My School

My school

So school “started on Monday, 7. January of this year.  I say “started” because we didn’t teach that first week.  The school is in the process of building a new classroom because we don’t have enough room for our new incoming class.  The students were helping the masons build, doing everything from carrying water, bags of cement, and bricks.  They also spent several days having to clean the school.  It was definitely a different use of student time here than in the US.  However, that meant that the first week there was no teaching on my part.  I planned a great deal, learned some Kisambaa from the mason, and tried to say hi to as many of my students as possible.  The second week, I was at school for 3 days (during which I hardly taught because we had meetings or students were still working and had to miss my class, which drove me crazy) before being sent to Lushoto for a conference about teaching basic English to the incoming students.

            In these pictures, you can see my students out in the schoolyard, cleaning, and what our classrooms look like.  Students are supposed to bring their own desks and chairs.  If they don’t have it, they’re supposed to stand, sit on the floor, or share with a friend.  It’s not unusual to see 3 kids sharing a single chair and desk.  They’re very good at sharing with others, as the communal culture definitely tries to support other people in the community.  We have chalkboards, but sometimes run out of chalk.  That’s the worst!  Besides that, I buy big flipchart paper (about 2ft by 4ft) and use permanent markers to write things down, like reading passages.  Those are the teaching materials I have available.  A bit different form the SmartBoard and classroom set of textbooks I had during student teaching.  Here, we don’t have enough books to let students use them, so they copy down stuff in their exercise books, which is filled with notes that they copy directly from the board, regardless of whether or not they understand it.

            There was one day that I brought some magazines that Peace Corps brought me.  I only had enough to give each of my 3 classes approximately 20 copies each.  I put the magazines on a desk and told them they could just come and get them.  The moment I left the room, I heard a wild and crazy mad rush for the books.  Chairs flying, students shoving each other, desperate for something to read.  Students crave reading or some other thing to distract themselves, as there is so little that they actually have.

            I know this is a bit of a superficial description of my school, but I’m running out of time before my bus leaves town and I wanted to get this posted before I leave internet for a few weeks.  I’ll try to be better next time I’m in town to write more blog posts.

The new classroom.  Still not finished, but it's getting there.

Some of my students stopped to let me snap a picture.  These are form 2 to form 4 students, with ages anywhere between 13 and 20.

The school yard where we have assemblies, also known as "parades."

Some students cleaning the surrounding area of the school.  They generally use pine tree branches to sweep the yard.  I personally don't understand why they have to sweep dirt, but it's what people do everywhere in Tanzania.

View from my school.  Yeah, it's awesome. 

Another view.

And again.  I love the view from my school. 

One of the classrooms.  The students were out cleaning and stuff.  There is nothing over the windows and the roof is tin (which makes it super loud when it's raining.)

Students hanging outside of the classrooms.

An inside view of one of the classrooms.  

Same room.

These are the new form 1 students.  These are all the desks in the room, cuz the students have just arrived and not all of them have brought their desks and chairs yet.

Some lollygaggers.

Gifts and Money

Gifts and Money

The word for gift in Kiswahili is “Zawadi.”  It also happens to be the name of one of my favorite kids in the village.  She’s my neighbor and has a wonderful family who calls me “Dada Amy” or “Mwalimu” (which makes me feel so wonderful to not be called “the foreigner”).  They’re definitely the people I’m closest to in the village, and I really do love to be around them.  Every time I come back from town or other travels, I bring the family some kind of gift.  This doesn’t have to be anything big.  In fact, bringing gifts back after travels is fairly common in Tanzanian culture, to the point that half the village asks me if I brought them a gift when I return.  Granted, I can’t bring back a big fancy thing for every person (I’m a PCV after all, and don’t make that much money, nor can I carry it all).  It took me a while to realize that gifts can be wildly simple things.  When I first was walking around my village and having every other person invite me into their home, many would give me a plastic bag with beans, or potatoes (which anyone who knows me isn’t surprised that I’m super excited about), or tomatoes or spinach or sugar…pretty much anything that will be used.  It’s something that I really enjoy actually.  I tend to give Mama Zawadi fruits or vegetables that I know she likes and can’t get in the village market.  For many people, I’ll give them the produce I have left right before leaving for a trip, and it helps me keep up those valuable relationships with people.  I’ve started to buy little packets of spices (cinnamon, cloves, cardamom or other chai spices), which are fairly inexpensive, light, and help add a wee bit of flavor and spice to their daily lives.

            It’s kind of refreshing that gifts don’t have to be anything big.  I mean, let’s face it, in the US, people tend to want decent sized gifts or expect them.  I’m sure there are many people who do it, but not many will give produce out and consider it a decent gift.  However, especially now with the prices of fresh vegetables in the US, if someone would give me fresh tomatoes or avocados as a present, I’d be totally stoked!  Getting food, sugar or any other thing that I know I’ll use makes sense.  It’s practical and is easier on the pocketbook of the individual if it’s something needed anyway.  Plus, the people in my village are fairly poor and they definitely could use the assistance in household things that they can barely afford to buy in the first place.

            That brings me to the point of borrowing money.  Though by American standards, I’m earning very little money (less than $200/month), I make enough to live by.  Honestly, I make more than most of the people in my village.  I’m lucky in the fact that people there don’t treat me like I have money out the wazoo (some volunteers get asked for money all the time and people think they have money to burn, even when people know them well in their villages) but I have been asked for money.  However, I count myself as incredibly lucky in my situation.

            The first time anyone in my village asked me for money, it was after I’d been there for a few months.  My favorite neighbor kid, Zawadi, came by while I was cooking after dark.  After struggling for a very long time to explain to the silly white lady what she was asking for, I finally understood that her mom sent her to ask for money.  She requested 10,000tsh (between $6-$7).  I was warned during training that Tanzanians aren’t the best about repaying money or will keep asking for money once they get it initially, so I was slightly hesitant about starting that.  I don’t want to develop a reputation as being the bank for the village.  However, I gave Zawadi the 10,000tsh after justifying it in my mind.  This is the family that has given me chai countless times, accepted me as part of the community, and obviously is very much in need of the money.  I didn’t think it could hurt.

            Honestly, I’m happy I gave them the money.  I went to say hi the next day because I was going to leave for a trip the following day.  Mama and Baba Zawadi were both there and they gave me chai and chatted with me.  Mama Zawadi suddenly left and when she came back, she was clutching a small glass.  She told me that she knows I drink a lot of water (which I do, by Tanzanian standards) and she thought I could use this glass to drink from.  Keep in mind that Tanzanians tend to use glasses for guests and very rarely to actually drink from them themselves.  They both then started emphasizing that if I need anything (water, firewood, etc), I should just ask, because they are my family.  It was incredibly touching, and something that made me realize just how wonderful the people in my village are.

            They’ve asked me for money one other time since, and it was fairly recently.  They needed 5000tsh (maybe $3.50), which I gave to them.  Baba had been very sick recently and I knew that the family was struggling financially.  The next day, Zawadi and her sister, Maisha, brought me a large pot full of tomatoes from the family farm.  Sure, the tomatoes weren’t worth that much money, but I didn’t care at all.  I know the money is going to a good place (they’re not using it for alcohol or something else wasteful) and they are people who want to somehow repay the kindness.  How could I not be ok with that?

            There are a few other people in the village I’ve given money to.  I generally only give it to mamas (women in the village) because I know that they are working their asses off to provide for their families.  One mama walked back from the market with me, and asked for money to buy sugar for chai.  Later, she came by my house with huge potatoes as a thank you.  Another will come by my house and every time she’ll ask for sugar, or that I bring her bread from town.  Yet she’s brought me firewood, HUGE avocados, onions, tomatoes….

            In general, I feel like I’m in a unique situation.  People in my area tend to reciprocate if I give them something.  It makes me feel like I’m part of the community and not being taken advantage of.  Many other volunteers aren’t that fortunate, and have people try to get as much out of them as possible.  I can’t tell you how blessed I am to be where I am, where the people are make me smile every day.  Frankly, I think those are the kinds of feelings that make Peace Corps and living abroad like this so incredible.  

Buckets

HOLY CRAP, BUCKETS ARE FANTASIC!  I never ever thought I would use a bucket for so many things before.  Let me list the ways I use them on an everyday basis:

• bucket baths
• 2 for my drinking water filter 
• storage for food (so critters and bugs don’t get in my food)
• for catching rain water off of my roof 
• carrying water
• a bucket full of water next to my squat toilet (so I can “flush” it)
• for cleaning (washing clothes, cleaning dishes, etc)
• store precious water
• trash
• a seat
• storing charcoal

Many people in Tanzania will carry everything for meals in buckets (dishes, containers with the food in it, tea), will take a bucket to market full of goods to sell, come back from market with their purchases…I can’t even count the ways that people here use buckets.  They’re incredibly useful and some other volunteers made the mistake of leaving some out over night.  They were gone the next morning.  Don’t worry, fancy $100 Chaco-brand shoes will still there, but the ~ $1.50 bucket will be gone.  Even when a bucket has kicked the bucket (pun most certainly intended), it will undoubtedly be turned into a toy in some way.

            So though I may look ridiculous returning from my banking town with a bucket almost every time I return to my village, I’m quite happy to have an arsenal of buckets, as their usefulness seems to be unparalleled here.

Definitions of Clean

Definitions of Clean

Since I arrived here, I’ve noticed that there are many different definitions of what “clean” is.  Some of it depends on your cultural background.  Some on what resources are available.  And of course, on how lazy a particular PCV may be on any given day…

So in Kiswahili, there are MANY verbs for cleaning:

-       safisha = cleaning, in terms of a house or tidying up

-       osha = cleaning dishes

-       fua = cleaning/washing your clothes (by hand, mind you!  If I ever complain about having to tosh my clothes in the washing machine in the future, feel free to kick me)

-       nawa mikono = to wash your hands (before and after a meal)

-       oga = to bathe, as in take a bath (wahoo for bucket baths!  Showers are a treat at this point, and if there’s hot water in that shower…well hot damn, it’s your lucky day)

Ok, so I guess that there are still a lot of different words in English for cleaning stuff, but my homestay family made sure that I knew the difference between all of these very early on.  Cleanliness is very important in Tanzanian culture.  It’s so important, that the slang has adopted the words for “clean.”  For example, in English we would say “cool” but in Kiswahili you’ll use words like “poa” and “safi,” both of which mean “clean.”

When I lived with my homestay family in Morogoro, I would have a bucket bath twice a day (even though I was bathing much more often than I did in the States, I’m still pretty sure that I used less water than I did with a shower every two days).  Before and after a meal, everyone would rinse his or her hands with water.  Shoes, clothes, hair are all checked that they look clean before you leave the house, even if they aren’t (I definitely have been a wee bit lax with how often I wash my hair here….people in my village especially admire my hair regardless of how greasy and nasty looking it is.  Worst case scenario I’ll just throw on a bandana or head band thing and my village thinks I’m trying to fit in by wearing something over my hair.  Cultural integration!).

Now, Tanzanians like to look clean—unfortunately that doesn’t apply to smell.  Granted, Americans are very obsessed with smells (just think about how much money we spend on deodorant, air fresheners, yummy smelling candles, scented shampoo and condition, perfume, body sprays, especially for all those middle school boys I student taught with), but regardless of how long it’s been since I’ve bathed, I still take solace in the fact that I still smell better than pretty much all the Tanzanians around me.  I consider myself lucky, however, since I live in a fairly cool area, where I don’t sweat much (that’s right, I’m in Africa and I’m not sweaty – I love my village!).

With that being said, “clean” is relative.  When there is very little water because we haven’t had rain in quite a while, I consider my water “clean” after running it through a little strainer (so no mosquitoes or grass is in it), and it’s super clean and good enough to drink after boiling for 5 minutes.  Sure, there may be a wee bit of a brownish tinge, but that’s the only water I have, and it’s sure as hell good enough to bathe with!  Granted, I use a water filter provided by Peace Corps for my drinking water, and that’s pretty incredibly clear, but it takes forever to get water out of it.  So I don’t filter stuff like bathing water or tea/coffee/oatmeal water since it won’t be ingested or is just going to be boiled.

Now, Tanzania is a country where you can’t drink the tap water, and knowledge of germs isn’t very well known.  Many people will rinse their hands with plain water before a meal, but after eating feel that their hands are dirty (well, they are, considering that many people eat with their hands), and will wash with soap AFTER the meal.  The lack of health education is pretty frustrating, so I need to figure out some good lesson plans to incorporate it into English class.  Since Tanzanians seem to have better immune systems than me, I almost always have some kind of hand sanitizer with me.  Now, I sat through my Wilderness First Responder courses and know that hand sanitizer isn’t the best thing since it gets rid of good germs as well as bad.  Considering that I’d rather steer clear of stomach/diarrhea problems as much as possible, and that the water can give you those unpleasant troubles, I’m going to use hand sanitizer and hope I get my good germs in other ways.

So sure, my water may be a bit brown, I probably smell by an American standard, and as long as the water is boiled long enough I’ll drink it.  But clean is relative, especially when you’re in the Peace Corps.  

Used Clothes Extravaganza

Ever wonder what happens to the clothes that don’t get sold at second hand shops in the U.S.?  Based on what I’ve seen people wear all around the country of Tanzania, I can only assume that all of them are sent over here.  Walking through the markets in bigger towns or cities, there are stalls upon stalls full of used clothes.  And it’s quite interesting the clothes that people in the U.S. have passed up on.

            Let’s look at the first category that my uncreative mind can think of: fancy name-brand clothes.  Now, one of my best friends back home was very into designer jeans and labels, and really expensive clothes.  He would have a hey day in the markets here.  Some PCVs found Diesel jeans for only 15000tsh (about $10), North Face jackets can be found for about 2000tsh (about $1.25), Express if fairly easy to find, and knock off Chanel is rampant.  Though it take some searching, you can find some pretty nice stuff.

            Then there are the used shirts and clothes that you can tell no one in the U.S. thrift shops wanted.  I bought a simple black t-shirt that still had the garage sale sticker on it left over from the U.S. (the guy was trying to tell me that it was authentic African material, while my friends and I pointed at the neon green sticker that you find so often at summer garage sales.  I managed to talk him down from 12000tsh and he finally gave me it for 5000tsh—some of the best bargaining I did when I was still learning how to even say numbers!).  I have seen multiple 5K t-shirts (my favorite being the old woman wearing a “Spay your pet” 5K from somewhere in Missouri, while shooing a dog from her house), family reunion shirts, bright pink youth leadership conference shirts worn by 25-year-old men, bright neon colors (which is frankly pretty awesome no matter what), phrases that the people wearing don’t understand (“world’s greatest dad”), middle school gym t-shirts, and overall some pretty funny shirts that I’m shocked people in the States would pass up on!  My favorite has been these knock off beanies that say “Gesus.”  Apparently someone didn’t realize that “Jesus” is spelled with a “j” but people don’t seem to care about authenticity/correctness with some of those things.  It’s still quite entertaining for us Americans.

            So the next time you donate a shirt or pair of pants that you’re not sure if anyone will buy in the U.S., fear not, for it will find it’s way over here and provide lots of entertainment for me and the other PCVs.

Wait….There’s a Mzungu at the Market?

Wait….There’s a Mzungu at the Market?

So Kilole, my village, is small, has no electricity or running water, and is about 2 ½ hours from my banking town of Lushoto.  The closest two villages are Kwekanga (where there is a market on Tuesdays) and Kweboma.  They’re also super tiny and don’t have amenities.  The past few weeks, I’ve gone to Kwekanga on market day in order to get food.  It’s about a 45 minute walk (if you’re walking Tanzanian speed) from Kilole and there are so many people who go there to sell the food they’ve cultivated during the last week.  Food prices are incredibly cheap in the villages, it’s a local-ivore dream come true (all the produce is grown and cultivated by the person you buy it from), all the money goes into the local economy (which is admittedly not strong whether the money stays there or not), and it’s a great place for me to establish some relationships in the community.  And allow me to state it again, it’s cheap!  I can get avocados for 150tsh (Tanzanian shillings), which is about 8 cents, a pile of 5 or 6 tomatoes for 200tsh (about 12 cents), and a kilogram of potatoes for around 500tsh (30 cents).  Considering that when I was in Morogoro (a fairly large town where I did my pre-service training) and tried to buy food in the market, people tried to sell an avocado to me for 1000tsh (about 60 cents).  Sure, that’s not too expensive, but in comparison with the 150tsh I pay, they’re definitely trying to screw me over just because I’m a foreigner in the big towns.  So uncooked food is inexpensive in the village and is pretty damn good.

            Every time I’ve gone to Kwekanga on market day, people talk.  Like excessively so.  After the first time I went, one of the teachers at my school (who lives in another village) commented the next day that he heard I’d gone to the market.  When I returned the next week, there were many people who live in Kwekanga who greeted me in the local language (Kisambaa) because they remembered that I could say a few words in it.  The next week I went, almost everyone greeted me only in Kisambaa.  They all giggle too when they hear me try to speak it because they think it’s really funny that the white girl is trying to formulate the incredibly difficult words that everyone in the area uses on a daily basis.

            I believe that I really am the only foreigner in my area (meaning outside of the larger towns).  There are no other Peace Corps volunteers on my side of Lushoto, and no other organizations that are permanent in any way out in my far-flung villages.  I know I’ve complained about being stared at and sticking out horribly, but when people hear that the Mzungu went to market, there’s only one option: it’s the Madam who teaches at Mariam Mshangama Secondary, because there is no other non-African in any of the surrounding villages.  In a few weeks, my Peace Corps boyfriend will come visit, and I’m sure having two white people in the same place will cause quite the frenzy and astonishment.

            So the past few times I’ve gone to the market, I’ve taken my super awesome fancy Tanzanian basket to carry food in.  Many locals have them too, or plastic ones, or just big rice sacks that they carry stuff back in.  Many people (especially students and anyone younger than me) carry my things out of respect, whether I want them to or not.  I don’t think they’ve grasped the concept that I want to carry my things because it means I get a slight work out.  But they almost always will take my things from me and carry it for it.  Sometimes it’s kinda nice (like when I have 2 buckets full of things from town and have a 20 minute walk to my house) but other times it’s something tiny like an empty basket.  Though it’s out of respect and them trying to do something nice for me, it’s really annoying when they say “Oh, let me take that.”  I’m a fully competent woman who can carry stuff!  Gah!  I’ve done hard work too, don’t pamper me!  But I can’t say that, cuz some people get insulted if I don’t let them carry my things.  Oh, the conundrum.

            Anyway, Tanzanians are wicked good at carrying things on their heads without their hands.  They’ll carry buckets full of water, with no lid, without their hands, and walk up mountains with it.  It’s pretty badass.  Baskets, backpacks, flat binders, sacks full of potatoes….Tanzanians carry it all on their heads.  So I’ve taken a stab at it.  The last two times I’ve gone to market, I’ve convinced the people walking back with me (students or mamas who think it’s weird if I walk anywhere alone, regardless of what time of day it is) to let me carry my stupid little basket, trying to balance it on my head without using my hands.  During those walks back, I’ve heard loads and loads of laughter, as people realize that the silly white lady is trying to fit in with Tanzanians.  And failing miserably.  The best I’ve done is carrying the basket for almost a minute with no hands, though my arms were hovering a few inches within range to catch the basket if it fell.  Though I can’t do it (yet), people seem to be enjoying the fact that I’m trying.  Maybe I’ll come back to the U.S. and stand out horribly as I attempt to balance my basket on my head at the super market.

How many Tanzanians can you fit in a daladala?

How many Tanzanians can you fit in a daladala?

Answer:  Always one more!

So this event actually took place back in June, but is just such a good story I need to share it.

Tanzania has a lot of daladalas, which are pretty much large vans with seats for about 12 – 16 people.  Just because there are that many seats does not mean that only that number of people fit in.  Tanzanians tend to fit in as many people as humanly possible, since they will make more money with more passengers.  These packed vehicles can have some petty theft incidents (one PCT had his wallet stolen the first morning he rode a daladala) and if you’re claustrophobic, it’s definitely not for you.

Despite the potential closeness with strangers, it’s a cheap mode of transportation.  Only 300 Tsh (Tanzanian shillings), which is about 20 cents.  There are conductors who collect money, make sure the door can actually slide shut (this can sometimes be an issue), and help load luggage.  Some other PCTs and I would take the daladala together to our training center almost every morning during training.  There were jam-packed rides, boring ones where we got seats without a problem, and the best ride any of us have had in country.

We were walking toward the road when a completely empty daladala pulled up.  The conductor hopped out, shouted “Wazungu!  Faster!”  We rushed to get there, he ushered us in, and slammed the door shut.  The driver then sped off at the fastest speed a dala could go.  At the next stop the conductor jumped out, yelled “Faster!” at more people, who rushed to join us, and the driver sped off again.  We suddenly found that our daladala was racing another one down the dirt road, and a stop was coming up.  The other dala got their first, but our driver pulled in front and boxed them in.  The conductor hopped out, continued to usher people in, and physically arrange them so more people could fit.  My friend Emily was sitting on a bench, and the conductor grabbed her knees and physically turned them a few inches.  Her skirt came above her knees (gasp!  It’s ok, she was wearing leggings) and he politely (without violating her or anything) pulled her skirt back over her knees.  He was a crazy and enthusiastic guy who kept getting more people to come on his daladala, until it was completely packed.

When we finally got to our stop, the conductor hopped out and shouted “Wazungu out!”  Everyone knew that we were the foreigners, so it made it easier forus to actually get out of the stuffed daladala.  Jack, Emily and I stood outside, paid the conductor, and suddenly realized that Eric was still struggling to get out past all the people.  The dala started to drive away and we had to shout and motion at the driver to stop so Eric could actually get out.  After some shoving, he finally got out, and we all enjoyed a laugh about what a ridiculous and entertaining ride we’d had.  I have to say, all other daladala rides have been a bit boring in comparison.