It’s been four days since I’ve been near a functional computer, so I’ve got a lot of pent-up writing to do! Luckily, I’ve been using a journal each day so I don’t forget anything important, so here goes; hope y’all are in for the long haul J
(PS: For those of you wondering how you can see my pictures or leave comments on the blog- I’m working on it. I just got my computer back today so give me a day or so to catch up on all my internet-related tasks.)
Written January 28, 2011:
Last night I moved in with the Kawishes. I’m enjoying my room despite myself; I know I came here to live like the Africans do, but who would pass up a fancy personal bathroom and air conditioning? If nothing else, I will be spending my days in the definitely-African Mount Everest School, and my weekends with Pepy, where the living is delightfully simple and fulfilling.
I started my first day of class this morning. I was told that I should be up’n at ‘em by by 5am, and I assumed that that meant ready to go and at the bus stop. So, at 5am, there I stood under a tree in the dark outside the Kawishe house, waiting with my little handbag for a bus that didn’t come. I waited ten minutes, fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, and then at 5:30 Mr. Kawishe drove by on his way to work. He stopped and rolled down his window to look at me in a way that suggested I might have had an extra limb growing out of my forehead.
“What are you doing?”, he asked. I shuffled my feet embarrassedly and told him I thought I was supposed to be ready for the bus at 5. “The bus doesn’t come until 6:15. Breakfast is at 5:30, I just wanted to make sure you were up. The bus will come up to the gate for you.”
Feeling rather stupid, I walked back to the house in the dark and went inside, where a delicious breakfast of sweet bread, chai tea, and fresh mango waited for me on the kitchen table, prepared by Dada (she is the Kawishe’s housegirl, very sweet and a wonderful cook. She doesn’t speak a word of English, and so far none of my Swahili is any good for communicating with her. When I go to the kitchen to help her, I spend most of my time gesturing wildly and wringing my hands, trying to be helpful but probably being more annoying).
At 6:15, the bus pulled up to the gate and the driver honked the horn. The security guard pulled the gate open, revealing a dalla-dalla that was painted yellow and had the words “School Bus” written on it in large black letters. The back of the bus held a number of children, and in the front was the driver and what I assumed was another teacher. The passenger got out to let me slide into the middle seat, and we were off to pick up their next charges.
We seemed to drive for hours. I couldn’t help but think that the bus couldn’t possibly handle the hole-covered roads the driver steered us onto, but he maneuvered the bus in ways that Jeep drivers would envy, rocketing it over speed bumps and reminding me of the joyride scenes in Ferris Buellers Day Off. In no time, the bus was just as packed as a dalla-dalla, with both teachers and students; when I am a teacher I will be sure to quickly correct any student that complains about the bus rides to school, because this trip bordered on the thrill-ride-esque.
We finally arrived at (or skidded into) the schoolyard, where an assembly was already forming. A number of students, arranged on two sides of the flagpole in orderly fashion (tallest in back, shortest up front), stood facing the front, where Sister Rosie (Headmistress of the school and an especially kind-looking nun) stood addressing the students in a stern voice, impressing upon them the importance of following the dress code and rules of conduct. After a chorus of “Yes, Sister Rosie”s and “No, Sister Rosie”s, the students sang the Tanzanian national anthem. To anyone who has the means, I would certainly suggest searching the song on Youtube- bonus points if you can find it being sung by children. It is one of the most beautiful national anthems I have ever heard sung by anyone, and fortunately for me they sing it twice a week.
After the anthems and school prayers, it was almost 8:00am. There was a tree standing at the back of the assembly, from which hung an old metal car wheel. A rather short young girl approached it with a large stick, and stood on tiptoe to ring the wheel to signal the start of classes and the start of the day.
I hadn’t had a schedule made for me yet, so I went to the staffroom with the teacher I assume is responsible for creating the timetables. I was assigned English for three 6th grade classes, Computer Sciences for six 5th and 6th grade classes, and PDS (Physical Education) for a class of 6th graders (I wanted a chance to teach the children some excellent Presbyterian games). I was shown to each classroom and introduced to the teacher who had formerly taught the class; Mount Everest is a bit short staffed so they welcomed the opportunity to give the teachers more time to themselves during the day, to grade papers and formulate lesson plans.
As it was my first day and I hadn’t had the opportunity to write any lesson plans yet, I spent my first three classes getting to know the students and playing games with them. My last class of the day was English, and they were set to learn about adjectives.
I had the lunch hour to prepare a lesson. I walked into the class, and after writing a few boring sentences from the book on the board and discussing them with the students, I decided to take a new approach. I had each student name his or her favorite food, and recorded them on the board. I then told them that we were going to create a menu for a restaurant, and that each of the foods that they had named would be an item on the menu. Unfortunately, though, this was a very poor restaurant, and so the names of each dish had to be something disgusting and they would have to use adjectives to be sure the patrons knew the food was bad. They came up with some hilarious results: Spoiled Samosas, Rotten Coca-Cola, and Disgusting Nyama N’gombe (beef), to name a few.
After we finished the menu, they wanted to do more, so we created a soccer team where each of them was a player and had to pick what kind of player they would be. I immediately became “Clumsy Coach Emily”, due to their observations that I drop the chalk often and can’t seem to avoid bumping into a blackboard while wearing dark-colored clothing. They took on the names of “Smooth Lisa” and “Amazing Amud” and “Rude Roberta”, allowing me to teach them adjectives while also effectively learning their names (this is the class I will be spending the most time with, and they are as sweet as could be).
After school I boarded the bus again (there were so many students that both myself and the other front-seat passenger had to hold one of the nursery school students on each of our laps) and we set off again to compete with the rest of Dar Es Salaams rush hour traffic. It took an hour and a half to get the ten miles back to Kawe District, where I walked inside the house and promptly flopped onto my tiny twin-size bed Garfield-the-Cat-style.
It was a few moments before I realized I hadn’t checked my email since the night before, and when I went to do so I realized my computer hadn’t been charging. Thinking maybe I hadn’t plugged it in right (sometimes the charger is a bit temperamental) I tried again. And again. And again. After the first few seconds of denial, panic set in- my computer had gotten malaria. Or Ebola, I couldn’t rule anything out yet.
I immediately called my dad, my go-to guy for pretty much anything computer- or life-related. He went into tech-guy mode, asking a series of questions about the nature of the disease and my attempts to resuscitate my poor machine. Calling America via cellphone is very expensive, so I promised to try everything he suggested and call him back when I had more information. Unfortunately, my phone had sucked up the last of its minutes to call home, so I was left sitting amongst my stubbornly dysfunctional technology with no way to call my family or fix my dying computer.
Jackson was the first person I ran into upon leaving my room- I described to him the nature of my problem and later that night his dad came to talk to me. He too asked a series of questions (he laughed when I told him I had called my dad, noting that his daughters did the same thing and that it seems to be the father who is always called when there is a problem, the mother when something goes right) and then, just like that, he pulled out his phone and called a friend of his. After a few moments of hastily-spoken Swahili, he hung up and said that he had a friend who could take care of it for me. I handed Mr. Kawishe my computer (since this is Africa and I had already once witnessed how Africans deal with Macs, I was a little worried) and went to sit and write away my panic.
Written Jan. 29, 2010 (Saturday- no school)
Computer is still gone. It probably definitely has Ebola. I foolishly left all of my books at Pepy’s house, and so with no phone, no computer, and no one on the Kawishe property except the workers, I was left to write, draw, and explore. I spent most of my day by the half-filled pool writing letters (many of which I will probably never send) and jotting down ideas for stories or characters. Tanzania has been delightfully helpful in concocting very vivid dreams (maybe it’s the food) and so always wake up with my mind abuzz of new ideas.
I find myself still woefully homesick. With so much time to myself today I keep thinking back on things at home, more specifically my favorite way to spend lazy days like today. I remember a particular day where I drove on a whim through Leicester to Hot Springs and back past Suddy Hole, a beautiful sunny day where the sun shone through the leaves making the trees look like dark golden staffs with emerald ornaments. The wind coming through my window was more of a lukewarm breeze, and I could blast whatever music I liked at whatever volume I liked, as I watched the mountains fly by in the distance. I drove past fields with tall amber grasses, glinting in the sunlight, and sweeping lawns of a beautiful olive green that offset the color of the sky so perfectly. The feel of the mountains in the summertime is more valuable to me than almost anything, and it’s only when I’m continents away that I realize it’s not just the summertime that I miss.
I hope to have more to write about tomorrow.
Written Jan. 30th:
Today I lived like what I think some princesses live like. Mama Kawishe took me out today to buy clothes for school. She came into my room last night to discuss African culture and the importance of looking “smart”, and upon looking at the wardrobe I had brought (I dressed for heat, not style) she deemed me in need of some more appropriate clothing. So, most of my day was spent wrestling with zippers and buttons in the changing rooms at consignment stores and trying on dozens of shoes. I would have been charged nearly $60 for the two dresses and two pairs of shoes I got, if it hadn’t been for Mama Kawishe’s fierce bargaining skills with the three men who worked the shops. When we left I told her I hoped to be able to bargain like that before I left Africa, and she laughed and said it would be her honor to teach me how to bargain like an African. I’ll see if I can apply those skills to the guys down at Best Buy when I get home…
On our way home from the stores, we were pulled over by a traffic policeman. Mama Kawishe immediately began to panic, because she had left her license at home and driving without a license carries a very expensive penalty. However, when the cop approached the door, he simply asked for her registration and then waved us on by, his eyes scarcely leaving me the whole time. As we pulled away, she let out a string of grateful exclamations, telling me that if I hadn’t been in the car with her she would have suffered a great penalty. I asked why, and she said simply “The policeman saw you, and often mzungus who ride in cars with Africans could be related to powerful people. If you had been the daughter of an ambassador or a banker, he could have suffered a penalty himself.”
After dinner, Mr. Kawishe got a call from John Mashaka, who just wanted to check in and make sure I was okay- Pepy hadn’t heard from me in a day or so. I assured him all was well and apologized for the lack of communication, explaining to him that my computer was lying in a computer hospital bed somewhere and was probably dying of Ebola (only I just told him my computer wasn’t working).
As I hung up the phone and turned to hand it to Mr. Kawishe, I looked at the door and saw some very smartly dressed people entering the house- three men and two women. I was told that two men were Mr. Kawishes brothers, and the third was Dr. Masike, the Chairman of the Board at the Mount Everest School and the Chancellor of the Arusha Technical College. Mr. Kawishe told me that this would be the man filling out my performance review at the end of my stay. Dr. Masike asked me how I was liking the school, and said that if I had any suggestions on how to better the school, I was to let him know. They were all very kind, and asked a lot of questions about life in America. I still don’t know how to describe feet of snow to an African who has never seen so much as a flake of it before.
I helped Mama Kawishe to serve juice and cognac to the guests, and the whole time tried to look considerably more distinguished than I felt, hiding my unpainted toenails and rubbing at the dust spots on my shirt when no one was looking. They talked for a short period of time, doing a few toasts and then leaving, Dr. Masike assuring me that we would be in touch.
At the end of the day, while I have a great respect for those who are able to look distinguished and fancy all the time, if I ever become rich I will be having deluxe Slip’N’Slide parties where everyone wears overalls or something similar, and my guests will eat Push Pops and they can have dirty feet if they want to.
Written Jan. 31st:
I am weary of typing, and it’s getting late, but I have enough juice left in me (and my computer) to type one last short account of my day.
I woke up and had my first normal day at the school. I taught English (finishing up with adjectives), Computer Sciences (learning to address envelopes and use Western Union, both things I had to read about straight from the book since I have no idea how to do either in Tanzania), and PDS (Physical Education, where I taught 80 African kids to play Screaming Ninjas- compliments of 8 years of Presbyterian church camps- and Duck, Duck, Goose).
I was just as weary today arriving home as I was Friday, but just as I sat down to open my journal and write about it, Dada opened the door and handed me a small box- my new computer charger!!! I thanked her, ran over to my computer (I got it back last night, after being told they didn’t know what was wrong but we should start with a new charger) and plugged everything in. At first, nothing happened, and I panicked a little, because it would mean something was really, really wrong. But then I remembered that here you have to turn on the wall sockets like you’re turning on a light switch, and when I did so, the little green light turned on and I was once again a member of the Proud and Ecstatic Apple Computer Owners Club of Kawe. I have spent my time since writing this lengthy expansion of a few days’ notes; if this is what I have to write after four days, I sincerely hope that this is the last time I have to worry about Mac Ebola.
I will write again hopefully tomorrow, if the electricity gods allow, and if not, well, I’m sure most of you will still be reading this come Wednesday.
Mom and Dad and Eli- I miss you so much. I will call you on Skype as soon as I can, and can’t wait to hear your voices again. Love you lots!
Nana and Papaw- I promise to call you soon- sorry it’s been so long!! Love you and miss you!!
No comments:
Post a Comment