. In this tale we learn that "Ngedere ni wanyama wabaya sana. Wanaiba mazao yetu." Monkeys are very bad animals. They steal our crops. In this brief read, the students and parents take up arms, including a gun, bows, and arrows, and quietly enter the forest. Spotting the monkeys, they open fire. A few run away, but most of them are killed, falling from the trees, as the villagers rejoice.
My own students, short of taking up arms, enjoy capturing lizards, bringing them to me, and watching as they are added to the buckets and my snakes take their meal. Most of them have never seen such a feeding event, and are duly impressed.
It all began rather innocently. While preparing the area for my garden, my students came across a snake and immediately determined to kill it (standard Tanzanian response, widespread). I swept in, bag in hand, seized it, and prepared as best a home as I could utilizing a 20 gallon bucket and adding all the natural trimmings (sand, some weeds, etc.) Since this first snake, Bahati (meaning luck), no less than 15 snakes of varying size and ferocity have passed through my home, brought by students as well as villagers looking for money (I turn the latter away). At any one time I have had no more than 4, but it turns out I am a rather lax keeper and inevitably forget to fix the wire mesh across the top of the bucket, permiting them to flee. Thus there is a sort of revolving door at my home. Snakes come, they stay for a couple of weeks, and then they usually take their leave.
You might assume that, living closer to nature than Americans, the Tanzanians in my area would have some wisdom to impart, but I have not yet been privy to it. Most are deathly afraid and unwilling to touch even the most docile. More than one suggested that I feed the snakes corn flour, and this would be a sufficient diet. Though perhaps keeping one's distance and assuming that all snakes are dangerous is a decent survival method, I have not adopted it.
The way in which Tanzanians regard the natural environment/ animals in general is markedly different from that of Americans. Here I will provide just one brief example. Recently to improve my swahili I have been working through Tanzanian elementary readers, and the stories pertaining to wildlife are interesting. In "Ajali ya nyoka" (Accident with the snake), a student steps on a snake, which bites her, leaving its fangs behind as black blood pours from the wound. Another story in this reader is titled "Kusaka ngedere" or to hunt down the monkey. In this tale we learn that "Ngedere ni wanyama wabaya sana. Wanaiba mazao yetu." Monkeys are very bad animals. They steal our crops. In this brief read, the students and parents take up arms, including a gun, bows, and arrows, and quietly enter the forest. Spotting the monkeys, they open fire. A few run away, but most of them are killed, falling from the trees, as the villagers rejoice.
My own students, short of taking up arms, enjoy capturing lizards, bringing them to me, and watching as they are added to the buckets and my snakes take their meal. Most of them have never seen such a feeding event, and are duly impressed.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Thursday, June 07, 2007
*Apologies to all avid Greg fans. I’m certain you have suffered in the silence. My communication routes have decayed a bit since arrival. The local cell tower has been out of function for 3 months and counting. Vehicle transport to or from my village on Saturdays or Sundays is unavailable. Internet remains a 6 hour drive away. Thus, to use it, I would necessarily miss two days of school, which I remain steadfastly unwilling to do.*
*Below I want to fill you in a bit on just what I’ve been up to out here. Some of it is probably not interesting to all of you, but I try not to be tedious, even if teaching sometimes is .*
Teaching Load
I have more periods than I can possibly teach in a single week, due to overlaps. When I arrived, my school had no English teacher. Not one, for a 500 student school where the medium of instruction is English, a third language for all my students, and the one they know least of these three. So I reasoned that taking this responsibility upon myself for 150 of our students (in addition to teaching 150 first year students and 60 third year students biology) was right. My course load is about 40 40-minute periods per week, a bit above the Peace Corps limit of 24.
In fact, I have not been disappointed by making this choice. Knowing full well that without me teaching English, the kids would be sitting idle helps drive me to keep it up. Spending 7-8 of 9 periods every day in the classroom has helped me to understand my student’s uniformly low levels of success on examinations. I know more than half by name and their respective tendencies and behaviors, and attempt to use this knowledge to guage students’ abilities to answer oral questions and challenge them to participate as active learners.
The downside of this decision has been that I spend evenings lesson planning for the following day, as a quality, prepared curriculum is unavailable, and Tanzanian teachers are left to create their own notes to meet an often-times vague and inappropriate syllabus. The free-time activities I so loved in America such as running/exercise have been dropped. I sometimes visit neighbors or sit outside of a local shop front and drinking a soda or beer.
Coordinating English and Biology Lessons
Teaching English in addition to biology has been absolutely invaluable. It provides excellent opportunities to dovetail lessons to achieve the same comprehension goals. Recent examples:
-In English: providing 2 lists of vocabulary, one about Animals and another about Classroom Objects. Then, in biology, teaching the differences between living and non-living things and using this vocabulary to help students understand the concept via examples.
-In English: teaching “to compare”, “similarities” and differences. Then, in biology, teaching the similarities and differences between plant and animal cells, and asking students to compare these two cell types.
-In English, teaching good vs. bad as exemplified by behavior. Then, in biology, teaching laboratory rules ( It is bad to run in the laboratory. It is good to report all accidents.)
Science/English/Health Education via Traveling Library
Often times, for reasons right or wrong and not best addressed here, teachers at my school do not teach during their periods. More than once, I have taught a morning lesson to a class and returned a day later to find my notes still resting, quite undisturbed by those of other teachers. One certainly feels a range of emotions when facing such conditions. From shock and dismay to depression, they’re all there. But the goal must always be to overcome, no! To continue on with one's own mission, to teach all of one’s own periods! And to brainstorm: just what to do with these kids who sit idle for as long as entire days.
In this case, an idea for bettering the situation (certainly far short of solving it) came directly and traceably from no less than two sources. First, I knew I wanted these kids reading books during their idle time. That books were sitting idle, both in my home and the school library, while students went a full day without a lesson was unconscionable to me. I instantly recalled my grandmother's stories from working at her local library and helping organize their Mobile Library, a station wagon packed with books that takes the books to the students who need them, in the belief that if such resources are but accessible, kids will jump at the chance. Adapting this idea to my situation (obviously car-less!) required some help from my closest, neighbor PCV, Michael Neumann, and his observations at a local primary school.
Finally, I hit upon it. Utilizing the Health Kit that Peace Corps issues to every volunteer (a sturdy, black, hard plastic object emblazoned with the Peace Corps name and logo), I emptied mine out and filled it with about 30 selected books and magazines. The majority are health magazines: Si Mchezo (It’s not a game), FEMA, Yaliyopita Si Ndwele, and Kuishi kwa matumaini na VVU (To live with hope for those HIV+), along with a series of 8 small books titled “The Questions Adolescents Ask Most frequently about _________.” (in Kiswahili, and on such topics as Mimba, pregnancy, and pombe na sigara, drugs and alcohol). But English (several workbooks, English for Secondary Schools Book 1) and science (National Geographics, Biology: Book 1 and 2, Chemistry Book 1) are also well represented.
Ever cautious, before implementing this program, I taught “The Rules of the Traveling Library” as a lesson, explaining that every morning the class’ student leader was to come to my home to receive the library. Throughout the day, he/she was to carry the library and distribute books during free/ “teacher absent” periods, always writing the name of the student and the book borrowed. At the end of the day, the traveling library is returned to me, face to face, and I can quickly count the number of books contained to confirm that all have been returned.
Following a trial period of one month without incident, I have added another traveling library after the contribution from the third member of my local peace corps volunteer family, Ms. Marysunny McCoy, of her health kit. Up to the end of Term 1, only one magazine had been lost, and records show that 15-20 students are checking out books every day. The most popular check-outs are the VVU (HIV)magazines (how could they not be, with illustrated instructions for condom use!).
These are kids who have largely not been exposed to the beauty of books and the knowledge contained therein, and my hope is to continue this program, exposing them to a disparate variety of books, inculcating such an appreciation of their power. For my own part, the program is low work and high yield, requiring only a consistent presence (to be at my home every morning so the monitor can receive the library before school, and to be around the school when it ends, so that the libraries can be returned and I can count the number of books inside to ascertain their return).
On my final day of first term before traveling to 6-month training, I was pleased that about 15 students came to my home as I was packing to ask me for books of various types to study over the break (again, the health books were most popular, but we had some English and even a science taker!). We’ll see about their condition and if I can get them all back when I return!
PS. I would be greatly pleased if someone would print this off and read it to aloud to Granny!
Head Debate Patron
My school has devoted two periods on Thursday of every week for Clubs. These periods were disorganized and not terribly productive prior to my arrival, with only small, poorly attended debates and occasional teacher presence. Even now, ¾ of the teachers typically leave the school during this time.
I have devoted great time and energy trying to build our debate club into a vehicle fit for transport to other schools, and I must say the change has been remarkable! I began by selecting leaders and holding poorly attended weekly meetings to select the motion for the following week’s motion, emphasizing the importance of preparation. We’ve passed numerous bumps (from a majority of students arriving to meetings 1 hour late, to all of our fourth year students, 200, being chased away from school for 2 weeks due to failure to pay school fees), but now we are rolling steady, and I have a solid nucleus of active, interested leaders.
These efforts allowed us to host -------- Secondary School’s first ever competitive debate. Even this effort held its challeges: organizing the transport of 300 chairs from our school to the Village’s Meeting Hall 1 km away because our school lacks a room of sufficient size for such an event, then overseeing their safe return. The event was a smashing success: over 350 students attended the debate, and both Netball (a girls’ sport, best described as the fusion of basketball and ultimate Frisbee) and Soccer (boys only) competitions post-scripted their way into my correspondence with the competing school, and were held. All because a PCV wrote one letter and put in some (OK, lots) of extra time!
Perhaps as important as this well established hierarchy of leadership has been accustomizing leaders to the way of Mr. Greg. 2 Heads of Debate, 2 Secretaries, 4 Security and Defense-Men (to maintain silence and order at the debate. They wore aviators, at my advice!), and 3 Leaders selected from first and second year students now know that Mr. Greg does as he says, arrives on time, and expects students to honor their commitments. Furthermore, if they had had such experiences, they might remark at his penchant for raising his voice to a volume and pitch reached by few outside of the profession of high school football coaching to convey the strength of his convictions and occasional displeasure.
At our last Thursday debate prior to cessation of Term 1, our attendance at the Form 1 and 2 debate was 250, and those at Form 3 and 4 numbered 200. So what if ¾ of the teachers still leave? At least the kids are staying! And that says something, as 90% of students haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast, only getting lunch when they return home when school ends at 2:20, and thus have quite an appetite by that time!
My actions as Head Debate Patron easily broaden to have a real impact on the school in numerous ways, as seen above when netball and football competitions were added to our first-ever debate. By cooperating with nearby schools, I was given permission to travel to a debate between two other local schools with a contingent of about 20 students as mere observers of this debate. At this competition, my students observed the use of intermission acts between key speakers during the debate. Thus use of these intermission acts breaks up the monotony of sometimes uniformly mangled English, and also provides a stage for what literally becomes a talent show. Without any mention to me, my students grafted these intermission acts onto our Thursday debates during our last debate of Term 1. Students were treated to a skit and, later, an amazing rap performance in Kiswahili by a fourth year student about the dangers of UKIMWI (AIDS). You can imagine how my jaw dropped when I, sitting as Head Debate Patron, saw this performance, completely unexpected and wonderfully executed! These intermission acts will surely continue to provide a stage for talents from rap to dancing next term, further drawing those less than galvanized by the prospect of English Debate to give the venue a try.
The idea for these intermission acts, as the Traveling Library, was not my own, but by writing a letter and attending that nearby (relatively; 1.5 hrs by bike, one-way) debate with 20 students as mere observers, I was in the right position to put the students in the right position. But that was not all that came from this journey. With permission, our cadre of 20 students so impressed these schools with our unprecedented desire for increased participation that the Headmaster of the host school recommended that a meeting be called for all Debate Matrons/Patrons of local schools, and that I organize it. Heeding the call, I drafted letters to the Headmaster/Headmistress and Debate M/Patron of 11 local schools, requesting their presence at a meeting during the first week of next term to be held at his school. How’s that for cooperation, me writing letters for a meeting not even being held at my school!
The purpose of this meeting as explained in the letters, is to establish a schedule of all debates to be held during the following term. I will quickly type this letter (using a third Secondary School’s computer) and quickly dispatch the schedule to all schools in the area. Not only do I expect that the sheer number of debates between schools will increase, but each school will know which schools are having debates, and will have permission to travel to observe a debate with 10-20 students as non-participants. Beyond mere debates, the optional addition of netball and football competitions will surely be exercised in nearly all cases. While not all 11 schools are within feasible traveling distance (the 2 most distant schools being about a 4.5 hour, one-way bicycle ride), all are within feasible distance of at least 3, and several of the centrally located schools could feasibly travel to any school in one day. This meeting will be held first week of next term. We’ll see what happens!
In addition to the football and netball competitions which tacked themselves onto my school’s hosting the debate, a disco, which did not even find its way into the letter, was later added. Students from our visiting school were not permitted to stay, but who would enter that rowdy, chanting mass of revelry strewn about our school’s parade ground as the sky burned pastel orange and blue, fading to the West. Any such students from our competing school who decided to stay were likely to sleep … wherever they ended up. But even I could understand how it might be difficult to tear oneself away from that noisy party and start the long journey back. As night fell, the bass beat and condensed water shook and fell from the tin roof, sprinkling dancing couples in very stages of undress as the heat, at least as fierce as that in hell, was louder than the music. The event ended at 9PM, but all equipment and most students were pulled into the village hall, site of earlier debate, where this continued until 3AM.
At a school where it is not unusual for 5 girls to get pregnant in one term, idle speculation led me and other volunteers to ponder just how many girls would be impregnated that evening, as we sat in my house before moving on to check out the village scene. All agreed that the answer would certainly be greater than zero. Furrowed brow, and a wave of nausea as the bottom dropped out of my stomach could do nothing at that point to stop what was set in motion long ago. The fact that a large number of my female students were now dancing with both male students and drunk/drinking village men, and worse, that any of those girls from the distant school who remained were certainly not returning, was suddenly recognized. As we left the village hall, hours before the music stopped, it was remarked by one, “I’m pretty sure I saw one of my students there, but she hid in her sweater, so I couldn’t tell.”
Weeks passed, and the very day I planned to leave my school following Term 1, I met the source of this remark on the road. The very girl thought to have been seen at my village’s disco had suddenly stopped attending school two weeks ago. Investigating, it was learned that, though a first year secondary student (and thus probably sixteen years old), she was reputed to have already had one abortion (neither of us knew anything about how this procedure was done in the village, illegal as it is in Tanzania) and had been found pregnant again during the last of her school’s regular marches to the health clinic. Chased away from school, we both pondered her fate and our role in it.
Penpals
Peace Corps has a program called World-Wise that connects PC teachers in various countries to teachers and thus students in America. Reading of the program prior to departure, it immediately struck me as a wonderful idea, and I was blessed indeed that my good friend from high school Rudy Arreola, saw it the same way. Our arrangements prior to departure have born fruit: a tremendous effort, commitment and display of patience (due to my difficulties of communication) on his part sent 23 wonderful, cardstock letters, each of which had a ½ page photograph of its writer, to my eager students in Tanzania. I have done my best to provide satisfactory reponses, pacing the task over three weeks, and reading and discussing 2 rough drafts and 1 final draft with each of my 23 writers.
The value of this cultural exchange has been incalculable. From explaining pets (animals that you keep in your home and don’t use for food or work) to video games (my kids have never seen them) and Harry Potter to fireworks, my kids have gained tremendously. I expect his will be surprised to know that my students know 3 languages, Kimatengo (tribal language), Kiswahili (national language), and English (international language, and pleased to learn some Kiswahili words. They might note that my students usually begin immediately with a description of their family, which is oftentimes large, sometimes listing the name of each member and even their order of birth. I wanted to share with you one particular, unprompted excerpt which one of my students included:
Also, I want to give you advise concerning your life. First, I want to say that don’t hang with people who like to use drugs, bad sexual behaviors might cause you to get HIV which means Human Immunodeficiency Virus. If you hang with these people, you will be in danger.
We eagerly await reply!
*Below I want to fill you in a bit on just what I’ve been up to out here. Some of it is probably not interesting to all of you, but I try not to be tedious, even if teaching sometimes is .*
Teaching Load
I have more periods than I can possibly teach in a single week, due to overlaps. When I arrived, my school had no English teacher. Not one, for a 500 student school where the medium of instruction is English, a third language for all my students, and the one they know least of these three. So I reasoned that taking this responsibility upon myself for 150 of our students (in addition to teaching 150 first year students and 60 third year students biology) was right. My course load is about 40 40-minute periods per week, a bit above the Peace Corps limit of 24.
In fact, I have not been disappointed by making this choice. Knowing full well that without me teaching English, the kids would be sitting idle helps drive me to keep it up. Spending 7-8 of 9 periods every day in the classroom has helped me to understand my student’s uniformly low levels of success on examinations. I know more than half by name and their respective tendencies and behaviors, and attempt to use this knowledge to guage students’ abilities to answer oral questions and challenge them to participate as active learners.
The downside of this decision has been that I spend evenings lesson planning for the following day, as a quality, prepared curriculum is unavailable, and Tanzanian teachers are left to create their own notes to meet an often-times vague and inappropriate syllabus. The free-time activities I so loved in America such as running/exercise have been dropped. I sometimes visit neighbors or sit outside of a local shop front and drinking a soda or beer.
Coordinating English and Biology Lessons
Teaching English in addition to biology has been absolutely invaluable. It provides excellent opportunities to dovetail lessons to achieve the same comprehension goals. Recent examples:
-In English: providing 2 lists of vocabulary, one about Animals and another about Classroom Objects. Then, in biology, teaching the differences between living and non-living things and using this vocabulary to help students understand the concept via examples.
-In English: teaching “to compare”, “similarities” and differences. Then, in biology, teaching the similarities and differences between plant and animal cells, and asking students to compare these two cell types.
-In English, teaching good vs. bad as exemplified by behavior. Then, in biology, teaching laboratory rules ( It is bad to run in the laboratory. It is good to report all accidents.)
Science/English/Health Education via Traveling Library
Often times, for reasons right or wrong and not best addressed here, teachers at my school do not teach during their periods. More than once, I have taught a morning lesson to a class and returned a day later to find my notes still resting, quite undisturbed by those of other teachers. One certainly feels a range of emotions when facing such conditions. From shock and dismay to depression, they’re all there. But the goal must always be to overcome, no! To continue on with one's own mission, to teach all of one’s own periods! And to brainstorm: just what to do with these kids who sit idle for as long as entire days.
In this case, an idea for bettering the situation (certainly far short of solving it) came directly and traceably from no less than two sources. First, I knew I wanted these kids reading books during their idle time. That books were sitting idle, both in my home and the school library, while students went a full day without a lesson was unconscionable to me. I instantly recalled my grandmother's stories from working at her local library and helping organize their Mobile Library, a station wagon packed with books that takes the books to the students who need them, in the belief that if such resources are but accessible, kids will jump at the chance. Adapting this idea to my situation (obviously car-less!) required some help from my closest, neighbor PCV, Michael Neumann, and his observations at a local primary school.
Finally, I hit upon it. Utilizing the Health Kit that Peace Corps issues to every volunteer (a sturdy, black, hard plastic object emblazoned with the Peace Corps name and logo), I emptied mine out and filled it with about 30 selected books and magazines. The majority are health magazines: Si Mchezo (It’s not a game), FEMA, Yaliyopita Si Ndwele, and Kuishi kwa matumaini na VVU (To live with hope for those HIV+), along with a series of 8 small books titled “The Questions Adolescents Ask Most frequently about _________.” (in Kiswahili, and on such topics as Mimba, pregnancy, and pombe na sigara, drugs and alcohol). But English (several workbooks, English for Secondary Schools Book 1) and science (National Geographics, Biology: Book 1 and 2, Chemistry Book 1) are also well represented.
Ever cautious, before implementing this program, I taught “The Rules of the Traveling Library” as a lesson, explaining that every morning the class’ student leader was to come to my home to receive the library. Throughout the day, he/she was to carry the library and distribute books during free/ “teacher absent” periods, always writing the name of the student and the book borrowed. At the end of the day, the traveling library is returned to me, face to face, and I can quickly count the number of books contained to confirm that all have been returned.
Following a trial period of one month without incident, I have added another traveling library after the contribution from the third member of my local peace corps volunteer family, Ms. Marysunny McCoy, of her health kit. Up to the end of Term 1, only one magazine had been lost, and records show that 15-20 students are checking out books every day. The most popular check-outs are the VVU (HIV)magazines (how could they not be, with illustrated instructions for condom use!).
These are kids who have largely not been exposed to the beauty of books and the knowledge contained therein, and my hope is to continue this program, exposing them to a disparate variety of books, inculcating such an appreciation of their power. For my own part, the program is low work and high yield, requiring only a consistent presence (to be at my home every morning so the monitor can receive the library before school, and to be around the school when it ends, so that the libraries can be returned and I can count the number of books inside to ascertain their return).
On my final day of first term before traveling to 6-month training, I was pleased that about 15 students came to my home as I was packing to ask me for books of various types to study over the break (again, the health books were most popular, but we had some English and even a science taker!). We’ll see about their condition and if I can get them all back when I return!
PS. I would be greatly pleased if someone would print this off and read it to aloud to Granny!
Head Debate Patron
My school has devoted two periods on Thursday of every week for Clubs. These periods were disorganized and not terribly productive prior to my arrival, with only small, poorly attended debates and occasional teacher presence. Even now, ¾ of the teachers typically leave the school during this time.
I have devoted great time and energy trying to build our debate club into a vehicle fit for transport to other schools, and I must say the change has been remarkable! I began by selecting leaders and holding poorly attended weekly meetings to select the motion for the following week’s motion, emphasizing the importance of preparation. We’ve passed numerous bumps (from a majority of students arriving to meetings 1 hour late, to all of our fourth year students, 200, being chased away from school for 2 weeks due to failure to pay school fees), but now we are rolling steady, and I have a solid nucleus of active, interested leaders.
These efforts allowed us to host -------- Secondary School’s first ever competitive debate. Even this effort held its challeges: organizing the transport of 300 chairs from our school to the Village’s Meeting Hall 1 km away because our school lacks a room of sufficient size for such an event, then overseeing their safe return. The event was a smashing success: over 350 students attended the debate, and both Netball (a girls’ sport, best described as the fusion of basketball and ultimate Frisbee) and Soccer (boys only) competitions post-scripted their way into my correspondence with the competing school, and were held. All because a PCV wrote one letter and put in some (OK, lots) of extra time!
Perhaps as important as this well established hierarchy of leadership has been accustomizing leaders to the way of Mr. Greg. 2 Heads of Debate, 2 Secretaries, 4 Security and Defense-Men (to maintain silence and order at the debate. They wore aviators, at my advice!), and 3 Leaders selected from first and second year students now know that Mr. Greg does as he says, arrives on time, and expects students to honor their commitments. Furthermore, if they had had such experiences, they might remark at his penchant for raising his voice to a volume and pitch reached by few outside of the profession of high school football coaching to convey the strength of his convictions and occasional displeasure.
At our last Thursday debate prior to cessation of Term 1, our attendance at the Form 1 and 2 debate was 250, and those at Form 3 and 4 numbered 200. So what if ¾ of the teachers still leave? At least the kids are staying! And that says something, as 90% of students haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast, only getting lunch when they return home when school ends at 2:20, and thus have quite an appetite by that time!
My actions as Head Debate Patron easily broaden to have a real impact on the school in numerous ways, as seen above when netball and football competitions were added to our first-ever debate. By cooperating with nearby schools, I was given permission to travel to a debate between two other local schools with a contingent of about 20 students as mere observers of this debate. At this competition, my students observed the use of intermission acts between key speakers during the debate. Thus use of these intermission acts breaks up the monotony of sometimes uniformly mangled English, and also provides a stage for what literally becomes a talent show. Without any mention to me, my students grafted these intermission acts onto our Thursday debates during our last debate of Term 1. Students were treated to a skit and, later, an amazing rap performance in Kiswahili by a fourth year student about the dangers of UKIMWI (AIDS). You can imagine how my jaw dropped when I, sitting as Head Debate Patron, saw this performance, completely unexpected and wonderfully executed! These intermission acts will surely continue to provide a stage for talents from rap to dancing next term, further drawing those less than galvanized by the prospect of English Debate to give the venue a try.
The idea for these intermission acts, as the Traveling Library, was not my own, but by writing a letter and attending that nearby (relatively; 1.5 hrs by bike, one-way) debate with 20 students as mere observers, I was in the right position to put the students in the right position. But that was not all that came from this journey. With permission, our cadre of 20 students so impressed these schools with our unprecedented desire for increased participation that the Headmaster of the host school recommended that a meeting be called for all Debate Matrons/Patrons of local schools, and that I organize it. Heeding the call, I drafted letters to the Headmaster/Headmistress and Debate M/Patron of 11 local schools, requesting their presence at a meeting during the first week of next term to be held at his school. How’s that for cooperation, me writing letters for a meeting not even being held at my school!
The purpose of this meeting as explained in the letters, is to establish a schedule of all debates to be held during the following term. I will quickly type this letter (using a third Secondary School’s computer) and quickly dispatch the schedule to all schools in the area. Not only do I expect that the sheer number of debates between schools will increase, but each school will know which schools are having debates, and will have permission to travel to observe a debate with 10-20 students as non-participants. Beyond mere debates, the optional addition of netball and football competitions will surely be exercised in nearly all cases. While not all 11 schools are within feasible traveling distance (the 2 most distant schools being about a 4.5 hour, one-way bicycle ride), all are within feasible distance of at least 3, and several of the centrally located schools could feasibly travel to any school in one day. This meeting will be held first week of next term. We’ll see what happens!
In addition to the football and netball competitions which tacked themselves onto my school’s hosting the debate, a disco, which did not even find its way into the letter, was later added. Students from our visiting school were not permitted to stay, but who would enter that rowdy, chanting mass of revelry strewn about our school’s parade ground as the sky burned pastel orange and blue, fading to the West. Any such students from our competing school who decided to stay were likely to sleep … wherever they ended up. But even I could understand how it might be difficult to tear oneself away from that noisy party and start the long journey back. As night fell, the bass beat and condensed water shook and fell from the tin roof, sprinkling dancing couples in very stages of undress as the heat, at least as fierce as that in hell, was louder than the music. The event ended at 9PM, but all equipment and most students were pulled into the village hall, site of earlier debate, where this continued until 3AM.
At a school where it is not unusual for 5 girls to get pregnant in one term, idle speculation led me and other volunteers to ponder just how many girls would be impregnated that evening, as we sat in my house before moving on to check out the village scene. All agreed that the answer would certainly be greater than zero. Furrowed brow, and a wave of nausea as the bottom dropped out of my stomach could do nothing at that point to stop what was set in motion long ago. The fact that a large number of my female students were now dancing with both male students and drunk/drinking village men, and worse, that any of those girls from the distant school who remained were certainly not returning, was suddenly recognized. As we left the village hall, hours before the music stopped, it was remarked by one, “I’m pretty sure I saw one of my students there, but she hid in her sweater, so I couldn’t tell.”
Weeks passed, and the very day I planned to leave my school following Term 1, I met the source of this remark on the road. The very girl thought to have been seen at my village’s disco had suddenly stopped attending school two weeks ago. Investigating, it was learned that, though a first year secondary student (and thus probably sixteen years old), she was reputed to have already had one abortion (neither of us knew anything about how this procedure was done in the village, illegal as it is in Tanzania) and had been found pregnant again during the last of her school’s regular marches to the health clinic. Chased away from school, we both pondered her fate and our role in it.
Penpals
Peace Corps has a program called World-Wise that connects PC teachers in various countries to teachers and thus students in America. Reading of the program prior to departure, it immediately struck me as a wonderful idea, and I was blessed indeed that my good friend from high school Rudy Arreola, saw it the same way. Our arrangements prior to departure have born fruit: a tremendous effort, commitment and display of patience (due to my difficulties of communication) on his part sent 23 wonderful, cardstock letters, each of which had a ½ page photograph of its writer, to my eager students in Tanzania. I have done my best to provide satisfactory reponses, pacing the task over three weeks, and reading and discussing 2 rough drafts and 1 final draft with each of my 23 writers.
The value of this cultural exchange has been incalculable. From explaining pets (animals that you keep in your home and don’t use for food or work) to video games (my kids have never seen them) and Harry Potter to fireworks, my kids have gained tremendously. I expect his will be surprised to know that my students know 3 languages, Kimatengo (tribal language), Kiswahili (national language), and English (international language, and pleased to learn some Kiswahili words. They might note that my students usually begin immediately with a description of their family, which is oftentimes large, sometimes listing the name of each member and even their order of birth. I wanted to share with you one particular, unprompted excerpt which one of my students included:
Also, I want to give you advise concerning your life. First, I want to say that don’t hang with people who like to use drugs, bad sexual behaviors might cause you to get HIV which means Human Immunodeficiency Virus. If you hang with these people, you will be in danger.
We eagerly await reply!
*Here are some items that I wanted to post during training but never got around to.*
Short Medley
Some observations suddenly and sharply snap me back to the reality that I am no longer in the United States. Several of these follow:
-When I first arrived in the home of my familia, a Brittney Spears VCD was playing. At least ten Britney music videos later, more were yet to come.
-Shakira and “Hips Don’t Lie” is the single song I have heard the most times thus far.
-The video stores of Morogoro are a treasure trove for action junkies. Chuck Norris, Steven Sagal, Jean-Claude Van Damme, and similar relics of the past age enjoy a huge following here, if titles present are any indication. Most titles are available on video cassette, and audio cassettes are widely sold.
-Yesterday walking into town down a frequented path, I noted a 2x2 foot mural of Bin Laden on the side of a local barber’s shop. I asked my kaka about this, and was told that they don’t hate Americans, but mostly like anyone with power. He pointed out that I have seen a similar mural on a car depicting George W. Bush.
- I travel different routes to get to and from school each day, depending on the level of conversation or interaction I desire. In the U.S. I had always taken a straight line, from which I deviated very little. Here I feel a bit guilty if I travel past the corner hut renting bicycles and don’t stop to chat.
Rites of Passage
Some tribes in Tanzania have particular rites of passage that young men and women will pass through to become adults. Though these are less and less frequent, my host father, of the Uluguru tribe, recounted the experiences of his own passage. As a young man, he was to leave his home for “the bush,” in his case a suitable, isolated location nearby his home. In this location, he slept under the stars every night for a month, was taught many traditional songs, and was instructed in the proper ways to respect elders, especially his father (including proper greetings, not to enter father’s bedroom, …) At the conclusion of this time, the young men with whom my father underwent this passage were circumcised in succession without anesthetics. A party was then held, at which countless gallons of alcohol are typically consumed, as drums maintained a deep rhythm.
Similarly, women on the cusp of maturity are placed in a room and kept there (voluntarily it seems) for a similar period of time. They will be fed often, learn to pleasure men, and also be taught a special dance to be performed upon their emergence from the hut. Physical seclusion and frequent meals will cause the woman to put on weight and acquire a full chest. Additionally, a white corn based powder will be rubbed into her skin, lightening it and making her “more beautiful.” When finally prepared, whe will exit the hut in a public ceremony after which she is “ready to be married.”
I had the good fortune to witness one such “emergence” from a nearby home in our village. A mass of at least 300 people had gathered on the dirt road in front of a dirt home. A tight nucleus of about 10 musicians maintained a rhythm and a slow paced dance with enough order to give the appearance of choreography but enough creativity to give the appearance of spontaneity was held, participants moving in fixed concentric circles around the drum circle. Their combined dancing raised a thick cloud of dust; their combined voices a riotous cacophony.
I watched with my kaka from a distance, at the edge of the spectators but nonetheless afforded a spectacular view of the bacchanalian scene. The only white person present, and not in the mood to be dragged into dancing, I kept a measured distance. The mature emerged wearing a pink satin shirt and carried on a man’s shoulders, his head between her knees. She danced as best one could, waving her arms and leaning backward from her perch at extreme angles. At one point she leaned so far that her wig fell off and was quickly left behind. Slowly is made an ingloriously circuit through the crowd, following in her wake and finally, awkwardly thrown back in place. So involved in her exaggerated arm flailing that her eyes were shut, she did not seem to notice.
I am told that a man who is interested in marrying such a matured woman will typically send a typed letter to the father explaining this and enclose 5,000 or 10,000 shillingi (4-8 dollars). The father will consider offers and mail responses. Those still in the running will be told an amount, (perhaps 200,000 shillingi) that would guarantee success. I remain unsure whether those not selected are returned their “application fee.”
All members of my familia who are of my generation have declined to under go their respective rites of passage, though I am told that they are still widely practiced outside of major cities.
Idd El-Fitr
Somewhere between 40 and 50% of Tanzania is Muslim, depending on your source. Unfamiliar with Muslim custom, I feel privileged to be living in a Muslim home and am learning much from baba, who is an eager teacher. I arrived in Morogoro during the month of Ramadani during which devout Muslims fast during daylight hours, a tradition of great religious significance held for thousands of years. As such, at sunset each evening a meal, called futari, is held. Noodles flavored with coconut milk are eaten while a thin porridge is drank, often with tea (flavored with spicy pepper sometimes!).
Even now, confusion impedes a well informed account of this tradition, yet, as in other places, I will attempt. On Saturday, October 22, I was told that the sighting of the moon in either Tanzania, Kenya, or Uganda on Sunday night would determine if the following day were a public holiday or not, and thus whether school would be held (and I would be teaching) on Monday. Apparently this sighting determines whether fasting will continue for an additional day, or not. As my luck would have it, Monday morning I was told that an additional day of fasting would occur, and thus that I would need to teach classes that day.
As it turns out, different schools of Islam end their fasting on different days. While most of Tanzania would be attending school that day, a minority of Muslims would not be. On the way to school I journeyed to a nearby soccer field drawn by a rhythmic, possibly Arabic chanting. Attached to the top of the soccer goal were speakers broadcasting prayer to no less than 300 men in long sleeved white clothing who faced the goal, and sat 10 feet away from the goal roughly in a line. Food was being distributed as late arrivals joined the group. On the other end of the field, well past the midline, stood a similarly sized mass of women who faced the backs of these men as well as the speakers. Dressed in scarves and fabric of exotic colors and pattern, hair covered, I marveled at the straight line they formed and the physical gap between men and women. I don’t believe they received food.
But the Idd holiday was yet to come for most Tanzanians, occurring the following day. On this day I traveled with my family to the home of a nearby relative. We entered a roofless brick home, 10x10, and there with my kaka, baba, and about 8 other men I am surely related to but could not name, took part in a ceremony whose significance is unclear to me. A teacher of Islam, dressed in all white, produced a small book and read from the Koran in a measured chant as those present sat on a large mat. This lasted for about fifteen minutes, during which time small, mostly gray but differently colored items about the size of pebbles were taken from a tin container and sprinkled atop a piece of burning charcoal held in a small cup. Their periodic placement by several of those present produced curling smoke and a distinctive, not unpleasant odor I had not previously met with. The reading of the Koran finished, my host father produced a book in which he had written the names of over 50 relatives who had “gone to the West.” After each name, the teacher made the same brief statement and a rhythm was established. The list completed, other names were solicited, but the others assembled either could not or were not expected to furnish many more. Tea and buttered bread was shared and conversation in Kiswahili ensued during which I was entirely silent, though my ability permitted me to recognize that I was frequently the topic during this conversation. Shortly after this, the teacher became the first to leave, and we followed suit shortly thereafter.
Sampling Pombe
Insisting that I sample local brew, I pushed my kaka to take me to the nearby thatch hut where it was available. Rounding the corner as the hut came into view, we passed a group of 10 middle aged men enjoying a game of cards. They graciously invited me to join and sample their pombe. The beer was served in large plastic cups, slightly bigger even than most oversize token cups used by casinos, but still short of pitcher size. A thin metal disk was placed over the cup’s mouth to prevent dust from blowing in. As I began to drink, an inch thick head of white/gray foam came first and left last, leaving a milk-moustache like residue on my upper lip. The open liquid I glimpsed before the foam reclaimed it’s domain was light gray, speckled with dark black and brown floaters of assorted sizes. The taste was strong, somehow meaty and slightly sour. The alcohol stung and a banana sweetness was pervasive (this being banana flavored brew). As the card game continued, my ignorance of even its most basic rules became apparent, and my hand was graciously and thankfully removed. The pombe was passed after each round during shuffling, and I we were able to identify some of the floaters in a nearby emptied cup: a layer of their grain of choice, finger millet, had settled at the bottom. I have yet to return, but think I ought to before departure.
Short Medley
Some observations suddenly and sharply snap me back to the reality that I am no longer in the United States. Several of these follow:
-When I first arrived in the home of my familia, a Brittney Spears VCD was playing. At least ten Britney music videos later, more were yet to come.
-Shakira and “Hips Don’t Lie” is the single song I have heard the most times thus far.
-The video stores of Morogoro are a treasure trove for action junkies. Chuck Norris, Steven Sagal, Jean-Claude Van Damme, and similar relics of the past age enjoy a huge following here, if titles present are any indication. Most titles are available on video cassette, and audio cassettes are widely sold.
-Yesterday walking into town down a frequented path, I noted a 2x2 foot mural of Bin Laden on the side of a local barber’s shop. I asked my kaka about this, and was told that they don’t hate Americans, but mostly like anyone with power. He pointed out that I have seen a similar mural on a car depicting George W. Bush.
- I travel different routes to get to and from school each day, depending on the level of conversation or interaction I desire. In the U.S. I had always taken a straight line, from which I deviated very little. Here I feel a bit guilty if I travel past the corner hut renting bicycles and don’t stop to chat.
Rites of Passage
Some tribes in Tanzania have particular rites of passage that young men and women will pass through to become adults. Though these are less and less frequent, my host father, of the Uluguru tribe, recounted the experiences of his own passage. As a young man, he was to leave his home for “the bush,” in his case a suitable, isolated location nearby his home. In this location, he slept under the stars every night for a month, was taught many traditional songs, and was instructed in the proper ways to respect elders, especially his father (including proper greetings, not to enter father’s bedroom, …) At the conclusion of this time, the young men with whom my father underwent this passage were circumcised in succession without anesthetics. A party was then held, at which countless gallons of alcohol are typically consumed, as drums maintained a deep rhythm.
Similarly, women on the cusp of maturity are placed in a room and kept there (voluntarily it seems) for a similar period of time. They will be fed often, learn to pleasure men, and also be taught a special dance to be performed upon their emergence from the hut. Physical seclusion and frequent meals will cause the woman to put on weight and acquire a full chest. Additionally, a white corn based powder will be rubbed into her skin, lightening it and making her “more beautiful.” When finally prepared, whe will exit the hut in a public ceremony after which she is “ready to be married.”
I had the good fortune to witness one such “emergence” from a nearby home in our village. A mass of at least 300 people had gathered on the dirt road in front of a dirt home. A tight nucleus of about 10 musicians maintained a rhythm and a slow paced dance with enough order to give the appearance of choreography but enough creativity to give the appearance of spontaneity was held, participants moving in fixed concentric circles around the drum circle. Their combined dancing raised a thick cloud of dust; their combined voices a riotous cacophony.
I watched with my kaka from a distance, at the edge of the spectators but nonetheless afforded a spectacular view of the bacchanalian scene. The only white person present, and not in the mood to be dragged into dancing, I kept a measured distance. The mature emerged wearing a pink satin shirt and carried on a man’s shoulders, his head between her knees. She danced as best one could, waving her arms and leaning backward from her perch at extreme angles. At one point she leaned so far that her wig fell off and was quickly left behind. Slowly is made an ingloriously circuit through the crowd, following in her wake and finally, awkwardly thrown back in place. So involved in her exaggerated arm flailing that her eyes were shut, she did not seem to notice.
I am told that a man who is interested in marrying such a matured woman will typically send a typed letter to the father explaining this and enclose 5,000 or 10,000 shillingi (4-8 dollars). The father will consider offers and mail responses. Those still in the running will be told an amount, (perhaps 200,000 shillingi) that would guarantee success. I remain unsure whether those not selected are returned their “application fee.”
All members of my familia who are of my generation have declined to under go their respective rites of passage, though I am told that they are still widely practiced outside of major cities.
Idd El-Fitr
Somewhere between 40 and 50% of Tanzania is Muslim, depending on your source. Unfamiliar with Muslim custom, I feel privileged to be living in a Muslim home and am learning much from baba, who is an eager teacher. I arrived in Morogoro during the month of Ramadani during which devout Muslims fast during daylight hours, a tradition of great religious significance held for thousands of years. As such, at sunset each evening a meal, called futari, is held. Noodles flavored with coconut milk are eaten while a thin porridge is drank, often with tea (flavored with spicy pepper sometimes!).
Even now, confusion impedes a well informed account of this tradition, yet, as in other places, I will attempt. On Saturday, October 22, I was told that the sighting of the moon in either Tanzania, Kenya, or Uganda on Sunday night would determine if the following day were a public holiday or not, and thus whether school would be held (and I would be teaching) on Monday. Apparently this sighting determines whether fasting will continue for an additional day, or not. As my luck would have it, Monday morning I was told that an additional day of fasting would occur, and thus that I would need to teach classes that day.
As it turns out, different schools of Islam end their fasting on different days. While most of Tanzania would be attending school that day, a minority of Muslims would not be. On the way to school I journeyed to a nearby soccer field drawn by a rhythmic, possibly Arabic chanting. Attached to the top of the soccer goal were speakers broadcasting prayer to no less than 300 men in long sleeved white clothing who faced the goal, and sat 10 feet away from the goal roughly in a line. Food was being distributed as late arrivals joined the group. On the other end of the field, well past the midline, stood a similarly sized mass of women who faced the backs of these men as well as the speakers. Dressed in scarves and fabric of exotic colors and pattern, hair covered, I marveled at the straight line they formed and the physical gap between men and women. I don’t believe they received food.
But the Idd holiday was yet to come for most Tanzanians, occurring the following day. On this day I traveled with my family to the home of a nearby relative. We entered a roofless brick home, 10x10, and there with my kaka, baba, and about 8 other men I am surely related to but could not name, took part in a ceremony whose significance is unclear to me. A teacher of Islam, dressed in all white, produced a small book and read from the Koran in a measured chant as those present sat on a large mat. This lasted for about fifteen minutes, during which time small, mostly gray but differently colored items about the size of pebbles were taken from a tin container and sprinkled atop a piece of burning charcoal held in a small cup. Their periodic placement by several of those present produced curling smoke and a distinctive, not unpleasant odor I had not previously met with. The reading of the Koran finished, my host father produced a book in which he had written the names of over 50 relatives who had “gone to the West.” After each name, the teacher made the same brief statement and a rhythm was established. The list completed, other names were solicited, but the others assembled either could not or were not expected to furnish many more. Tea and buttered bread was shared and conversation in Kiswahili ensued during which I was entirely silent, though my ability permitted me to recognize that I was frequently the topic during this conversation. Shortly after this, the teacher became the first to leave, and we followed suit shortly thereafter.
Sampling Pombe
Insisting that I sample local brew, I pushed my kaka to take me to the nearby thatch hut where it was available. Rounding the corner as the hut came into view, we passed a group of 10 middle aged men enjoying a game of cards. They graciously invited me to join and sample their pombe. The beer was served in large plastic cups, slightly bigger even than most oversize token cups used by casinos, but still short of pitcher size. A thin metal disk was placed over the cup’s mouth to prevent dust from blowing in. As I began to drink, an inch thick head of white/gray foam came first and left last, leaving a milk-moustache like residue on my upper lip. The open liquid I glimpsed before the foam reclaimed it’s domain was light gray, speckled with dark black and brown floaters of assorted sizes. The taste was strong, somehow meaty and slightly sour. The alcohol stung and a banana sweetness was pervasive (this being banana flavored brew). As the card game continued, my ignorance of even its most basic rules became apparent, and my hand was graciously and thankfully removed. The pombe was passed after each round during shuffling, and I we were able to identify some of the floaters in a nearby emptied cup: a layer of their grain of choice, finger millet, had settled at the bottom. I have yet to return, but think I ought to before departure.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
To Follow Drums in the Dark
At 11PM the drumming began from a distance and immediately I left off boiling water and impulsed my urge to the front door and out. Walking over the deserted, unlit school grounds, the dimmest moonbeams the sole additional sentry, I paused for minutes I know not how many listening to the drum. Alive, crests and troughs like the beat of a distant heart that was now near, now far, in stark opposition to my stock still stance. This pause, irresolute but leaning, finally gave way. I toppled down the valley path, lone sentry dimly lighting a rutted path which led in the direction of the home of the doctor of local medicine I had met week before.
Visions of African tribesmen guarding a sacred event, widely known to locals but unknown to me, provided the perfect adrenaline rush. Heightened sense only assisted as I crossed the valley’s river, momentarily losing the beat, slowly plodding but somewhat comforted by the drum’s disguise for my clumsy feet when, climbing higher, it’s pulse resumed. No flashlight, secrecy at a premium. Sound bouncing all around- individual voices now audible- still, thick darkness- several false hopes dashed, firefly fueled as their light hints at a glimpse through the darkness but crashes down at odd angles too quick and erratic to become stray light from that primordial scene.
Would it be a dart in the neck? A sudden, unexpected death blow in the back of the head? Perhaps a net in which I would be immobilized and carried by 6 war-painted standard bearers, struggling helplessly while carried to the heart. None yet, I continued unperturbed. Arriving at the open entrance to the doctor’s compound, I stood stock still. Truly unobserved? So it seemed. At least pausing here posed no harm, I had crossed no brink. But then I entered, drawn deep away from that lone entrance and enclosed by tall brick walls on all sides. Yet, unseen! Deep into the compound I traveled, passing two buildings, entering an abandoned courtyard framed by single family homes. Through the alley between two came a flickering light and the pulse. Would I wait by the edge of the fire, slowly emerging, like the uncouth dancer of junior high, slowly inching away from comfort towards that enigmatic event? Or would offense be taken at my intrusion, harsh words, unremittable once spoken by that man, be spoken, ostracizing me, or worse. For surely, though told that “Tanzanians are a friendly people” this was a tribal practice, done under cover of darkness.
The witch doctor whose compound I entered seemed to have no formal medical training. From what I only might have caught in Swahili, he had stopped attending the equivalent of a technical training school because of unbearable migraines, and now saw “20-30” villagers each day regarding their various illnesses. I was now stumbling over, now brushing up against the very plants he had explained to me in broken and therefore all the less convincing English, were use to “make more blood: if you get cut and lose a lot” and “headaches.” Ought I turn back now, possibly unseen, and subtly ask on another such sane, sunlit visit, about the drumming? Then, with a prophetic assurance surely lost upon him given the language barrier but reaffirming my own natural affinity for such rites, let drop, “I’m drawn to them as an insect to light” and hope for an invitation. Another lengthy pause, dead still, not so much looking about to know that I was unobserved as feeling it. Another head first plunge. Around the single brick building and now a hut comes in view, thatch roof, the fire of a lantern striping the scene as some failed to escape while others were caught up to glow in the thin reeds of its wall. The sound now deafening, I passed dangerously close to line of site through the hut’s doorway but successfully edged my way around the hut. Now a mere foot from its walls, the flailing voices unintelligible yet bespeaking the mysteries of an ancient tongue for their confident rhythms, small moving scenes, far too small to complete the puzzle, presented themselves through the gaps in the reeds. Scrambled, but unable to be pieced together, and now me, scrambling, low to the ground, moving, confident, suddenly, certain, I ought not be here.
To boldly enter and be welcomed or slayed in open sight on the threshold, that was one matter. To enter the man’s compound and be spotted peeping in like some perverse Victorian anthropologist, spotted through the reeds, glasses glinting giving glare, how inglorious! So, squatting on haunches, suddenly and hideously horrified by this sudden knowledge, paralyzed, I merely looked on. Never having been convinced of stories wherein the protagonist plays the prominent role hidden by a mere tapestry, or watches unbeknownst with a single beady greedy eye through knot-hole, chink, or cranny, certain that anyone clever enough to speak would eventually, probably sooner, expand his field of vision to note even that single, small, greedy little eye, especially as for the plot to be interesting the observed must be hatching some nefarious plot which would warrant inspection of the environment for stray eye balls.
So I sat, crouched, unwilling to risk, nay, condemn myself to being caught by cleverly repositioning so as to observe, yet uncertain that retreat would be possible, successful. Man of Action as ever, I went for it, walking straight away, feet muffled and timed to the tumultuous voice and drum. Crossing line of sight with my own back turned, I continued on, as though, if the music had ceased at that moment, the drum beat a sour note, an indignant cry arise among those present, I would merely continue on my path, oblivious to their business, until they caught up with me, tapped me on the shoulder, and I might say, turning, “What? Me? Yes, yes, I’m just out for a stroll. What, what? This notebook and these pens? No, no I wasn’t watching uninvited. How ridiculous that would be!” Which would certainly need to occur in Swahili, or, worse for me, in some tribal language, either way rendering it fantasy, abject speculation, but, as so often happens in situations where one turns one’s back on the feelings and impulses of those one may have offended, unnoticed, this putative offense remained unpunished. Unhasty retreat, apparently unseen, in fact, for the entire hour and a half journey, was made, and I remain whole, intact, and ready to address any beady greedy eyes that may have seen me squatting in the bushes, blinked in disbelief about this stranger lurking about at a time when everyone ought to be asleep.
At 11PM the drumming began from a distance and immediately I left off boiling water and impulsed my urge to the front door and out. Walking over the deserted, unlit school grounds, the dimmest moonbeams the sole additional sentry, I paused for minutes I know not how many listening to the drum. Alive, crests and troughs like the beat of a distant heart that was now near, now far, in stark opposition to my stock still stance. This pause, irresolute but leaning, finally gave way. I toppled down the valley path, lone sentry dimly lighting a rutted path which led in the direction of the home of the doctor of local medicine I had met week before.
Visions of African tribesmen guarding a sacred event, widely known to locals but unknown to me, provided the perfect adrenaline rush. Heightened sense only assisted as I crossed the valley’s river, momentarily losing the beat, slowly plodding but somewhat comforted by the drum’s disguise for my clumsy feet when, climbing higher, it’s pulse resumed. No flashlight, secrecy at a premium. Sound bouncing all around- individual voices now audible- still, thick darkness- several false hopes dashed, firefly fueled as their light hints at a glimpse through the darkness but crashes down at odd angles too quick and erratic to become stray light from that primordial scene.
Would it be a dart in the neck? A sudden, unexpected death blow in the back of the head? Perhaps a net in which I would be immobilized and carried by 6 war-painted standard bearers, struggling helplessly while carried to the heart. None yet, I continued unperturbed. Arriving at the open entrance to the doctor’s compound, I stood stock still. Truly unobserved? So it seemed. At least pausing here posed no harm, I had crossed no brink. But then I entered, drawn deep away from that lone entrance and enclosed by tall brick walls on all sides. Yet, unseen! Deep into the compound I traveled, passing two buildings, entering an abandoned courtyard framed by single family homes. Through the alley between two came a flickering light and the pulse. Would I wait by the edge of the fire, slowly emerging, like the uncouth dancer of junior high, slowly inching away from comfort towards that enigmatic event? Or would offense be taken at my intrusion, harsh words, unremittable once spoken by that man, be spoken, ostracizing me, or worse. For surely, though told that “Tanzanians are a friendly people” this was a tribal practice, done under cover of darkness.
The witch doctor whose compound I entered seemed to have no formal medical training. From what I only might have caught in Swahili, he had stopped attending the equivalent of a technical training school because of unbearable migraines, and now saw “20-30” villagers each day regarding their various illnesses. I was now stumbling over, now brushing up against the very plants he had explained to me in broken and therefore all the less convincing English, were use to “make more blood: if you get cut and lose a lot” and “headaches.” Ought I turn back now, possibly unseen, and subtly ask on another such sane, sunlit visit, about the drumming? Then, with a prophetic assurance surely lost upon him given the language barrier but reaffirming my own natural affinity for such rites, let drop, “I’m drawn to them as an insect to light” and hope for an invitation. Another lengthy pause, dead still, not so much looking about to know that I was unobserved as feeling it. Another head first plunge. Around the single brick building and now a hut comes in view, thatch roof, the fire of a lantern striping the scene as some failed to escape while others were caught up to glow in the thin reeds of its wall. The sound now deafening, I passed dangerously close to line of site through the hut’s doorway but successfully edged my way around the hut. Now a mere foot from its walls, the flailing voices unintelligible yet bespeaking the mysteries of an ancient tongue for their confident rhythms, small moving scenes, far too small to complete the puzzle, presented themselves through the gaps in the reeds. Scrambled, but unable to be pieced together, and now me, scrambling, low to the ground, moving, confident, suddenly, certain, I ought not be here.
To boldly enter and be welcomed or slayed in open sight on the threshold, that was one matter. To enter the man’s compound and be spotted peeping in like some perverse Victorian anthropologist, spotted through the reeds, glasses glinting giving glare, how inglorious! So, squatting on haunches, suddenly and hideously horrified by this sudden knowledge, paralyzed, I merely looked on. Never having been convinced of stories wherein the protagonist plays the prominent role hidden by a mere tapestry, or watches unbeknownst with a single beady greedy eye through knot-hole, chink, or cranny, certain that anyone clever enough to speak would eventually, probably sooner, expand his field of vision to note even that single, small, greedy little eye, especially as for the plot to be interesting the observed must be hatching some nefarious plot which would warrant inspection of the environment for stray eye balls.
So I sat, crouched, unwilling to risk, nay, condemn myself to being caught by cleverly repositioning so as to observe, yet uncertain that retreat would be possible, successful. Man of Action as ever, I went for it, walking straight away, feet muffled and timed to the tumultuous voice and drum. Crossing line of sight with my own back turned, I continued on, as though, if the music had ceased at that moment, the drum beat a sour note, an indignant cry arise among those present, I would merely continue on my path, oblivious to their business, until they caught up with me, tapped me on the shoulder, and I might say, turning, “What? Me? Yes, yes, I’m just out for a stroll. What, what? This notebook and these pens? No, no I wasn’t watching uninvited. How ridiculous that would be!” Which would certainly need to occur in Swahili, or, worse for me, in some tribal language, either way rendering it fantasy, abject speculation, but, as so often happens in situations where one turns one’s back on the feelings and impulses of those one may have offended, unnoticed, this putative offense remained unpunished. Unhasty retreat, apparently unseen, in fact, for the entire hour and a half journey, was made, and I remain whole, intact, and ready to address any beady greedy eyes that may have seen me squatting in the bushes, blinked in disbelief about this stranger lurking about at a time when everyone ought to be asleep.
Feeling Very White
Riding by homes on the twisting dirt road, up and down hills, through valleys, and over wood planked bridges the men and women he passes look up from tilling the fields to stare as the white man on the bike passes their home. If he can do it safely, given the dilapidated, seat-less, borrowed, unloved bicycle he pedals and its single semi-functional brake, he adjusts the habitually starboard leaning helmet his overly concerned organization forces upon his head, and attempts to maintain balance while thrusting one arm in the air, quickly, by way of greeting. Their flock of small children, typically no less than four to a man, but sometimes as many as ten (though in such cases, he would point out that such quantity typically indicates several wives, who may work the same farm), stare in dumbfounded amazement, jaw dropping. If able to recover in time they offer the respectful greeting “Shikamoo” to which he invariably replies, “Marahaba.” And though he begins the word on a high note, by the time he has covered its multisyllabic length, his strength has already waned, his voice takes on a tired quality. Perhaps the oft-spoken word has already lost its novelty. Perhaps he believes that a respectful greeting should not force him to play tired games, repeating the same response to each individual’s “Shikamoo,” no less than four but sometimes as many as ten times.
He greets everyone he passes here, at minimum the lifted arm as he whips down a steep hill with clenched teeth, sometimes even a full wave, if safety permits and the peasants have paused in their work, looking on from rows of crops with particular curiosity. Invariably they wave back. He may truly be the first white person some of the children have seen, and sighting him likely would not put some of the adults in double digits. Sometimes his presence seems unremarkable. Sometimes it causes a bit of a stir. At the first village soccer game he attended in a nearby village, poorly disguised surprise lit his face when, turning around from his position on the sideline, his eyes met no less than 80, gathered in pairs and gazing intently. They were so curious! But what they are thinking, what goes through their minds, remains an intriguing mystery to him.
One afternoon the situation forced him to walk the 10 km (harder it seems, given the landscape) to visit the nearest white person. Passing through one village, the road widened out and was lined by small buildings and shops one deep on both sides. The dusty dirt road, tightly shuttered and shackled shops (most likely the owners were working their land, as such small shops are insufficient in themselves to make a living), flight of children, and their gaze through crevices after reaching fortified positions; the way in which every eye fell to staring at him; made him feel as though he had entered a Western and ought to have had pistols on each hip, ready for a showdown.
Riding by homes on the twisting dirt road, up and down hills, through valleys, and over wood planked bridges the men and women he passes look up from tilling the fields to stare as the white man on the bike passes their home. If he can do it safely, given the dilapidated, seat-less, borrowed, unloved bicycle he pedals and its single semi-functional brake, he adjusts the habitually starboard leaning helmet his overly concerned organization forces upon his head, and attempts to maintain balance while thrusting one arm in the air, quickly, by way of greeting. Their flock of small children, typically no less than four to a man, but sometimes as many as ten (though in such cases, he would point out that such quantity typically indicates several wives, who may work the same farm), stare in dumbfounded amazement, jaw dropping. If able to recover in time they offer the respectful greeting “Shikamoo” to which he invariably replies, “Marahaba.” And though he begins the word on a high note, by the time he has covered its multisyllabic length, his strength has already waned, his voice takes on a tired quality. Perhaps the oft-spoken word has already lost its novelty. Perhaps he believes that a respectful greeting should not force him to play tired games, repeating the same response to each individual’s “Shikamoo,” no less than four but sometimes as many as ten times.
He greets everyone he passes here, at minimum the lifted arm as he whips down a steep hill with clenched teeth, sometimes even a full wave, if safety permits and the peasants have paused in their work, looking on from rows of crops with particular curiosity. Invariably they wave back. He may truly be the first white person some of the children have seen, and sighting him likely would not put some of the adults in double digits. Sometimes his presence seems unremarkable. Sometimes it causes a bit of a stir. At the first village soccer game he attended in a nearby village, poorly disguised surprise lit his face when, turning around from his position on the sideline, his eyes met no less than 80, gathered in pairs and gazing intently. They were so curious! But what they are thinking, what goes through their minds, remains an intriguing mystery to him.
One afternoon the situation forced him to walk the 10 km (harder it seems, given the landscape) to visit the nearest white person. Passing through one village, the road widened out and was lined by small buildings and shops one deep on both sides. The dusty dirt road, tightly shuttered and shackled shops (most likely the owners were working their land, as such small shops are insufficient in themselves to make a living), flight of children, and their gaze through crevices after reaching fortified positions; the way in which every eye fell to staring at him; made him feel as though he had entered a Western and ought to have had pistols on each hip, ready for a showdown.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
Arrival at Site
When I saw my school for the first time, we were traveling down a narrow, steeply declining dirt road. Trees flanked us on both sides as the land rover lurched erratically though always at high speeds over rocks and shallow gulleys eroded by rainwater. It appeared below as the clouds and trees parted, several metal roofed buildings as the approaching land flattened briefly before continuing its decline. "It's beautiful," suddenly popped into my mind and I felt as a father beholding his newborn son must. Usually not prone to feelings such as these, I was all the more surprised when they came, marveling at my own, unexpected melodrama.
The area in which my school is located affords views of startling beauty. A mountainous region, valleys of various size cut into the mostly cultivated, sparsely forrested hills while gray boulders keep watch from the highest, steepest ridges. Looking across the valley in which my school is located, one sees more of these humongous, gray sentinels protruding than one sees trees. Over their tops come thick mists and ominous black clouds, appearing suddenly and descending across the valley with measurable speed. The continue to the West for some 20 miles before arriving at Lake Nyasa. Prior to escaping the valley, they dump their contents at least once but up to four times a day. The area's elevation and other factors keep it relatively cool. Some nights are downright chilly, though there has not yet been any serious risk of a blizzard. I doubt if daytime temperatures have climbed above 85 F.
Climbing for 1 mile up the ridge my school is built into and reaching the crest, one looks out upon Lake Nyasa and can dimly see the shilloueted mountains of Malawi and Mozambique if the clouds permit. Returning one's gaze to the immediate surrounding, one sees the land broken into small plots of cassava and coffee, typically no greater in area than 1,500 square feet. These belong to the "peasants" an adjective applied by my Tanzanian guide. At first I was rather shocked to hear this word, figuring it was relegated to the age of Robin Hood and practice of feudalism. My friendly dictionary, however, notes it's definition as "(in some rural agricultural countries) small farmer," and in such ountries the second derogatory definition seems unknown.
The land is divided in such fashion as several plots are held by a single family. These subdivisions are vital to insure yearly harvests, as the peasants find it wise to do, giving them enough food to make it to the next harvest. As both coffee and cassava take 3 years to reach maturity, a farmer needs to stagger the stage of growth that any one of his plots is at to insure a yearly harvest. This is most important for cassava, as it is the main foodstuff of such peasants, than coffee, which is sold as a cash crop. And so, as one's eyes continue to sweep across the valley, an agricultural patchwork of plots at various stages present themselves, some a rich black spotted with the bright green, freshly planted cassava cuttings, others a darker, waxy, elevated green of mature coffee bushes.
Gazing deep to the very stream or moist riverbed at the foot of these valleys one will frequently encounter corn on every available inch of land up to the water's edge, sometimes even partially submerged after rain has swollen the river's turgid trail. It is here that one may also encounter fish ponds, relatively small resevoirs that divert some of the water, keeping it and it's edible treasures. Looking up, one is then struck by trees of various type standing even among the cultivated land, a strange sight for a Midwesterner accustomed to miles and miles of pure, unblemished corn. Here the trees perform at least three functions: keeping the soil firmly rooted in place, gently shading the coffee crop below, and providing fruit, in the case of banana trees, or a future lumber harvest, in the case of woody trees.
Continuing upward, one finds peasant's homes dotting the hills and showing slight preference for the dirt road, other homes, and small villages. Most have metal roofs, though thatch is not uncommon. Most have dirt or brick floors, though cement floors can be found. Glass in windows and electicity are exceedingly rare: there is no power grid in this part of the country, and few own a generator. That said, this area, while geographcally isolated, is not known for terrible poverty.
When I saw my school for the first time, we were traveling down a narrow, steeply declining dirt road. Trees flanked us on both sides as the land rover lurched erratically though always at high speeds over rocks and shallow gulleys eroded by rainwater. It appeared below as the clouds and trees parted, several metal roofed buildings as the approaching land flattened briefly before continuing its decline. "It's beautiful," suddenly popped into my mind and I felt as a father beholding his newborn son must. Usually not prone to feelings such as these, I was all the more surprised when they came, marveling at my own, unexpected melodrama.
The area in which my school is located affords views of startling beauty. A mountainous region, valleys of various size cut into the mostly cultivated, sparsely forrested hills while gray boulders keep watch from the highest, steepest ridges. Looking across the valley in which my school is located, one sees more of these humongous, gray sentinels protruding than one sees trees. Over their tops come thick mists and ominous black clouds, appearing suddenly and descending across the valley with measurable speed. The continue to the West for some 20 miles before arriving at Lake Nyasa. Prior to escaping the valley, they dump their contents at least once but up to four times a day. The area's elevation and other factors keep it relatively cool. Some nights are downright chilly, though there has not yet been any serious risk of a blizzard. I doubt if daytime temperatures have climbed above 85 F.
Climbing for 1 mile up the ridge my school is built into and reaching the crest, one looks out upon Lake Nyasa and can dimly see the shilloueted mountains of Malawi and Mozambique if the clouds permit. Returning one's gaze to the immediate surrounding, one sees the land broken into small plots of cassava and coffee, typically no greater in area than 1,500 square feet. These belong to the "peasants" an adjective applied by my Tanzanian guide. At first I was rather shocked to hear this word, figuring it was relegated to the age of Robin Hood and practice of feudalism. My friendly dictionary, however, notes it's definition as "(in some rural agricultural countries) small farmer," and in such ountries the second derogatory definition seems unknown.
The land is divided in such fashion as several plots are held by a single family. These subdivisions are vital to insure yearly harvests, as the peasants find it wise to do, giving them enough food to make it to the next harvest. As both coffee and cassava take 3 years to reach maturity, a farmer needs to stagger the stage of growth that any one of his plots is at to insure a yearly harvest. This is most important for cassava, as it is the main foodstuff of such peasants, than coffee, which is sold as a cash crop. And so, as one's eyes continue to sweep across the valley, an agricultural patchwork of plots at various stages present themselves, some a rich black spotted with the bright green, freshly planted cassava cuttings, others a darker, waxy, elevated green of mature coffee bushes.
Gazing deep to the very stream or moist riverbed at the foot of these valleys one will frequently encounter corn on every available inch of land up to the water's edge, sometimes even partially submerged after rain has swollen the river's turgid trail. It is here that one may also encounter fish ponds, relatively small resevoirs that divert some of the water, keeping it and it's edible treasures. Looking up, one is then struck by trees of various type standing even among the cultivated land, a strange sight for a Midwesterner accustomed to miles and miles of pure, unblemished corn. Here the trees perform at least three functions: keeping the soil firmly rooted in place, gently shading the coffee crop below, and providing fruit, in the case of banana trees, or a future lumber harvest, in the case of woody trees.
Continuing upward, one finds peasant's homes dotting the hills and showing slight preference for the dirt road, other homes, and small villages. Most have metal roofs, though thatch is not uncommon. Most have dirt or brick floors, though cement floors can be found. Glass in windows and electicity are exceedingly rare: there is no power grid in this part of the country, and few own a generator. That said, this area, while geographcally isolated, is not known for terrible poverty.
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