The Mwika campus is an active one. It’s a combination of two or maybe three educational institutions – Lutheran Bible School, a school of theology, and a third campus of Stefano Moshi Memorial University College. At its center is a church. There’s also a kindergarten and just beyond that past the hedges is a primary school. All of these form a collective routine.
At 5:00 a.m. the church bell rings, signaling all sleepers to wake up and pray. It rings 100 times, and then we are wide awake. At 6:30 a.m. it rings again. Perhaps that’s when our prayer should end. Or that’s when the hard sleepers should wake up.
At 7:30, the school bell is sounded. The bell is actually the rim of a car tire hanging from a tree. A teacher takes a stick and whacks away at it, but there’s a rhythm to the clanging. First, two short clangs when the rim sways. Then there’s a clang!clang!clang!clang!clang!clang!clang! finalized by CLANG CLANG.
At lunch, we hear the same clang thing all over again.
At 4:00, the primary school assembles outside and a student or two with snare drums tap out a cadence that the children sing to. All over Tanzania, children are taught to sing with all their might, which comes across as a sing-shout. This means that each song has the same melody and differs only by rhythm. At 5:00 p.m. a small brass band practices outside the church. They also have drums. By 6:30, the only ones left singing are the cicadas, who will sing all night.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Waiting for change
Hilary, the provost’s personal driver, had stopped the SUV at a butcher’s shop. We were on the way to Mwika, to the third campus of Stefano Moshi Memorial University College, where I would begin my second year of teaching. All of my belongings rattled in the back because Hilary still had the SUV in idle while he talked to the butcher. In a few minutes, Hilary returned, and we waited in the car still burning up fuel.
We were not waiting for meat. The butcher owed the provost money. A few weeks ago, the provost had wanted four kilos of pork, but there were only two kilos of pork available. The butcher also did not have change that day. He promised to return it another day.
Hilary had tried to get the change from the butcher on previous trips, but apparently the butcher had had enough warning to run away before Hilary’s arrival. Today Hilary had surprised him. Now the butcher left to collect the change, going from place to place asking others for donations. (He was probably telling them he’d pay them back later.)
Once I rode in a taxi and upon giving the driver my money, he said he didn’t have change. There were two other passengers in the taxi waiting to move on, and rather than argue with him, I left seething.
After about 15 minutes, Hilary turned off the engine, resigning himself to uncertain fates: the engine might never start and the butcher might never return. A collection of children arrived and stared at me for a while. Some dared to greet me and then ran away. Others with courage stayed behind. Hilary got out of the vehicle and talked to the butcher’s friend who’d been standing at the counter. Finally the butcher arrived with the change, but it wasn’t enough. This was all he could get at the moment. Hilary told him to get some more. We waited.
On another day, the taxi incident still sizzling in my memory, I rode a bus that goes up to Masoka, but I got off in Moshi Town at the Uhuru Hotel. I handed the conductor a 500 shilling note and asked for change. He said there was no change. He asked other passengers, and at that moment, no one felt like coughing up change. I said, “No change, no money!” I grabbed the money I had just given him, and repeated, “No change, no money!” I stared at him with nostrils flared and eyes bulging, waiting for a protest.
Inside the bus, the passengers were saying, “What did she say? What did she say?”
“She said, ‘No change, no money.’”
The bus roared away, the passengers roaring with laughter.
Somewhere inside of Hilary, a clock was ticking, and he decided he’d waited long enough. The SUV started with only a hiccup, leaving the remaining change to fate.
We were not waiting for meat. The butcher owed the provost money. A few weeks ago, the provost had wanted four kilos of pork, but there were only two kilos of pork available. The butcher also did not have change that day. He promised to return it another day.
Hilary had tried to get the change from the butcher on previous trips, but apparently the butcher had had enough warning to run away before Hilary’s arrival. Today Hilary had surprised him. Now the butcher left to collect the change, going from place to place asking others for donations. (He was probably telling them he’d pay them back later.)
Once I rode in a taxi and upon giving the driver my money, he said he didn’t have change. There were two other passengers in the taxi waiting to move on, and rather than argue with him, I left seething.
After about 15 minutes, Hilary turned off the engine, resigning himself to uncertain fates: the engine might never start and the butcher might never return. A collection of children arrived and stared at me for a while. Some dared to greet me and then ran away. Others with courage stayed behind. Hilary got out of the vehicle and talked to the butcher’s friend who’d been standing at the counter. Finally the butcher arrived with the change, but it wasn’t enough. This was all he could get at the moment. Hilary told him to get some more. We waited.
On another day, the taxi incident still sizzling in my memory, I rode a bus that goes up to Masoka, but I got off in Moshi Town at the Uhuru Hotel. I handed the conductor a 500 shilling note and asked for change. He said there was no change. He asked other passengers, and at that moment, no one felt like coughing up change. I said, “No change, no money!” I grabbed the money I had just given him, and repeated, “No change, no money!” I stared at him with nostrils flared and eyes bulging, waiting for a protest.
Inside the bus, the passengers were saying, “What did she say? What did she say?”
“She said, ‘No change, no money.’”
The bus roared away, the passengers roaring with laughter.
Somewhere inside of Hilary, a clock was ticking, and he decided he’d waited long enough. The SUV started with only a hiccup, leaving the remaining change to fate.
Waiting for change
Hilary, the provost’s personal driver, had stopped the SUV at a butcher’s shop. We were on the way to Mwika, to the third campus of Stefano Moshi Memorial University College, where I would begin my second year of teaching. All of my belongings rattled in the back because Hilary still had the SUV in idle while he talked to the butcher. In a few minutes, Hilary returned, and we waited in the car still burning up fuel.
We were not waiting for meat. The butcher owed the provost money. A few weeks ago, the provost had wanted four kilos of pork, but there were only two kilos of pork available. The butcher also did not have change that day. He promised to return it another day.
Hilary had tried to get the change from the butcher on previous trips, but apparently the butcher had had enough warning to run away before Hilary’s arrival. Today Hilary had surprised him. Now the butcher left to collect the change, going from place to place asking others for donations. (He was probably telling them he’d pay them back later.)
Once I rode in a taxi and upon giving the driver my money, he said he didn’t have change. There were two other passengers in the taxi waiting to move on, and rather than argue with him, I left seething.
After about 15 minutes, Hilary turned off the engine, resigning himself to uncertain fates: the engine might never start and the butcher might never return. A collection of children arrived and stared at me for a while. Some dared to greet me and then ran away. Others with courage stayed behind. Hilary got out of the vehicle and talked to the butcher’s friend who’d been standing at the counter. Finally the butcher arrived with the change, but it wasn’t enough. This was all he could get at the moment. Hilary told him to get some more. We waited.
On another day, the taxi incident still sizzling in my memory, I rode a bus that goes up to Masoka, but I got off in Moshi Town at the Uhuru Hotel. I handed the conductor a 500 shilling note and asked for change. He said there was no change. He asked other passengers, and at that moment, no one felt like coughing up change. I said, “No change, no money!” I grabbed the money I had just given him, and repeated, “No change, no money!” I stared at him with nostrils flared and eyes bulging, waiting for a protest.
Inside the bus, the passengers were saying, “What did she say? What did she say?”
“She said, ‘No change, no money.’”
The bus roared away, the passengers roaring with laughter.
Somewhere inside of Hilary, a clock was ticking, and he decided he’d waited long enough. The SUV started with only a hiccup, leaving the remaining change to fate.
We were not waiting for meat. The butcher owed the provost money. A few weeks ago, the provost had wanted four kilos of pork, but there were only two kilos of pork available. The butcher also did not have change that day. He promised to return it another day.
Hilary had tried to get the change from the butcher on previous trips, but apparently the butcher had had enough warning to run away before Hilary’s arrival. Today Hilary had surprised him. Now the butcher left to collect the change, going from place to place asking others for donations. (He was probably telling them he’d pay them back later.)
Once I rode in a taxi and upon giving the driver my money, he said he didn’t have change. There were two other passengers in the taxi waiting to move on, and rather than argue with him, I left seething.
After about 15 minutes, Hilary turned off the engine, resigning himself to uncertain fates: the engine might never start and the butcher might never return. A collection of children arrived and stared at me for a while. Some dared to greet me and then ran away. Others with courage stayed behind. Hilary got out of the vehicle and talked to the butcher’s friend who’d been standing at the counter. Finally the butcher arrived with the change, but it wasn’t enough. This was all he could get at the moment. Hilary told him to get some more. We waited.
On another day, the taxi incident still sizzling in my memory, I rode a bus that goes up to Masoka, but I got off in Moshi Town at the Uhuru Hotel. I handed the conductor a 500 shilling note and asked for change. He said there was no change. He asked other passengers, and at that moment, no one felt like coughing up change. I said, “No change, no money!” I grabbed the money I had just given him, and repeated, “No change, no money!” I stared at him with nostrils flared and eyes bulging, waiting for a protest.
Inside the bus, the passengers were saying, “What did she say? What did she say?”
“She said, ‘No change, no money.’”
The bus roared away, the passengers roaring with laughter.
Somewhere inside of Hilary, a clock was ticking, and he decided he’d waited long enough. The SUV started with only a hiccup, leaving the remaining change to fate.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Much more than an answer
I was looking for Gate F-8 at the Schipol Airport in Amsterdam on my way to Tanzania, the journey to my second year teaching at Stefano Moshi Memorial University College. On the 8-hour flight from Detroit in a seat built for someone taller than six feet, my head slanted by the neck pillow, my tray dangerously close to my boobs, I dozed enough to make me drowsy and weary. In the airport I schlepped two laptops and a back pack through moving electric walkways that ended with an automated voice that said, “Mind your step! Mind your step!” I leaped off one and leaped onto another. I followed arrows with signs that said F-H, past shops with displays of tulip bulbs, Van Gogh memorabilia, and leather briefcases. I knew that after I found Gate F-8, I would cross another 4,000 miles in an equally uncomfortable 8-hour flight to Tanzania.
Then I found myself in a room with luggage carousels. Some part of my cerebral cortex or latex or whatever up there was slowly grinding knew that this was the end, and there was no turning back. But most of my brain slept in fog. I slogged toward a group of airport personnel visiting in and around a glass booth. I put down the two laptops and said to the men in uniform, “Can you tell me where Gate F-8 is?”
One of the men spoke. “Good morning!”
And then I remembered how the rest of the world has a civility that we in the States do not have, or no longer have. While we walk up to the bank teller and say, “Can you deposit my check?”, while we yell into the drive-through speaker, “I want a Big Mac and a large fry!”, while we ask the store clerk, “Does this blouse come in shiny gold?” the rest of the world begins by saying, “Hello, how are you?”
In Tanzania, this civility is multiplied times twenty. The first 100 words I learned were greetings. One greets an elder by saying, “Shikamoo.” Otherwise, there’s, “How are you? How is the day? How is the morning? How did you wake up? How’s yourself? Any problems? Any problems with your family? How’s your home? Your mother? Your father? Your children? Your work? Are you okay? How are you since I last saw you? How are you since the day before yesterday? How are things? What else?”
Then I learned the responses: fine (nzuri), okay (mzima, poa), peaceful (salama), very peaceful (salama kabisa), clean (safi). (I can’t explain “clean” as a response.)
When I first became aware of the necessity of greetings in Tanzania, I had to practice deep breathing and counting to ten. But store clerks are much friendlier if you first greet them. People on the bus are much friendlier. The stranger on the road who is about to show you where to find the Mbuyuni bus will be friendlier if you first greet her.
These greetings would not help me get a loaf of bread or roll of toilet paper. They would not tell me whether this bus went to Rombo or Mwika. I felt I was just doing a little dance to please someone before I was allowed to ask for what I wanted.
The irony, I eventually learned, was that these greetings forced me to recognize that the store clerk was a human being, as well as the postal clerk and the stranger on the road. They had feelings, problems, mothers and fathers, and they had lived yesterday, live today. They breathed, they woke up, they slept. Even if the answers always started out positive, the truth could emerge in the next three greetings at which time I would learn that the clerk had a headache or his mother had just died.
In the two months I had been in the States, all of that civility disappeared in a snap without my notice. In the Schipol Airport, I only felt weary and lost with more hours of weariness to follow. So when I passed the group of airport officials, I was only thinking they could give me an answer, not that they were human. And when the one official said, “Good morning!” in a cheerful voice, my weariness was released like air from a stretched balloon. I laughed and replied in kind. The men said, “Where are you from?” I told them America. They said, “Yes, we can!” For the life of me, I had no clue what they were talking about until I remembered Obama’s campaign slogan.
Then I tried the question again. Yes, they knew where F-8 was: go out these doors, go upstairs, enter the big doors and walk through the entire airport. But by the time I’d gotten this news, I was buoyed enough by their good cheer and the gentler reminder of how to be a human.
Then I found myself in a room with luggage carousels. Some part of my cerebral cortex or latex or whatever up there was slowly grinding knew that this was the end, and there was no turning back. But most of my brain slept in fog. I slogged toward a group of airport personnel visiting in and around a glass booth. I put down the two laptops and said to the men in uniform, “Can you tell me where Gate F-8 is?”
One of the men spoke. “Good morning!”
And then I remembered how the rest of the world has a civility that we in the States do not have, or no longer have. While we walk up to the bank teller and say, “Can you deposit my check?”, while we yell into the drive-through speaker, “I want a Big Mac and a large fry!”, while we ask the store clerk, “Does this blouse come in shiny gold?” the rest of the world begins by saying, “Hello, how are you?”
In Tanzania, this civility is multiplied times twenty. The first 100 words I learned were greetings. One greets an elder by saying, “Shikamoo.” Otherwise, there’s, “How are you? How is the day? How is the morning? How did you wake up? How’s yourself? Any problems? Any problems with your family? How’s your home? Your mother? Your father? Your children? Your work? Are you okay? How are you since I last saw you? How are you since the day before yesterday? How are things? What else?”
Then I learned the responses: fine (nzuri), okay (mzima, poa), peaceful (salama), very peaceful (salama kabisa), clean (safi). (I can’t explain “clean” as a response.)
When I first became aware of the necessity of greetings in Tanzania, I had to practice deep breathing and counting to ten. But store clerks are much friendlier if you first greet them. People on the bus are much friendlier. The stranger on the road who is about to show you where to find the Mbuyuni bus will be friendlier if you first greet her.
These greetings would not help me get a loaf of bread or roll of toilet paper. They would not tell me whether this bus went to Rombo or Mwika. I felt I was just doing a little dance to please someone before I was allowed to ask for what I wanted.
The irony, I eventually learned, was that these greetings forced me to recognize that the store clerk was a human being, as well as the postal clerk and the stranger on the road. They had feelings, problems, mothers and fathers, and they had lived yesterday, live today. They breathed, they woke up, they slept. Even if the answers always started out positive, the truth could emerge in the next three greetings at which time I would learn that the clerk had a headache or his mother had just died.
In the two months I had been in the States, all of that civility disappeared in a snap without my notice. In the Schipol Airport, I only felt weary and lost with more hours of weariness to follow. So when I passed the group of airport officials, I was only thinking they could give me an answer, not that they were human. And when the one official said, “Good morning!” in a cheerful voice, my weariness was released like air from a stretched balloon. I laughed and replied in kind. The men said, “Where are you from?” I told them America. They said, “Yes, we can!” For the life of me, I had no clue what they were talking about until I remembered Obama’s campaign slogan.
Then I tried the question again. Yes, they knew where F-8 was: go out these doors, go upstairs, enter the big doors and walk through the entire airport. But by the time I’d gotten this news, I was buoyed enough by their good cheer and the gentler reminder of how to be a human.
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