End of Year Musings

The school year has come to an end.  Exams ended last week, and I have finished grading nearly 200 tests and marking and equal number of report cards.  Now we have a holiday until January.

We arrived at our school in the middle of last school year, so this is the first time I have spent a full year with my students.  It's fun to see how they have grown in that time.  Some of the boys have shot up noticeably.  I was taller than most of my students in January, and now perhaps a third of the boys tower over me.  Some of them never will, however, the result of early childhood malnutrition and disease.

I always swore I would never teach high school, yet here I am, and I love my students.  They are cheerful and curious (about me, if not about their studies).  They don't sass, as it's unthinkable in this culture to talk back to an authority figure, but they do tune out when they are bored or overwhelmed.

It being the end of the term and a time of assessment, I have been wondering how much of a difference we have made here.  We have completed a rainwater harvesting project at the school, but the rains have not started in earnest yet, so we have not been able to judge its benefits.  As for our teaching--who knows?  The bright kids could learn from any teacher, and I don't feel I have been able to reach the slowest ones.  (Me, two weeks ago:  "What is 9 plus 7?"  Student:  "3.")  We do provide them with teachers, though, and without us the school would have to scramble to cover the classes.  Mark and I form one-half of the math department for our school of 800 students, and there are very few Tanzanian math teachers available. 

In addition, we are the first Americans most of our students have ever meet.  Unlike tourists who can be only glimpsed riding in Land Cruisers on their way to the wildlife parks, the students, teachers, and townspeople can see us shopping for produce in their markets, riding daladalas, and washing our laundry on our doorstep.  They can talk to us casually, ask questions, and get to know us.  (I had a wide-ranging conversation with two teachers last week which started when I told them about Thanksgiving.  The subjects touched on were religion in America, the separation of church and state, volunteerism, the status of blacks in America, and what Mark and I will do when we return to the States, among others.)  The Peace Corps believes, and I hope it is true, that this person-to-person communication is as powerful a mission as our primary job of teaching math.  It's what keeps me going on those frustrating days when students are unresponsive, the electricity is out, and there is not even a trickle of water coming from the tap.

GHSP Volunteers

Aid organizations of various kinds are thick on the ground here in Tanzania.  Faith-based groups run clinics, schools, and orphanages.  Non-governmental organizations (NGOs) work on everything from building cross-cultural awareness (like in my last post to this blog) to saving an endangered species.  And, of course, foreign government groups like the Peace Corps and the UK's VSO focus on education, environment, community development and health.  One unique new program is the Global Health service Partnership (GHSP).  This a public-private partnership between the Peace Corps and SEED, part of Massachusetts General Hospital's global health center. 

The volunteers are doctors and nurses who have chosen to train doctors and nurses in developing countries with limited resources.  They are posted in medical schools and hospitals and are teaching a new generation of medical professionals, which are sorely needed in this part of the world.  Currently, the program is up and running in Tanzania, Uganda, and Malawi.

We went to Mwanza a few weeks ago and met with the volunteers.  They have been in Tanzania for 3 months now, and were brought together for a conference to give them a chance to compare experiences and best practices with one another, ask questions, blow off steam, and get a second wind.  Mark and I were asked to give a presentation to the conference participants on the Tanzanian education system.  The volunteers wanted to know the educational background of their students.  I hope that the information we supplied gave them some insight into their students, who, the volunteers report, have difficulty with critical thinking and analysis.  Students here have learned by rote all of their lives, and tend to rely on that, even those in medical schools, who are among the brightest in the country.

The GHSP volunteers differ from regular Peace Corps volunteers in significant areas.  First, they are recruited by SEED and given professional support by that organization.  They have committed to a volunteer stint of one year, rather than the 27 months of a Peace Corps volunteer.  And, while the Peace Corps has health sector volunteers who work with communities' health education (raising awareness of HIV/AIDS and malaria prevention, or promoting maternal and baby care) GHSP volunteers teach medical /nursing students in hospital settings and get involved in delivering babies and treating illness.

We were impressed with the GHSP volunteers.  They are all committed and experienced, and the program has the potential to make a significant positive impact on  health care in this country.           

A Special Trip

One  of the teachers and two of the students from our school went to the Netherlands recently,  on a trip sponsored by an NGO whose mission is to expose young people to different cultures.,  The NGO has sent European students to Tanzania several times, and brought students from Peru, Tanzania, and Asia to the Netherlands for two weeks this November.

The teacher and students have never been out of Tanzania before this trip.  Since I have spent the last 18 months recording my impressions of this country, I was especially interested in the teacher's reactions to visiting a first-world country.

Here are some of the things he had to say, with my comments:

·       People would see them and say, "Jambo, Tanzania!".  (That reminded me of the way Tanzanians who don't know us see our white faces and say, "Mzungu (white person)!  My friend!"  or how little children will say, "howareyouhowareyouhowareyou..." mindlessly until we are out of sight.)

·       He was amazed that Amsterdam is below sea level:  "Can you imagine?"  (I think it's amazing, too.)

·       He was impressed by the trains.  They are fast ("Zip-zip!") and the ride is smooth.  Very different from bus rides here, most of which are not fast, and which are very bumpy, especially over dirt roads.  (The road between our town and Arusha is being resurfaced, so there is a dirt road detour of at least 10 km.  After a bone-rattling trip into the city and back I feel wobbly for hours.)

·       They toured churches, and he found them beautiful and huge, but sadly only holding a few elderly worshippers.  (Religious devotion is much more a vibrant, living thing here in Tanzania.)

·       They visited schools, and he remarked on the fact that they had special education classes for slow learners,  (Here in Tanzania, such children are lumped with the rest to sink or swim.  They mostly sink, but are promoted from year to year anyway, until they fail national exams at the end of 7th grade or their sophomore year in high school.)

·       They were given cheese sandwiches for lunch.  He didn't use the term, but his reaction was "Eeew!"  (Cheese is rare and expensive here, and most Tanzanians have never eaten it.  Some find the smell, texture, and taste disgusting.  They  are used to hearty meals of beans and rice or ugali, which is made of corneal and is similar to polenta.)

I'm sure he had many other new experiences that he is still processing.  What an opportunity for him and for the students!  I expect they will remember this trip for the rest of their lives, and that it will alter, if only slightly, their worldview.

It Takes a Village ... to Finance a Wedding

We went to the wedding of a good friend last weekend.  Lemjini is one of our "counterparts" --- Tanzanian colleagues who have been asked to help us fit into the school and community.  Lemjini is also the head of the math department at our school.  Since we both teach math we see a lot of him.

A couple of months ago he asked us to be on his wedding committee, and we accepted.  Weddings are planned and financed differently in Tanzania than in the States.  Here, a wedding committee's main task is to collect contributions from the groom's family and friends for the wedding expenses.  The groom comes up with an estimated budget for the event, including reception venue, food, entertainment, cars, bridal gown, and so on.  Lemjini estimated he would spend $3500 to $4000.  Each member of the committee is expected to contribute at least $37.  Obviously, the larger the committee, the better.  But the contributions do not stop with the committee.  One of our first tasks was to order contribution cards.  These cards look almost like invitations.  They state who is getting married and when, and invite the recipient to contribute.  The committee members hand out the cards to anyone who knows the groom, even remotely.  People who choose to contribute (usually about $12) will later receive an actual wedding invitation.  If they don't contribute, so sorry, but they will not be invited. unless they are very close family members of the bride and groom.

 The groom is expected to pay for a significant portion of the expenses himself, perhaps as much as half.  And, he also must pay the "bride price".  (He is not actually purchasing the bride, but compensating her parents for the loss of her services and companionship.  A subtle difference, but a real one.)  The bride price varies from about 10 cows, or the equivalent, for a 14-year old girl, to 50 cows for a fair-skinned young woman.  (Yes, that is what I said:  fair-skinned.  Racism, or rather, color-ism exists here, despite beliefs to the contrary.)   A cow is worth about $400.  That is about 8 months of income at the minimum wage, or 2 months of salary for a public primary school teacher.  We didn't ask what Lemjini paid in bride price, as we thought it would be rude.

I can imagine my friends with daughters in the U.S. thinking that this is a pretty good deal, but the family and friends of the bride have expenses too.  First, there is the "Send Off" party, sort of a pre-wedding reception that primarily includes the brides' side of the community.  The groom does show up, but few others from his family.  Traditionally, this event was when the bride was taught how to be a good wife.  Then, there is a Kitchen Party, similar to a bridal shower.  Again, the bride is taught the essentials of running a household.   These may have been necessary cultural and instructional events in a society where girls were married around the age of 14 (which does still happen in some rural communities), but Lemjini's bride is in her 20s, and I'm sure she needs no instruction.  But they are good excuses for a party, and the brides' family and friends finance them both.

Besides contributions, gifts are expected from guests to the wedding as well.  In our school, there is a social welfare committee which uses money deducted monthly from staff salaries to buy gifts for wedding, babies, and funerals.  Most of the staff is young and healthy, so we have many of the first two, but few of the last.

Wedding contributions can be a burden for people who have many young friends.  In our school there have been 3 weddings since August and there will be one more in November.  Two of our friends confided in me that they were strapped for cash because of it.  On the other hand, people can confidently expect help when they themselves marry.

So, what about Lemjini's wedding?  It was beautiful.  All our hard work and anxiety over collecting enough money resulted in a lovely event.  Nice venue, good food, and a bride and groom who were obviously enchanted with one another.  What more could anyone ask?

Zanzibar

On our way to a conference in Dar es Salaam, we spent two days in Zanzibar's Stone Town.  Zanzibar is a collection of islands just off the mainland of Tanzania.  It was united with the rest of the country (then called Tanganyika) in the early 1960s, but it still feels like a very different place.  The population is predominately Muslim, and the ethnic groups seem to include more people of Arab descent than on the mainland.

Stonetown feels ancient, with its twisty streets, many only wide enough for 1 car.  No sidewalks in the interior, so we had to flatten ourselves against a wall when one drove through.  The town is in fact very old.  It has a long history as a trading center of slaves and spices.  We visited the old slave market where the victims of the trade were held in horrifyingly small, filthy and dark underground rooms.  The property is now owned by the Anglican Church, and visitors are guided through for a small fee.

We also went to a pleasanter site, a spice farm.  Along with about a dozen other, mostly European, tourists, our guide led us through a demonstration farm of mixed plantings.  He identified varieties and gave us each some to sniff.  The plants included lemongrass, ginger, turmeric (which looks similar to ginger, but is a pale orange), cardamom, annatto, pepper, cinnamon, and many others.  Which, of course, we were given the opportunity to buy at the end of the tour, when we ate a delicious lunch flavored with some of the spices we had seen.

On return to Stonetown, we rested in our hotel room on the Zanzibari bed--elaborately carved with inset painted tiles.  The beds are built high, and our mattress top must have been 3 feet off the ground.  In the morning, with birds chirping in the trees and vines outside our window and surrounded by the mosquito net suspended from a wooden frame, I felt like I was in a tree house.

One aspect of visiting Zanzibar I especially enjoyed was the availability of seafood.  We don't get much of it in our small town in the interior of the country, only occasional frozen fish from Lake Victoria.  So, I ate prawns for the first time in more than a year and a half.  There are good restaurants in Stonetown, which caters to tourists.  Our favorite is "Lazuli", where Zanzabari food meets California (by my definition).  Smoothies and seafood, expertly prepared with fresh, local ingredients, and delicately flavored with herbs and spices.

The second evening, we climbed to the rooftop bar (6th floor, no elevator) of the Maru Maru Hotel, for the best view of the sunset in Stonetown.  We ordered drinks and listened to a small band play.  While we were there they did a very odd rendition of "Guantanamera", sung with a Swahili accent.                

When we left the following morning, we took the fast ferry to Dar es Salaam.  We paid the extra couple of dollars to sit in the VIP section, which has the most luxurious seating I have seen in any transportation anywhere.  We were entertained with game shows and a Charlie Chaplin film on a large screen for the duration of the 2 hour ride, after the opening announcement of passenger regulations--no smoking, spitting, fighting, bad language, or stealing!  An amusing end to our weekend in Zanzibar.    

From Inside a Zanzibari bed 

 

A Visit From a Friend

Our friend Linda came to visit us here a couple of weeks ago.  We met Linda in graduate school, some 40 years ago.  Even though she lives across the country (the U.S., that is) we have managed to keep in touch all these years.

 Linda flew in to Kilimanjaro International Airport, and on our advice tried to take the airline's shuttle to Moshi, where we were to meet her at the booking office.  Only, as it turned out, she was the only passenger headed in that direction.  There was some talk about the shuttle waiting for the next plane to arrive before leaving, which was clearly not an optimal solution for her or us.  But, finally, the airline's private car took her to the office for the same low price of $10. 

We spent a couple of days in Moshi, allowing her to rest and get a good view of Mt. Kilimanjaro.  On the second day we went to the hot springs nearby with a car, driver, guide, and box lunches.  We took the main road west for about 10 miles, and then went off road through an arid, bumpy, dusty region for another 12 or so miles.  Just when I was wondering if we were headed to the right place, a large group of palm trees appeared.  We drove into their midst, and parked next to the spring.  It's called a hot spring, but it's really only warm.  The water is clear, with a slightly blue glow, and it bubbles up from an underground cave.   Mark and Linda paddled around for a time.  I am more of a beach bunny than a swimmer, so I sat on the rocks and dangled my feet.  The pool where we swam extends off in a couple of directions, and Mark wanted to explore one of them, but he was advised not to do so by a local attendant, because crocodiles live there(!)  While we were doing that, our driver and guide set up a table and chairs for us and got out our box lunches.  It was a lovely and different way to spend a day.

The following day we took Linda out to our site via bus and daladala, where she was able to enjoy the delights of bucket baths, flickering electricity, doing laundry by hand, and sleeping under a mosquito net.  We took her to the colorful Sunday marketplace.  She sat in on a class of mine and one of Mark's the day before she left, and took many photos of the school.  She said she enjoyed the visit.  I know that we did.     

 

Hot Spring

 

Me and some of my students

Earthquake

We had an earthquake one day this week.

We live near volcanoes, inactive and active, and also near the Great Rift Valley, so it is an area that has had a lot of seismic activity in the past.  And, apparently, some in the present.  We have noticed cracks in buildings - our house has one across the front porch and another (patched) in the living room floor.  The staff room of the school has a crack in the wall that is as much as 1/4 inch wide.  I didn't know if this was due to earthquakes or merely shoddy construction.  Now, I think it is a combination of the two.

I was teaching one of my math classes when the quake hit, starting to write an assignment on the blackboard.  The tremor lasted 3 to 4 seconds, which seemed like a long time.  Long enough for a flatlander like me to realize what was going on and think, "Oh, ___!"

My 47 students all started screaming and most of them rushed to the door, which was closed.  They knocked over desks and chairs in their panic, and pushed and shoved at the door (which opens inward).  My yelling "Don't push!" went unheeded.  Soon, a male teacher outside managed to get the door open, and they poured out.  I turned to survey the room and saw 2 or 3 boys jumping out of the windows.

There was no damage to the building, and after a few minutes we all returned to the classroom.  I gave my kids a little talk about keeping calm and exiting the room safely, but I don't think my words of wisdom registered.  What this school needs is earthquake drills.  I talked to the assistant headmaster about it on Friday, and he liked the idea.  So, now I have the assignment to research the best way to do it, and to start implementation.

Wedding details

We went to the wedding of one of the teachers at our school last weekend.  In most respects, the ceremony resembled a Christian wedding held in the States -- except for the Swahili, of course.  The bride wore a long white gown with a veil.  She was accompanied by one attendant in a dark pink dress.  The groom and his best man were dressed in black suits with dark pink shirts and pocket handkerchiefs.  The sanctuary was also decorated with dark pink bunting.

The church, in a setting with a beautiful view of Mt. Meru in the background, is a large, plain building made of cement blocks covered with stucco.  It has a tin roof with exposed beams soaring high above the parishioners.  Carved into the end wall of the interior is a 15 to 20 foot tall cross.  Clear windows cover most of the right and left walls of the room.  There are no pews, but white plastic chairs are provided for the congregation.   The church can hold several hundred people.

We settled into our seats before the ceremony was ready to start.  Soon, the groom and best man came through the door, in slow procession with relatives behind them.  Lively recorded music played while all performed what I think of as the Tanzanian processional two-step.  (One foot moves forward, touches the ground lightly, and then forward and slightly outward with a firmer step.  Then the other foot repeats.  Step STEP, step STEP.  It produces a deliberate, slightly swaying gait.)  A few of the female relatives broke into high-pitched ululation as the group trailed down the aisle.

Some delay followed.  The ceremony and reception were photographed and video-taped, and many times the proceedings were stopped to allow the participants to pose for pictures.

The bride and her party appeared at the door.  The groom and best man walked slowly back to meet them and escort them into the sanctuary.  Then, they all moved down the aisle again to the front of the church, this time with the bride's family stepping behind in a joyful crowd.  Everyone then took their seats.

There were songs -- one by the church choir and another by a soloist.  The ceremony that followed was familiar.  A sermon, albeit a long one, prayers, and the wedding vows.  Finally, the couple embraced.  Then, everyone sat down to watch a duet sung and acted, which turned out to be something of a morality tale with the theme of respect for one's husband(!)   Afterward, the bridal party exited the church in the same deliberate fashion that they had entered it.

The reception was as elaborately choreographed as the wedding ceremony.  Each family member of the newly-wedded couple was introduced to the assembled guests.  Then, the "cake" was brought out -- as in other important events (see my earlier blog, "Confirmation Day") this was a whole, roasted goat, complete with head, horns, and green leaves sticking out of its mouth.  The bridal couple made the first slice and then fed each other a piece of the meat on toothpicks.  Then they proceeded to feed bits of meat to the close family members and most honored guests.  "Champagne" -- probably non-alcoholic -- followed.  Big tumblers were poured for the bride and groom, and they gave each other a sip, then gave sips to the close family members.  After that, small cakes (pastry, this time) were presented to family groups.  The teachers of our school were presented with one as well, as honored guests.

The next item on the agenda was the bridal couple's giving of gifts to their parents.  These were lengths of fabric for clothing.  No first-world trinkets here, but solid, useful gifts.

With  each presentation, the bride made a deep curtsey.  It isn't easy to give a sip of wine or a bite of meat to a standing person while one is sinking to the ground, so, in some cases, the groom supported her arm with his.  (The better not to spill, perhaps?)  the groom did not bow when the bride curtsied.  The woman is the one who has to demonstrate humility.

(As a side note, the couple dropped by the school a few days ago.  When I was introduced to the young woman again, she greeted me with her eyes on the ground, as a sign of respect to me, a higher-status old person.  I have noticed this in other young women, but not to such a pronounced degree.  It bothers me, and is certainly not what I am used to seeing from confident, respected, Western women.)

Finally, it was time for the guests to give gifts to the couple.  People formed a line and danced their way to the front of the room, holding their gifts above their heads. Our group of  teachers brought a glass-topped coffee table and matching stools.  Other groups of guests gave a bed, loveseats, and a refrigerator.  The gifts were handed to an attendant, and then we were able at last to greet the couple.  It was, literally, a receiving line.

After the gifting, dinner was served.  As usual in Tanzania, guests first had an opportunity to wash their hands.  There was an attendant with a pitcher of water and basin at the beginning of the buffet table.  The food served was plain rice, pilau (seasoned rice), bits of beef in gravy, fried chicken, fried cooking bananas, stewed cooking bananas, cucumber salad, watermelon, and orange segments.  We ate with our hands, in the traditional way.

Dinner marked the end of the festivities for us.  Our group had to rush out after dinner to make our way back to our town, well over 40 km away.  So, I don't know if the bride tossed her bouquet, or what other concluding activities there were.  I just know that it was a very interesting day.     

A Wedding -- on Tanzanian Time

This blog turned out to be so long that I decided to make two separate posts.  The one below will discuss logistics and timing, and a separate one will detail the ceremony and reception.

One of the teachers at our school got married last weekend, and we attended the wedding in a suburb of Arusha.  At least a dozen teachers planned to go, so one of them arranged to hire a dala-dala to take us from our town directly to the church.

The wedding was scheduled for 11:00 a.m., and the reception was to be at 3:00 p.m.  We were told that we would leave from the school approximately at 9:00 and likely return around 6:00.  That was good, as it is not wise to travel at night here.

Mark and I showed up at the school gate at the designated time, in our punctual American fashion, to find no one there.  We located the transportation organizer in the school kitchen, and he told us he would call us when the dala-dala arrived, probably around 10:00.

We did actually leave at that time, and jiggled and jolted our way to Arusha.  On the way to the church, we stopped at a small shopping district.  Two teachers hopped out and purchased a glass-topped coffee table with two matching stools as a wedding gift from the group at the school.  They loaded it into the dala-dala, and off we drove to the church.

We arrived at noon, only an hour late.  The bride arrived at 12:30, in a car adorned with roses and ribbons.  Her car was preceded by a pickup truck with a brass band in the truck bed, tootling away to herald her arrival.

The guests and wedding party made their way into the sanctuary and the ceremony started.  It was a long service. Afterwards, an announcement was made that the wedding party would go to a hotel in central Arusha for formal photos before returning for the reception.  Off they went, again preceded by the pickup truck of musicians playing as loudly as they could.  The time was 3 p.m.

While we waited, the guests relaxed and chatted in the field surrounding the church. We enjoyed the clear view of Mt. Meru to the northwest.  Some guests organized their gifts -- a queen-sized, carved wooden bed frame was assembled, as were wooden-framed loveseats with upholstered foam cushions.  One group released a refrigerator from its packing crate.  These are gifts that large groups of guests pitched in together to purchase.  No bridal registries exist here, but families have always been able to get the word out about what a young couple needs.            

The wedding party returned at 5:00.  I was starved, since I had not had lunch, but, happily, there was a small shop near the church, where several of us purchased drinks and sweet crackers to hold us over.  Besides being hungry, I had an uncomfortable feeling about the trip home.  The dala-dala driver had been told that we would call for pickup at 6:00. That obviously wasn't going to happen.  However, I decided to relax and enjoy the evening.  We were with a large group of people who were familiar with how things work in this country, and it was not up to me to organize things.

The reception was at least as elaborately choreographed as the wedding ceremony, and dinner was the last item on the agenda.  The groom was aware that we needed to return to our small town, so we were directed to the buffet line after the wedding party and immediate families.

As soon as we were finished eating, our group of teachers headed out the door.  It was now 7:30.  On the way to the road, we learned that the dala-dala driver who brought us had given up on hearing from us and gone home.  Here we were in a dark, semi-rural suburb of a city that is 40 km from home.  It is not considered safe to travel at night here.  No street lights.  Bad roads.  Crazy drivers.  Occasional bandits.  (Yes, bandits!) 

We were fortunate that a dala-dala stopped in front of the church when the driver saw our group standing there.  He took us back into the city and dropped us off at the spot where the buses that go to our town make their pickups.  Of course, there were no vehicles waiting.  The normally bustling street was nearly empty.  The shops were shuttered and padlocked. The academic head of our school strode off in the direction of the main bus station to find transportation, and most of the rest of us settled in to wait.  A few teachers had friends in the city that they arranged to meet and with whom they would spent the night.  I was beginning to think that we would have to find a guest house ourselves, when a dala-dala pulled up.  Hooray!   We loaded up.  The trip home was uneventful, after our long day.  As Mark unlocked the door to our house by the light of the flashlight on my cell phone, I reflected on the wealth of cultural experiences we had had since morning.  And, it was only 9:30 p.m.      

Nee-ah-GAR-ah

It's been chilly here, even though we are only 3 degrees south of the equator.  We are about a mile high (think "Denver"), and July is the coldest month of the year.  I don't have a thermometer, but it feels like it has been dropping into the upper 40s at night.  Homes and schools aren't heated or insulated, so we bundle up to keep comfortable.

Mark has been wearing his hooded Niagara University sweatshirt regularly, and it always gets a reaction from the Tanzanians who see it.  They say that the word "Niagara" looks like an African word, and wonder where the university is.  Mark tells them that it's in America, and they can hardly believe it.  Then he explains that Niagara is a name from the Iroquois tribe that means "flowing water".  Tribes and tribal languages resonate with the people here, so then they understand.

And Nee-ah-GAR-ah?  That's how a speaker of Swahili pronounces "Niagara".

Motorcades

We've seen a number of motorcades in the past month.  The first was when we arrived back in Tanzania after our trip to Ghana.  Striding through the airport, we were approached by several taxi drivers.  We told them, "No thank you.  We will go by dala-dala."  One had the effrontery to lie, "Obama is in town.  The dala-dalas aren't running."  Which, of course, was ridiculous.  Obama was not due for 2 more days.

We made our way to the dala-dala stop across the street from the airport.  Three of the minibuses stopped, but they were so packed we did not even attempt to board with our backpacks.  Then, suddenly, there was no more traffic headed into the city.  Peering down the road, we could see cars and trucks stopped at the next intersection.  So we waited.  And waited.  More and more people gathered at the bus stop.

After a few minutes, we heard small cannon--Boom!  Boom!  Boom!--from the direction of the airport.  People around us started to take out their cell phones.  I heard some of them say "Obama".  Eventually, motorcycles sped past, sirens sounding and lights flashing.  Then there were police vehicles, Land Rovers, and a limousine with dark windows.  More police vehicles and a bus full of white men in black suits followed.  (One of them pulled out a small camera and snapped a photo of the people standing at the bus stop. I wonder what he thought when he saw me and Mark with our pale faces in the crowd.)  Last in the motorcade was an ambulance.  Soon, regular traffic was allowed to flow, and we took a dala-dala to our destination.  We found out later that various heads of state and diplomatic ministers were in the city that week, and it was one of them who passed us.  President Obama arrived later in the week.  (And would have had a longer motorcade).

We had a similar experience last weekend.  We were on our way to Arusha for shopping and lunch when our dala-dala was pulled over, not once, but twice for motorcades.  The president of Tanzania was appearing at a local event.  Once it was clear what was happening, most of the people on the dala-dala got out and stood alongside the road to get a better view.  After 10 minutes or so, the motorcade sped past--sirens, motorcycles, police, limo, more police, and, finally, an ambulance.  The passengers, driver, and conductor scrambled to re-board so that our vehicle could be first of the several stopped along the road to pull out and be on our way.

We were stopped once more on our return trip from Arusha.  Watching a motorcade was a fun experience the first time or two, but I'm a little tired of having our travels interrupted.

Trip to Ghana

Our school break was in June, and after grading exams and completing reports we had weeks of free time.  We decided to visit our friend Rose in Ghana.  Hey, we're on the same continent, right?  It should be easy.

When discussing arrangements for our visit, Rose asked if we already had visas.  Oop!  No.  So, we went in search of how to get them.  Internet was no help.  Is there a Ghanaian embassy or consulate in Tanzania?  Nope.  Finally we learned that we could possibly get them on  arrival at the airport.  Rose's businessman brother kindly supplied us with a letter stating that he would be responsible for us during our stay.  It turned out that his letter made all the difference in the attitudes of the immigration officials who supplied the visas.  They went from suspicious to cooperative in an instant.

We flew into Accra at night and were amazed at the size of the city.  It has a population of over two million, and twinkling lights extended far into the distance.  We learned that the city is growing rapidly, due to people moving in from rural areas in search of opportunity.

Rose met us and took us to her lovely home in a suburb of Accra.  She put us into a guest room with the best bed we have slept on in a year.

We saw many similarities between Ghana and Tanzania.  The people are friendly in both countries.  People live in similar-looking houses, which are not built of wood because they would be destroyed by termites before they could be completed.  Instead, the houses of those who can afford it are usually built of cement block, even interior walls.  The more well-off add wall finishes, tile floors, and ornate ceilings.  Middle-class and wealthy homeowners live in walled compounds with gates and sometimes gatekeepers.  Crime is a factor in housing construction in countries where there is much poverty, as well as the fact that local police cannot always be relied on for protection.

Those able to afford it have a main house in the walled compound and a smaller one for servants' quarters.  The people who live in the small house may actually be servants or may just be younger members of the extended family.  In any case, homes at any economic level need a lot of help to run.  Even those who can afford modern appliances experience power outages.  A washing machine and dryer are not labor-saving if there is no electricity to run them.  Convenience foods are rare, expensive, and less tasty than meals made from scratch.  Hence the need for help running a household.  And, (looking back at my economic training) when labor is cheaper and more reliable than labor-saving devices, people have household help.

Rose took us on a tour of Accra, which is a cleaner and more modern city than any in Tanzania.  We were also surprised and pleased that all of the street signs and billboards were in English!  Ghana's national language is English, but there are many tribal languages as well.  We visited a textile market that was full of the colorful and textured Kente cloth.  I did not buy any then, as I noticed that people do not use it for everyday wear.  It is only for special occasions.  We went to Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park, which contains the museum and tomb of the father of the country.  I found myself affected more than I had expected by the museum, which held, among copies of his books and some of his furniture, photos of him with John F Kennedy, Mao Tse Tung, and Fidel Castro:  people right out of the headlines of my childhood, during a turbulent time in history.

Another day we visited a dam east of Accra that provides electricity to most of the country.  It was an impressive spot.  Along the way we noted that the small towns and villages, with their tiny shops and street vendors, look very much the same as those in Tanzania.

Mid-week we did some shopping and errands with Rose, and had lunch at her sister's beautiful home.  Rose's many sisters and brothers--some of them cousins-- form a close, extended family, complete with nieces, nephews, aunties, and uncles.  Older people are shown deference in the culture and it is the duty of children to help their elders.  As a senior myself, I approve of the system.

At the end of the week we took a trip to Kakum Forest, which lies a couple of hours to the west of the city.  The traffic is so heavy that it took us 90 minutes to clear the suburbs.  Kakum is a rainforest preserve with rope bridges suspended from treetop to treetop.  We were told that no one had ever fallen from the bridges, so, with some misgivings, I made my way across them  I found that looking down was not so scary, as all I could see was the tops of smaller trees.  The worst part is when the twenty-somethings in front of me got playful and rocked the bridge.  I spoke to them sternly (Hooray for the culture of respect for elders!) and they stopped.

On our way back to Accra we stopped at Cape Coast Castle built hundreds of years ago for trade.  The fort was used as an assembly point for captured slaves waiting for ships to take them to the west.  It's a solemn spot, but the coastline there is beautiful, similar to Cinque Terra, in Italy.

The next evening we boarded our plane back to Tanzania, happy to have been able to visit our dear friend and to have met some of her family.  We plan to see her next in just over a year, in Florida.               

Just when I thought we were street-savvy...

We were in Dar es Salaam about a month ago.  The city, which has one of the county's two major airports, seemed to swarm with Peace Corps volunteers.  All of us who teach in Tanzania were on holiday, and many were either traveling or meeting families who came to visit.  We ran into one friend and her parents and the five of us decided to have dinner on the street.  In the towns and cities here, dusk brings the emergence of street food vendors.  These vary from very simple, a mama grilling corn cobs over a charcoal fire, to more elaborate, with tables, chairs, and printed menus.  On a parking lot near a hotel popular with PCVs was one of the latter, and we opted to eat there.  We sat down at a table and a man arrived and asked if he could help us.  We asked for menus and he brought them, and after a few minutes he reappeared and asked us what we wanted to order.  We told him in a mixture of Swahili and English, and he sat down with us and slowly and laboriously wrote on a piece of paper.  He then left to turn in our order.

At this point, everything seemed fine.  If the waiter seemed a little uninformed about the menu options, well, that was not unusual.  He may have been new at the job.  He was certainly friendly enough and seemed eager to be of help.  We were too busy chatting and sharing stories to pay much attention to anything odd about his behavior.

A few minutes later, the man returned chatted a while, and then totaled the cost of our order.  We paid him, and he left, never to be seen again.

Some time later, our food was delivered by different people.  There seemed to be some confusion about exactly what was ordered. Soon the proprietor came to our table, and we discovered that the man who so helpfully took our orders and our money was not a waiter at all, but a con artist.  He did turn in the orders, telling the owner that he was our guide, but he took off with the cash.  Well, our food was partially eaten by that time, and consternation was felt all around.  The owner graciously did not charge us for the meal.  Later, he returned to our table and told us that some of his employees recognized the man, and that he would be caught.  I am sure he was made to pay, in one way or another.  People in this country have no tolerance for thieves, who are often subject to mob justice.        

Lessons learned:  Always be aware of your surroundings, and never pay for something before you receive it.

The Uhuru Torch

The Uhuru Torch visited our school last week.  Uhuru means Freedom in Swahili (did you know that, Star Trek fans?),  and this torch is the symbol of Tanzania.  When the country achieved  independence in 1961, the torch was carried to the top off Mt
Kilimanjaro, to symbolically shine the light of freedom across the  whole country.  Now, the torch travels from town to town every year,  much like the Olympic torch.  And it came to our school!  Great  anticipation and preparations!  Mark and I even have Uhuru Torch polo shirts.   (They only had XXL, so mine hangs on me like a dress).

Of course, in typical Tanzanian fashion, it was 2 hours later than we  were told, but no one minded, not even us.  And, it only stayed about  15 minutes, but that was OK too.  It spent the night on the market grounds in our town

I've attached a photo.  That's our headmistress in a blue track suit  in the middle, reading a prepared statement.  The other people in  track suits escort the torch, as do the soldiers. The people who carry the torch wear masks for protection from the fumes.  Students are in the  background of the photo, and behind them is a classroom where I teach,  Do you see  the boy in the Boy Scout shirt?  There is a scout troop at our school.    The shirts, when they manage to acquire them, are probably donated to   Goodwill or whatever in the U.S., and make their way to Africa.  They  all say "Boy Scouts of America" on the front.

What an exciting end to the term for all involved.  Now we have a few weeks off before the next term starts.  We'll relax, get caught up on chores, and do some traveling. 

A New Baby

One of the other math teachers had a baby a couple of weeks ago.  There seem to be a lot of families of our acquaintance having babies, perhaps because many of the Tanzanian teachers here are in their 20s or 30s.  We have learned of some cultural differences associated with these blessed events.

One of these is that babies are indeed "blessings".  New parents aren't to be congratulated, as on an achievement, because babies are a gift from God.  This is true even if the family is very poor or if the parents are unwed.  Babies are a blessing.

Another difference is that a woman's pregnancy is not a proper topic for conversation.  I was told by a woman who spent 12 years as a missionary in this community that miscarriages can and do happen up to 7 months of pregnancy, so chitchat about when the baby is due, and so on, is not welcome until the very end of the term.  The same goes for naming the child.  Infant mortality is high, and though parents love and care for their newborns, they don't take the step of naming them until they are a month old, or more.

The middle-class women we know--other teachers and wives of teachers--have their babies in the local hospital, which reportedly offers good maternal and newborn care.  Women in communities far from healthcare facilities use a midwife, if they are lucky enough to have one, or other women to help them with delivering the baby.  Unfortunately, these rural mothers are usually the ones most at risk for complications due to youth (marriage at 14 is not uncommon) and malnutrition.

But our colleague Ester's little girl was born healthy and beautiful.  Two weeks after the birth those of us in the math/physics department went to visit them at their home.  Angela, a chemistry teacher and Ester's close friend, accompanied us and showed us the way to the house.  Ester and her husband and (now) two children live in a 3-room semi-detached home made of concrete with a tin roof, like ours.  There is a separate small building used as a wash house and I saw an outhouse in the back yard.  There were goats and ducks on the property.  Inside, the living room is furnished in a nice middle-class fashion.  We took off our shoes at the door, and then stepped in onto a rug.  There are two overstuffed loveseats, a comfy chair, and a coffee table.  A small TV sits on a cabinet in the corner, with a picture of Jesus hanging above it.  And there is an imposing hutch, which holds the china on which we were served tea.  

Mark and I went, as did four other math and physics teachers, all male.  We were greeted by Ester's mother (whom we called Mama Ester, in the tradition of the culture) and served tea, bread, boiled eggs, and soda by a young woman who was not introduced but who is probably another relative.  Ester joined us, and she looks well.  She was convinced to bring the child out for us to see.  Not that I could see that much of her, besides a very cute little face.  Babies are bundled up, in Tanzania.  This one was wearing standard baby clothes, including a hat and, presumably booties, and was tightly wrapped in receiving blanket and a big fluffy blanket.  It didn't feel that cold to me, but Tanzanians feel the chill more than Mark and I do.

What surprised me most about the visit was the fact that the male teachers all wanted to hold the baby and cuddle her.  One of them, a single man in his mid-twenties, rocked and talked with her for a long time.  I think he must come from a large family, and have experience with babies.  Certainly, that behavior is not what I have seen from American men of the same age and marital state.

Our visit lasted well over an hour.  Before leaving, we gave gifts to the mother.  Mark and I had bought baby clothes and booties in Arusha the weekend before, and brought them along.  The other teachers pooled their funds and bought flour and sugar at a local shop on our way to the home.  Sugar, especially, is considered a very nice gift here, I've learned.  A Maasai man may bring sugar to the parents of a woman he is courting, to get into their good favor.  Ester didn't open the gifts while we were there, as is also typical.  I did show the baby outfit and booties to Angela beforehand, and she was impressed, so I think they were fine gifts too.

It's good to know that, because Angela is a dear friend of ours, and her baby is due in another two weeks.                 

Challenges

The last 2 weeks have been challenging.  The electricity was off for over 48 hours, and just when it came back on, our running water went off for 8 days.

It made me a little crabby, even though I know that some of our Peace Corps colleagues--and many of the people of this county--face the same living conditions every day.  It's all in the expectations.

How did we cope?  We have flashlights, a solar lantern and candles.  We have many buckets of water stored in our pantry.  When that supply ran low, we enlisted some of the students to refill them at the tap on the other side of campus.  We rationed water for bathing, cooking, dish washing, and toilet flushing.  Cleaning the house and doing laundry was put off.

During this time, students got their own water from the afore-mentioned tap or went off campus to buy it.  I even saw some washing their clothes in the creek that separates the dorms from the classrooms.  Our school has 800+ students, and half of them are boarders.  That's a lot of demand for water.

(Did I mention that this is the end of the rainy season?  Much water in the creek, none coming out of our tap.  Distribution and infrastructure problems are rampant.)

(Mark says I'm complaining.  Honestly, I am not nearly as bothered by all of this as I would have been a year ago.)

So, besides coping and trying not to grumble, what else are we doing?  This area is perennially  drought-ridden.  In fact, in 2008, 500 cows died  because of drought in this district.  Our headmistress is concerned about the continuing problem, and she approached us with the idea of rainwater harvesting at the school.  We formed a committee, and have applied for a grant to fund the building of a system that will direct rainwater from the roofs of 4 classrooms to a 10,000 liter storage tank.  We've been working on the grant application for weeks and have finally sent it off to the agency that we hope will supply the money.  The water will be sent to the school kitchen first, and then the home economics classrooms.  (It takes a lot of water to cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner for all those students).  The water currently being used, and any extra from the harvesting system, will be freed up for use by students and by teachers living on campus.  We pray that the grant will be funded and the system built before the rains start again.       

Buckets

And now, a guest blog, from Mark:

Plastic buckets have become an important part of our lives. 

We wash clothes in buckets.  One bucket is for the washing and two more are for the double rinsing.  In the dry season we hang the clothes out to dry, where they are immediately covered with dust, and then dry quickly.  In the rainy season we hang clothes out to dry, the daily rains come, and we rush around to bring the clothes inside where we find places to hang them.  In a couple of days they are still wet, so we wear them anyway.

We bathe from a bucket.  A little hot water from the stove mixed with the cold natural water makes a refreshing bucket of bathwater.

We store water in buckets.  Fortunately, we are among the lucky ones who have water from an indoor tap.  Unfortunately, frequently the water to our tap in the house is turned off so we use the water stored in our buckets.

We purify water in buckets.  A chemical purifying process is taking place in our buckets right now, making our water safe to drink.

We appreciate and use our ten plastic buckets every day.