When a ball starts rolling down a mountain road with large rocks jutting out, who knows where it will go?
One might say this particular ball started with Zareke, the boy at Sinai Lutheran Church who raised his hand after my presentation of Tanzania pictures. “What kind of toys do the kids play with?” I hadn’t really paid attention to toys but I did see little boys running down the hill with a stick they used to push a wheel. Clearly all parts of it had been something else in previous lifetime. I’d also seen boys kicking a ball made of thirty miles of string.
Like that ball of string, Zareke’s idea was passed to Pastor Ostrom who thought surely it would be easy enough to send a soccer ball to Tanzania, and probably a pump. Yes, I said, that sounded good. I’d find a place for it when I returned.
When three soccer balls and a pump arrived in Tanzania, I wondered who on earth I could give them to. Suddenly the Kirima Primary School up the hill floated in my mind. Village schools often do not get the same benefits as city schools, and I decided they could use three soccer balls and a pump.
The balls and pump sat in a box in my house for about three months until one day, I was sitting in the shelter of the village bus stand, a hut with a roof made of dried banana leaves. Ferdinand, the shoemaker who uses the stand as his shop, was sewing up a shoe when I plopped myself on the bench next to another man. School children passing by greeted him, “Shikamoo, Mwalimu.“ I perked up. “Mwalimu” means “teacher.“ This mwalimu taught at Kirima Primary School. His face lit up when I told him about the soccer balls, and then it radiated like neon when I mentioned the pump. I would come on Monday, I told him.
On Monday, I decided arbitrarily that noonish would be the time to come with the soccer balls. I also had a gazillion pens from my good friend Debi, who teaches English at an elementary school. I also decided arbitrarily that Debi, formerly of Verdigre, Nebraska, where it doesn’t get more rural, would want the pens to go to children in a rural school.
Noonish was actually a good time. There seemed to be a kind of recess going on, with children darting about outside like heated molecules. Soon a small parade formed behind me. The air that had been full of shouting and laughter now quieted to hushed whispers. In Tanzania, someone always offers to carry my bag, and sure enough, one child formed the head of the parade beside me, proudly carrying the plastic bag with three soccer balls.
At the far side of the school, we were eyed carefully by four school teachers, one of whom had a short cane in her hand. When I explained that I had brought a gift from my church in America, I was happily whisked into the main office where I signed my name in a book as big as the desk. For the sake of posterity that probably wasn’t called for, I wrote a paragraph explaining that Sinai Lutheran Church of Fremont, Nebraska, USA had given a gift of three soccer balls, a pump, and many pens. Then I added, “God bless you!” because surely primary school teachers need a blessing every now and then.
I said I wanted to take a picture of the children. The teacher hostess, who had me sign my name, told me to wait, she would arrange for a picture. With a stick in hand, she beat the school bell, which wasn’t a bell but the metal inside part of a truck tire which hung from a tree. (Obviously I have no clue what you call that tire thing.)
Streams of children flowed by. The ones who had misbehaved at an earlier time were snagged by the hand of a teacher who shouted, “You!” and whapped their fingers. The stream flowed toward the assembly area, under the shade of the largest tree on the school grounds. They lined themselves up into columns, each child with his hand on the shoulder in front of him.
The head teacher now told the children about today’s guest. They were to greet me on the count of three. Then I made my entrance, following the hostess teacher, and stepped in front of 436 children. Most of them wore a school uniform--sweaters of green, blue, black, and yellow, the colors of the Tanzanian flag. Many of the sweaters had sleeves or necklines that were threatening to unravel, clearly having been passed down by older siblings. One in the front row only had horizontal threads across his right shoulder. His sweater had been worn by every generation since independence.
The children greeted me according to plan. But I wasn’t prepared for their song, something pure that could not be touched by grime and dust, by harsh words or a stinging cane. This song had a purity of 436. Which was just enough to tip me over into gulping sobs until I realized that every single child and teacher would wonder what the Sam Hill was wrong with me, and the whole event would be ruined.
When the head teacher announced the gift of three soccer balls, a great murmur moved through the sea. Another murmur after the pump was announced and another with the pens. For the picture I wanted to take, the children sat down. Actually it was five pictures in order to get all 436.
On my way out, I was escorted by three of the teachers. They were grateful for the gifts. As we stood at the road, we lingered there for the last thank you and the last goodbye. Just before I stepped into the road, one of the teachers said, “Can you help us? We really need toilets.“
And that was where the ball rolled.
One might say this particular ball started with Zareke, the boy at Sinai Lutheran Church who raised his hand after my presentation of Tanzania pictures. “What kind of toys do the kids play with?” I hadn’t really paid attention to toys but I did see little boys running down the hill with a stick they used to push a wheel. Clearly all parts of it had been something else in previous lifetime. I’d also seen boys kicking a ball made of thirty miles of string.
Like that ball of string, Zareke’s idea was passed to Pastor Ostrom who thought surely it would be easy enough to send a soccer ball to Tanzania, and probably a pump. Yes, I said, that sounded good. I’d find a place for it when I returned.
When three soccer balls and a pump arrived in Tanzania, I wondered who on earth I could give them to. Suddenly the Kirima Primary School up the hill floated in my mind. Village schools often do not get the same benefits as city schools, and I decided they could use three soccer balls and a pump.
The balls and pump sat in a box in my house for about three months until one day, I was sitting in the shelter of the village bus stand, a hut with a roof made of dried banana leaves. Ferdinand, the shoemaker who uses the stand as his shop, was sewing up a shoe when I plopped myself on the bench next to another man. School children passing by greeted him, “Shikamoo, Mwalimu.“ I perked up. “Mwalimu” means “teacher.“ This mwalimu taught at Kirima Primary School. His face lit up when I told him about the soccer balls, and then it radiated like neon when I mentioned the pump. I would come on Monday, I told him.
On Monday, I decided arbitrarily that noonish would be the time to come with the soccer balls. I also had a gazillion pens from my good friend Debi, who teaches English at an elementary school. I also decided arbitrarily that Debi, formerly of Verdigre, Nebraska, where it doesn’t get more rural, would want the pens to go to children in a rural school.
Noonish was actually a good time. There seemed to be a kind of recess going on, with children darting about outside like heated molecules. Soon a small parade formed behind me. The air that had been full of shouting and laughter now quieted to hushed whispers. In Tanzania, someone always offers to carry my bag, and sure enough, one child formed the head of the parade beside me, proudly carrying the plastic bag with three soccer balls.
At the far side of the school, we were eyed carefully by four school teachers, one of whom had a short cane in her hand. When I explained that I had brought a gift from my church in America, I was happily whisked into the main office where I signed my name in a book as big as the desk. For the sake of posterity that probably wasn’t called for, I wrote a paragraph explaining that Sinai Lutheran Church of Fremont, Nebraska, USA had given a gift of three soccer balls, a pump, and many pens. Then I added, “God bless you!” because surely primary school teachers need a blessing every now and then.
I said I wanted to take a picture of the children. The teacher hostess, who had me sign my name, told me to wait, she would arrange for a picture. With a stick in hand, she beat the school bell, which wasn’t a bell but the metal inside part of a truck tire which hung from a tree. (Obviously I have no clue what you call that tire thing.)
Streams of children flowed by. The ones who had misbehaved at an earlier time were snagged by the hand of a teacher who shouted, “You!” and whapped their fingers. The stream flowed toward the assembly area, under the shade of the largest tree on the school grounds. They lined themselves up into columns, each child with his hand on the shoulder in front of him.
The head teacher now told the children about today’s guest. They were to greet me on the count of three. Then I made my entrance, following the hostess teacher, and stepped in front of 436 children. Most of them wore a school uniform--sweaters of green, blue, black, and yellow, the colors of the Tanzanian flag. Many of the sweaters had sleeves or necklines that were threatening to unravel, clearly having been passed down by older siblings. One in the front row only had horizontal threads across his right shoulder. His sweater had been worn by every generation since independence.
The children greeted me according to plan. But I wasn’t prepared for their song, something pure that could not be touched by grime and dust, by harsh words or a stinging cane. This song had a purity of 436. Which was just enough to tip me over into gulping sobs until I realized that every single child and teacher would wonder what the Sam Hill was wrong with me, and the whole event would be ruined.
When the head teacher announced the gift of three soccer balls, a great murmur moved through the sea. Another murmur after the pump was announced and another with the pens. For the picture I wanted to take, the children sat down. Actually it was five pictures in order to get all 436.
On my way out, I was escorted by three of the teachers. They were grateful for the gifts. As we stood at the road, we lingered there for the last thank you and the last goodbye. Just before I stepped into the road, one of the teachers said, “Can you help us? We really need toilets.“
And that was where the ball rolled.
Jeanne,
ReplyDeleteWhat a sweet story! I am thrilled that the pens and soccer balls went to such good use. You are correct, I do have a soft spot for rural villages. : )
Debi