"We are prone to judge success by the index of our salaries or the size of our automobiles, rather than by the quality of our service relationship to humanity." - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Welllllcome Teeeeee-cha!

Finally, a decent night's sleep.  I woke this morning and listened - roosters crowed, the Islamic call to prayer, to the sounds of our neighbor building her morning fire so she could cook breakfast.  The air here is always heavy with the smoke of cooking fires, or worse, fires used to burn trash and plastic.  I'm already planning one fire when I get home, to burn my clothes.

On Wednesday, two teachers from my volunteer placement, Godfrey and Shegren from Mwasama came to CCS for lunch.  After a few questions about my education experience came questions about my marital status.  I'd been warned that this is often a question asked of new friends.  When I told them a bit about my life and my house, the two men looked at one another, chattered something in swahili, looked back at me in disbelief, and asked, "You have your own house?  By yourself? Did you build it?"

Today, I decided to walk to the main house by myself for breakfast.  After leaving the gate and stepping out into the dirt pathway, saying good morning to the toddlers running toward me in bare feet, yelling, "Mambo!  Goot mo-ahh-neeeeng!" I was on my way with a smile on my face.

I followed a young girl on her way to school, her navy blue skirt bouncing with each step, her red shirt wrinkled up behind her tiny green plastic backpack.  She turned off at the next street.  Another young girl passed, looked at me and said, "Shikamoo" - the swahili greeting for someone in a position of respect.  I smiled and chided myself for not recalling the obligatory response of "Marahaba" (I accept).  I won't forget that one again.  I grabbed my greetings cheat sheet out of my backpack and continued on my way, dodging a rooster after a rather unhappy hen, and nearly got run over by a motorcycle. With the extremely narrow streets, bordered closely by extremely deep ditches and lack of ANY pedestrian right-of-way plus the insane motorcycle drivers, I take my life in my own hands every time I walk anywhere.

This morning, Chief (the head of Mwsama Primary School) asked me about how we get our water in America (Ah-mer-eee-ka). This led to the discussion of sanitation. I attempted, rather poorly, to explain trash collection (you try explaining a robotic arm that picks up a large bucket from the side of the road) while keeping one eye on a roach the size of a rat (which I saw yesterday) crawling along the wall. I've become rather used to the interesting bugs here, all of which are much larger than your run-of-the-mill American insect. Spiders don't seem to enjoy being inside much, which is fantastic, considering that most have a body about the size of my thumb, legs that stretch out to well over the size of my entire hand, and webs that cover distances of six to seven feet across. They seem to prefer trees. Thank God.

When Maddy and I arrived for my first day at Mwasama yesterday, we entered a dirt courtyard about 20 yards by 20 yards.  Under a few trees sat three small tables.  At each table, one to two teachers checked piles of makeshift notebooks.  After a few introductions, I met Manuel, aka Chief Casanga.  He led me into a room containing a few old wooden wardrobes, a table holding a few notebooks and a box of chalk, and a large easel with a handwritten schedule on it.  This, I determined was the teachers' office.  At least that's what was written, in chalk, on the door.  This room, like all other classrooms at Mwasama, has crumbling painted walls, concrete floors, windows that contain metal grates instead of glass, and no overhead lights.  After figuring out what I'll be teaching and/or assisting, we were off for a tour.

Chief and I entered each classroom. Students immediately stood and began a synchronized chant in swahili that ended in english with, "Welllcome teeeecha!"  Classrooms are small, some little more than oversized closets, chalkboards are literally slabs of what looks like raised concrete painted green on the wall, walls crumble, students share chairs, tables, benches.  The primary students, of course, were eager to give me a fist bump a la Obama.  Older students pretty much gave me the same once-over I'd probably receive from adolescents in the states.  It's a pretty small school, with one classroom for each grade, nursery (kindergarten) through 7th.  As such, it's easy to find my way around, especially considering that the third grade classroom is in the room clearly and conveniently labeled, "Grade Five," the fifth grade classroom in the room labeled, “Grade One”, and so on.  Upon leaving the fifth grade room, Chief Casanga asked the teacher, "What happened to your door?" as he noticed it, completely off of its hinges and leaning against the wall.  No one knew, so he shrugged and we continued out the door, around some roosters, and on with our tour. The outdoor kitchen is off to one side, under a thatch roof, awith smoke constantly pouring from it. The perimeter of the school is lined with clotheslines and (of course) stacks of buckets.

Students stay in the same classroom all day long, with teachers rotating through. At ten o'clock, a hand bell rings and students pour out into the center courtyard for break. Teachers congregate under the tree, around the tables in the sand. On one table, a tray of tea cups, a thermos, and a container of rolls.  Another passdown from colonial times - tea time - which, by the way, I’m considering instituting at my school this fall. We sit with the other teachers and discuss the American and Tanzanian education systems, joke, and generally chat.  They ask about salary, schedule, working conditions, and students...and of course, my marital status.

“Madame Ahmbah, are you married?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I guess I talk too much.”
“You talk too much? Ohhhh, that's bad.”

This, followed by questions regarding how I view children and how many I'd like to have, is a rather typical conversation with the majority male teachers. The few female teachers are a little more quiet, but seem to be slowly warming up to me. As the conversation fades, I watch. Children play soccer with an empty plastic bottle instead of a ball. Most don't wear shoes, but none seem to mind. Their uniforms are ripped and stained, though that doesn't bother them, either. Other, older students stay in their classroom and dance. I'm sweating like a pig, and they're wearing sweaters! Another bell.  Students run toward the makeshift kitchen under a thatch roof each carrying a plastic mug.  Porridge time. As tea time ends and I walk over to the spigot to rinse my cup, I hear a voice. “Madam.” I look around, not sure where the voice comes from. I hear it again and look through the screen of the grade seven window. A large smile and eyes look at me... A smile and a wave are returned before I head back to the teachers' office to grab my chalk and walk to the grade three room to teach some English.

After Mwasama, we walk to downtown Baga and visit other volunteers at their placements. I meet dreadlocked Rasti (I’m pretty sure that his real name is Matthew) at his tiny hut where he paints incredible pieces of art. We continue down through the fish market after a stop at a small art school where street children are taught and wander onto the beach. The tide is out, so the large fishing dhows list to their sides on the sand. Fishermen are hard at work, repairing and loading boats. It’s clear that this scene has changed little for hundreds of years. Because of the gradual slope of the beach, we can walk out quite far, turn around, and see the ships, German ruins (evidence of former occupation), fishermen, and a few hotels. On the way back in, I ask a few fishermen standing on the side of a listed boat if I can take their picture. They say no. Most locals aren't too fond of having their picture taken, the belief being that I'll sell it and make money. I can respect it, but wish I could show you the beauty of this entire culture. We continue through Stone Town, the older part of Baga. I see a Maasai in traditional costume, passing time as so many Tanzanians do, sitting on a doorstep, greeting and watching passersby.

Baga is a very arts-oriented community. It is home to a well-known center for African arts and dance, so many artisans call it home. Yesterday afternoon, we were able to visit some of the most famous Bagamoyo residents. The Zawosi family consists of children, cousins, and grandchildren of Dr. Zawosi, a tribal polygamist from the Dodoma region of Tanzania. He began performing traditional dance and music with his family many years ago. Today, the family all lives together in a sort of compound where they make their own instruments and perform all over the world. Watching them perform was incredible. All family members took part and many different instruments were used. Women drummed and danced, children even had their moment in the spotlight. Each took a turn flipping and shaking. After one boy got a huge response with a few hip thrusts, the boys pushed one another aside to repeat the thrust in hopes of gaining our approval. Kids truly are the same everywhere on Earth.

This afternoon, we had a speaker from the local secondary school come to chat with us about education.  Only about twenty percent of the population completes secondary school.  She wants me to come to meet with her and her teachers next week to discuss teaching strategies and reading achievement.  I'm excited.  A doctor (one of only three MD's in Bagamoyo district, population 290,000) also came to share about local health issues.  Fifteen percent of local residents are afflicted with HIV/AIDS.  A child dies every five minutes from malaria.  Both are easily avoided with simple, inexpensive (and often offered free-of-charge by NGOs and the Tanzanian government).  I find that the unseen or unconsidered cultural issues blocking advancement run deep.  It's maddening and somewhat disheartening...but at least I'm trying.  Or something like that.

So, while I found myself tired and somewhat frustrated with myself and the obvious cultural roadblocks in education and healthcare today, I know that I'm here for a reason. Each day has been full of experience, both amazing, and difficult. When I'm tired, I miss home. I'd kill for a cheeseburger right about now. But, when children approach me with a smile or a greeting, or I laugh with new friends, I know that this time will begin to speed up and will someday be but a memory. Getting used to a new culture is shocking and overwhelming. What is normally simple becomes complicated and what seems complicated becomes superfluous. I know that I'm learning and can't ever look at my life and my world the same way.

Don't worry, Mom...I've no plans to start doing my laundry in a bucket on the front steps.

1 comment:

  1. Amber... so great to get to read these updates!!! I find myself checking each morning to hear about "the latest". Hope you are having an amazing time! - Tom

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