Form IV National Exams

Form IV students are sitting for the National Exams, which take about two weeks to administer.  About 1/3 of our teachers are involved in proctoring the exams at other schools.  As a result, I have gone from teaching math to 3  Form I classes to teaching all 5 of them, just so they don't lose out in these two weeks.  Mark is busy, too.  But, with so many teachers absent, quite a few of the lower level classrooms have no teachers.  There is no other organized activity for these students, they just sit and (supposedly) study.

Tanzania takes these exams very seriously. They determine if, how, and where students will be able to advance in education.  They have much more impact than the SAT does in the States.  Each subject exam is 3 hours long, and the sciences include both a theory test and a "practicals" or labwork  exam.  It's so competitive that teachers are not allowed to proctor in their own schools, to prevent cheating and favoritism. After each exam is finished, the papers are collected from each student and locked in the school safe.  ALSO, we have police guards at the school, armed with rifles, to monitor the handling of the exams and ensure against leakage of the questions.

The Form IV students graduated two weeks ago, so after the exams they turn in any equipment they have borrowed or been issued--such as their desks and chairs--and are cleared to go home.  Exam results will come out in March.  Then, they will know if they can go to Form V (similar to community college), go to a vocational school, or just try to get some sort of job. Like in the rest of the world, good jobs are hard to come by without education.

Being foreign in a small Tanzanian town

We live in a small town.  Larger than a tiny village, but small enough that the residents don't see many white people, up close.  There are several Americans who teach at a school a few kilometers outside of town, and then there are me and Mark.  So, white people are objects of attention, curiosity, and sometimes misconception.  Mark and I try to take it with good humor.

I teach math to Form I students, who average about 14 years old.  A few days ago, I gave a set of problems to one of my classes, and went around the room giving advice and encouragement.   I stopped at a girl's desk and was pointing to her work with one hand while resting the other on the paper.  Then, hesitantly, she and two of the neighboring students started touching my fingers and fingernails.  I said, "My skin is just like yours, only a different color."  Then, "My nails are just like yours, only longer."  The reply was, "They're so white!"    I've also had my hair stroked a few times.  I don't generally mind.  They are learning about the world.

Another incident happened a few weeks ago.  Mark and I decided to take the long dala-dala trip into Arusha.  We met another teacher as we walked to the bus stop, and sat with her in the rear of the bus as we rode.  She is a lovely, educated woman in her 30s who speaks excellent English.  On one of the many stops along the way, 3 young Caucasian men with short brown hair boarded the bus and sat near the front.  They were speaking English, and from what I could hear of their conversation, they sounded Australian.  Our friend considered them for a few moments, then turned to me and said, "I think they're Chinese."  "Um, nooo...," I replied gently.  "Chinese people have black hair."

In our peaceful small town, a difference in skin or hair color is a source of curiosity and a good conversation topic.

Graduation festivities

The school year here in Tanzania starts in January and the graduation ceremony for our school's fourth year students was held this weekend.  It was an interesting, and in some ways impressive, event.

Planning did not start until a week before it took place.  The teachers were assigned to committees, and Mark and I were put on the Decoration Committee.  Our committee  decided that the school should rent tents to shield students and guests from the sun, as the event was held outdoors. 

Well, we didn't learn until the day before graduation that the supplier did not have any tents available.  All of them had been previously reserved. So, we obtained several very large tarps, and advanced level students were sent to cut down small trees on campus to serve as tent poles.   I know not to air my opinions about such activities, but they were echoed by a chemistry teacher who grumbled to me about it.  In any event, the advanced level students made the poles, attached the tarps to each other with twine, and erected the tents.  Meanwhile, the first year students brought hundreds of chairs out of classrooms and set them up in the quad under our direction.  Finally, students sprinkled water on the ground to dampen down the dust.  (It's the dry season here, and dust swirls with every breeze).

Graduation was scheduled to start at 11:00 am, according to the official schedule.  Mark and I had not really experienced "Tanzanian time" yet, but we certainly did that day.  At 11:00, decorations were finished, the sound system was set up, and we were ready to go---except no parents were there yet, and students were still milling around.  We finally started about 12:30.  Spectators continued to drift in for another 2 hours.

Tanzanian graduations are very similar to those in the States, but they differ in that they include student-generated entertainment.  Ours had a hip-hop performance, Boy Scouts doing a marching routine,  two contemporary dance groups, a group of Maasai students performing a traditional dance, and a half-hour long drama about a good student who was led astray by wild friends and ended up pregnant.   

The Maasai performance impressed me the most.  The Maasai slowly proceeded to the front of the audience, uttering a few high-pitched cries that at first sounded to me like flutes or whistles.  They were wearing traditional robes in red and blue, and all of them were covered in beaded necklaces, bracelets, anklets, and multiple earrings.  The girls additionally wore stiff, platter-sized necklaces that flapped fetchingly when they shrugged their shoulders, and the boys carried long sticks. The performers made a circle and started bouncing on their toes and heels.  The boys (young men, really) began a low, guttural chant.  The young women moved alternately to approach various of the young men, who were then stimulated to execute high vertical jumps and piercing yells.  After a couple of rounds of this, they proceeded off the way they had come.  Altogether impressive.  I'm sad to say that the other students seemed bored, and chatted to their friends during this performance.   I suppose there was no novelty in it for them.  

After speeches and awards, the graduation certificates were efficiently given to each graduate, and the ceremony broke up without ado.  It was 4:00 pm, and the teachers and invited guests adjourned to our long-awaited luncheon.   The feast was laid out with multiple dishes:  chicken, beef in a flavorful sauce, rice, pilau (a seasoned rice with chunks of beef), cabbage salad, roasted bananas, potatoes, fresh bananas, and watermelon.  There were no utensils provided, and everyone ate with their fingers, in the traditional way.  Water is provided for hand washing beforehand--and afterwards, if needed.

We helped supervise cleanup, too.  It went faster than set up, but it was still nearly 6:00 when we finished.  All in all, it was a long, exhausting, but fascinating day, and we are glad to have experienced it.

Headmistress

So far, I like and respect our school's headmistress.  She speaks slowly and clearly (a big help to us, when she is speaking Swahili!) and with authority.  She is tactful, but she is firm about the proper way to run the school and relate to the community. She moves with dignified decision, but has a good-natured twinkle in her eyes. 

Our headmistress is in her early 50s, tall, and solidly built. She usually dresses as a conservative high school principal in the States would--suits or jacket dresses.  But at the graduation ceremony this weekend, she dressed in an African style, and she looked spectacular!  

Tanzanian dresses are usually closely-fitted to the body down to the knee, and then they flare out.  Her dress at graduation was more of a caftan or tunic worn over a full-length sheath.  It was patterned in black and gold, and had piping around a long, square yoke.  She wore a matching turban-like headscarf, wrapped elaborately.  With my limited vocabulary, all I could think to say when I saw her was "Umependeza sana!"  (You are very pretty!)

Start of school

The school term has officially been open now for 2 weeks.  Which is not to say that we have been teaching all that time.  Not many students showed up for the first day of school, and those that did were set to work cleaning the school.  There is no regular maintenance staff for cleaning (although there are a couple of repairmen), and it is the responsibility of students to clean classrooms and school grounds.  This is typical among African public schools. 

One other reason students start the school term late (besides missing out on major cleaning duties) is that they have to pay school fees, even at the public schools.  Government funding is not enough to run the schools without "contributions" from students.  Even though the word sounds like it would be a voluntary payment, the students are not allowed in the classroom until fees are paid.  The school fee amounts to about $13 USD per term.  That may sound trivial, but most families have very small incomes.  Public school teachers, for example, earn about $200 per month.  I shudder to think what farmers, cattle herders, and market venders earn.    

Anyway, by the second week things were up and running with regular classes and almost full classrooms.  I am teaching first year math at our secondary school.  This school is unusual in that the first year students are divided into classes of 40 to 45 students, so as not to "discourage" them (our headmistress' word).  It is more typical that classes have 70 or 80 students, and some of the upper level classes here do, too.

My students have varying abilities in math and in comprehension of English.  In Tanzania, primary school is taught in Swahili, but secondary school is taught in English.  They take English in primary school, but it is only one of their subjects, and hearing the entire curriculum in the language comes as something of a shock.  My students aren't totally clueless by now, though, as the school year started in January, and this is just the start of the fall term.

One thing students especially lack is school books.  Schools do not provide textbooks like they do in the States.  If students want one, their parents have to buy them in a book store.  In each of my classes, perhaps 4 or 5 students have a math book.  Most of them are not the newest text, but rather 2 or 3 editions old.  Fortunately, math doesn't change much.  However, the situation means that it is impossible to assign reading or exercises from the textbook--there isn't one to which the students have access.  So, everything--definitions, examples, problems, and so on--must be written on the chalkboard.  The students have to copy it all in their notebooks, which become their own, home-made texts.   They do the best they can.  I am giving a test next week, so then I will see how well they study from their notes.  

A couple of surprising things

Just wanted to briefly mention a couple of recent experiences that made us think, "Now, this is really odd."

·       At a recommended "authentic" Chinese restaurant in Arusha, Tanzania, we listened to country singer Don Williams over the restaurant's sound system as we ate.   

·       We went to an outdoor market in a Maasai village about 10km up a dirt road into the mountains above our small town.  The village looked very poor to us--tiny mud huts without doors, and lots of dust.  We appeared to be the only non-Maasai there, and were almost the only people in Western clothes.  The market had the usual produce and cloth, but ALSO a kiosk selling cell phones that was crowded with buyers!   

One thing we've noticed is that Tanzania seems to have skipped a layer or two of technology.  For example, I haven't seen a single land line phone in the 3 months we've lived here, but many, many people have cell phones.  Typewriters are very rare.  Most things are generally written by hand, but some are typed and printed from a computer.    

I guess my conclusions are that globalization is here, and that the rate of technology change is fast, but uneven.  Not startling revelations, but made more meaningful to us lately.

Transporting stuff

Tanzanians have all different ways of transporting cargo.  Cars, trucks, and motor cycles exist, yes, but fewer of them per capita than in the U.S.  Here are a few other modes:

Bicycles.  People use them to tote all sorts of things.  A load of sugar cane, balanced so that 3 feet or so sticks out on either side behind the rider.  A cubic yard of animal fodder.  Several jerry-cans of water or oil.

Donkeys.  Often used to carry burlap bags of produce to market.

Heads.  This is really impressive. It's almost always the women who carry things this way.  They typically have a cloth tied around their heads, twisted in such a way to provide padding and a level surface.  I have seen a woman hoist a 5 gallon bucket of water (that's 40 pounds, folks!) atop her head and walk off with it.  In the small towns and villages it is common to see women carrying large sacks of potatoes or onions this way.  Sometimes a woman will carry a small suitcase on her head on the way to the bus station. 

Backs.  It is less common to see women carrying cargo on their backs, but babies are always there, wrapped tightly in a sling.  Sometimes a woman will have a baby on her back and a sack of produce on her head. 

Finally, 2-wheeled wooden carts.  These are built of heavy wood.  They have an axle with large rubber tires, and a front extension with a bar running the width of the cart.  When I first saw them, I thought they were donkey- or ox-carts, but these are always pulled by a man.  They are loaded with all kinds of heavy cargo:  loads of lumber, several large sacks of who-knows-what, and sometimes another man to steady the load.  The muscle-power it takes to pull one of these, especially uphill, must be huge.  We see the carts moving along the streets all over the country, in big cities as well as in rural areas.  Drivers seem to respect them and steer around them as they would another vehicle.  (Actually, they are great for running interference with traffic when we are crossing the streets in Arusha, which doesn't have any stoplights, as far as I've seen, and certainly no pedestrian "Walk" signals).       

All of this makes me feel puny, but grateful that my life has not been that hard.