I did not know what my students and I would talk about at lunch, but I figured if we had nothing to say, we could at least eat.
I have learned that the opportunity to practice speaking English with me elicits two responses: terror and delight. This group of first-year Diploma in Education students had been thrilled the week before when I asked them. So thrilled they were sure that Mama Somebody who runs the off-campus canteen would bring the food to us in our classroom. It seemed a huge inconvenience for that mama, so I nixed the idea, especially after Malekea, the guy who sits in the back of the room where the sun beams the brightest, shook his head. Of the 12 or so students in the room, his feet were solidly on the ground.
I could’ve planned topics for discussion, but that seemed like work. Plus, if I plan things, it limits the possibilities of what can happen. (I do not apply this same rule to my classes, though I have abandoned parts or all of my plan after discovering students didn’t understand something critical.)
What did we talk about on the dusty road to Mama Somebody’s canteen? Njau wanted to know how I could expect to teach English and learn Kiswahili at the same time. Based on the fact that he asked this same question 26 times, I decided he really wasn’t interested in my answer; he wanted to practice asking the question. By the time we hiked up the steep short hill to the canteen, he was still asking that question, and suddenly and fortunately, he disappeared.
Outside the front door, Mama was serving food from steaming tables. Inside were about three coffee tables and one tall bar table. Ten of us joined the 3 or 4 people who weren’t expecting to practice speaking English while they ate. Neither was Mama Somebody, judging from her own startled look.
I wasn’t sure about the canteen’s serving system. People were clearly going out to the mama and ordering what they wanted. Bongole was eating rice and meat with sauce. Joseph was eating rice and banana stew. I announced I wanted rice and meat. I stood outside thinking there was a line of people waiting to order and collect food right by the steaming tables and Mama Somebody. But no, Bongole told me to sit down and after a while, the food was brought to me. (I’ve discovered if you don’t know the main language spoken in a country, events appear surprising, fraught with either divine mystery or frustration. Today it was mystery.) All of this was part of a whirlwind of excitement. Bongole, sitting beside me on the bench against the wall, launched into a series of statements about not knowing the local tribal language, he was from the southern region of Iringa, and so on. When I asked him how long it took him to travel to Mwika, he said he didn’t understand the question. Irambo, sitting across from him, did. But Irambo had a mouth full of rice and meat. And apparently, judging from the silence in the room, he was the only one who understood. So we waited.
When Bongole finally explained that it took him 14 hours to travel to Mwika, three other students began to argue, calling him a liar. Bongole, an excitable guy to begin with, could not be contained in his space on the bench. I had to tell him to be quiet three times in English and finally when I said it in Kiswahili, he stopped. Kissima, sitting at the bar table, explained that she had just made the trip from Moshi Town to Iringa and it took her ten hours. After sorting out the details, it was revealed that neither Kissima nor Bongole were lying.
From there we hopped around topics. By the time we had walked back to campus, I was explaining how our large buses in the States have toilets--I used the word “latrine” because they’d just learned it that day. Temba wanted to know where the poop went. How much were people paid to remove the poop? Bongole said he would never do such a job. Kissima said he would if he were paid good money.
At that point, our roads diverged, mine to my apartment, theirs to their next class. Next week, I will write down Mama Somebody’s real name.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Wake, awake!
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.
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.
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.
Friday, June 18, 2010
A brief and fond farewell
It is the time of the semester when every brain cell I’m using has been borrowed or rented for the sole purpose of grading 250 tests, essays, revisions, etc. Those cells will remain that way until I board a plane on August 2nd for the States.
Bottom line: no blog for a while.
I could not have imagined a more glorious adventure than this year in Tanzania. I am grateful to divine, ecclesiastical and other powers that got me here and sustained me. I am also very grateful to various churches, groups, and individuals who donated money.
Gladly, I will be returning to Tanzania at the beginning of October to teach again at Stefano Moshi Memorial University College. Again, I will be serving as a volunteer, with funding from the Nebraska Synod of the ELCA. If you’re inclined to donate toward this cause, the Nebraska Synod and I would be delighted.
If you wish to host a $1,000-a-plate banquet, I would be happy to provide entertainment, but only of a dignified nature, and not on a Sunday. Don’t forget to put my name on the memo line of your $500,000 check to the Nebraska Synod.
Or you can send a check (with my name on the memo line) for next year’s venture to:
Nebraska Synod ELCA
4980 S. 118th St., Suite D
Omaha, NE 68137
If you do send money, I cannot guarantee you less time in purgatory or your own chamber in heaven with a coffee bar and 24-hour massage service, but you will get a heaping thanks from me.
Let me now give at least twenty spoonfuls of thanks to the bevy of loyal followers of this blog. It has been a treat to get personal messages from you. I thoroughly love being here, and sharing all that I love with you has been simple unadulterated joy.
Until October, adieu!
Bottom line: no blog for a while.
I could not have imagined a more glorious adventure than this year in Tanzania. I am grateful to divine, ecclesiastical and other powers that got me here and sustained me. I am also very grateful to various churches, groups, and individuals who donated money.
Gladly, I will be returning to Tanzania at the beginning of October to teach again at Stefano Moshi Memorial University College. Again, I will be serving as a volunteer, with funding from the Nebraska Synod of the ELCA. If you’re inclined to donate toward this cause, the Nebraska Synod and I would be delighted.
If you wish to host a $1,000-a-plate banquet, I would be happy to provide entertainment, but only of a dignified nature, and not on a Sunday. Don’t forget to put my name on the memo line of your $500,000 check to the Nebraska Synod.
Or you can send a check (with my name on the memo line) for next year’s venture to:
Nebraska Synod ELCA
4980 S. 118th St., Suite D
Omaha, NE 68137
If you do send money, I cannot guarantee you less time in purgatory or your own chamber in heaven with a coffee bar and 24-hour massage service, but you will get a heaping thanks from me.
Let me now give at least twenty spoonfuls of thanks to the bevy of loyal followers of this blog. It has been a treat to get personal messages from you. I thoroughly love being here, and sharing all that I love with you has been simple unadulterated joy.
Until October, adieu!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Where it stops, nobody knows
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.
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