Last weekend, I had the extraordinary opportunity to get my ass kicked by nature in Africa, and I absolutely loved it. God bless bravery, because I almost bailed twice.
After a relaxing Friday evening at home (I haven’t had a free night in weeks, so I kind of forgot what that’s like – i.e., terrific), several other volunteers and I rose early to begin Sandboarding Saturday. With a few obvious exceptions, sandboarding -- in case you were wondering -- is pretty similar to snowboarding… which, of course, I’ve never done. Midwestern girls like myself don’t have much mountain access, if you know what I mean. Thus, bring on the wipe-outs. In my mind, it wasn’t a matter of IF I would eat sand, but how MUCH. Still, it was time to leap out of my comfort zone again, redefining my mental and physical limits.
Becky, Dave, Stephanie and I arrived at the office of our adventure guide shortly after breakfast, and while waiting for our boards and boots to be loaded into the van so we could head north to Atlantis (no, seriously, the dunes are actually called that), we found out that the four of us would be joined by about two dozen leggy blondes from Norway – poor Dave, haha. Now enter our fantastic guide Lourens, a simultaneously ambitious and laid-back adventure-dude from South Africa, who was incredibly excited to have four Americans who would speak to him in English, not give up sandboarding after a handful of tries/climbs/falls, and would later follow him running into the Atlantic Ocean, fully clothed and covered in sand, only to be chased down by a ferocious, whistle-toting lifeguard who claimed we were quite obviously ruining a kite-surfing competition (and thus simultaneously risking our lives). Fantastic fellow. The Norwegians just watched.
Before all that happened, however, I actually learned to sandboard – and I wasn’t half bad! Climbing to the top of the dune, strapping on your board, and then being asked to “just jump up and turn” the first time was intensely intimidating, to be honest, as you do nothing but FLY down the dune at what feels like a ridiculous speed, like maybe you're Goose and Maverick. After giving up the whole “I think I’ll just sit up here another minute and look at this incredible view,” in addition to experiencing the first epic accidental barrel-roll, you suddenly realize that falling down is half the fun, and the adrenaline rush you get plummeting towards your friends at the bottom, literally zooming down the white-hot sands, makes every crash-landing and slow hike back up the dune totally worth it. By the end, I was able to board from top to bottom without completely biting it, and that, my friends, was an excellent feeling. We finished off the afternoon by climbing up and sliding down as a group, butts-to-boards like really sleek snow sleds, and hopping back in the van to cool and rinse off at Bloubergstrand beach (where we had our previously mentioned run-in with the kite-surfing fun-police).
While most of us returned to the home-base wind-whipped and ass-kicked, Dave and I decided our day wasn’t finished. Within a half hour (because if we had waited any longer, I would have said “forget it”), we had showered, changed, and thrown back a peanut butter sandwich, so it was time to head out again and tackle Lions Head. Part of the Table Mountain chain surrounding Cape Town, Lions Head towers over Clifton Beach, Camps Bay, Signal Hill, and the entire city center, providing an excellent view of just about everything and anything as the sun sets on the horizon. Why on Earth did we NEED to go that particular evening, following a full day of extreme sport? Good question, rafiki, but I have an even better answer. The night prior was a full moon, of course, and we didn’t want to miss the chance to see the sun set and moon rise simultaneously from either side of the impressive and daunting rocky peak.
Let me tell you… it was worth the achy limbs and tank of sweat lost hustling up that thing (and by “hustling,” I mean marathoning, as we kept an incredibly brisk pace the entire way up, finishing in under an hour, so as not to miss the day’s “big finale”) – I honestly don’t think there’s a better ocean, sky, and cityscape view in all the world. To reach the top, you follow a dirt and rock foot path which coils around and around the mountain, giving you spectacular views of the city and ocean with each new encircling. This proceeds the real challenge that awaits you twenty minutes from the top – an absurd obstacle course of rocks, metal ladders, and chains which you must drag yourself up in order to ascend to the crown. It’s all glory from then on, however – as you glance around at the other crazy people who braved the climb, resting a minute to catch your breathe, you suddenly take in the glittering sea, hazy Robben Island, and billowing clouds washing over the mountain around you. That breath you just caught is now trapped in your chest, the view is so amazing. Only a few minutes after we reached the top, the sun sank into the ocean to our left, while the tiny lights of the city began blinking on to our right.
I’d put up pictures, but in addition to it not doing justice to the spectacles described, each minute on the internet here is charged by the megabytes used, so… it’s going to cost me one zillion Rand. Perhaps some other time, ja?
Other hikers popped bottles of champagne as we marveled at the huge, lazy orange moon that rose to the left of Table Mountain. I couldn’t help but notice that it climbed the night sky at a far more lethargic rate than we had just scaled Lions Head, but at the moment, I really couldn’t blame it. It had been a long day, and I haven’t been more exhausted in a long, long time. The climb down was slow and steady, lit by dozens of tiny twinkling head lamps, and followed by a humongous helping of home-cooked macaroni and cheese. Just what the doctor ordered.
On Sunday, we did nothing but hang out at Muizenberg beach and meet up with friends for a light picnic and live music at the beautiful Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens (the Cape Town “Ravinia”). It was a nice way to round-out the weekend and recharge our batteries for the week, and holy smokes did we need it. That Saturday beat my day-hike of Kilimanjaro, for sure… but not the Monday that awaited me. Little did I know, Miss Sarah was to become the substitute teacher for 40 South African kindergarteners… and oh yeah, she lost her voice five minutes in. Now that's a workout.
I’ll leave you now to imagine me wildly directing miniature Afrikaans- and Xhosa-speaking children with nothing but hand-signals and meaningful teacher-faces… for four straight hours. I am invincible. Oh, and exhausted.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Week Two as "Miss Sarah" at Cypress complete!
My Classroom: Miniature desks and chairs, a quarter of them broken, are pushed together into small groups across the floor, although there aren't enough for each of our nearly 45 students. The only door leads out to the elements -- a large open air courtyard filled with dirt and rubbish where the children eat and play during break ("interval"). Several of our glass windows are shattered, while all of them are covered in bars to keep the world out.
The School: Cypress Primary holds grades R (Kindergarten) through 7. The property is surrounded by an iron fence and barbed wire. Looming in the not-so-distant distance, over the roofs of the ramshackle projects that surround the school on all sides, is the literally breathtaking Table Mountain, often covered with it's "tablecloth" of clouds when I pull up in the morning. While the school has recently acquired a new computer lab, I've never once seen the door to the room marked "Library" opened... nor even ajar. In fact, I've never even heard it mentioned in conversation, and for all I know, past volunteers may be imprisoned inside.
Meanwhile, when compared with other countries Western and African, South Africa ranks near rock bottom in literacy attainment and reading test scores. Riddle me THAT.
Thus far, however, I've got nothing but love for the staff and students at Cypress Primary. The few teachers I've really gotten to sit down and talk with are completely committed to working with these kids, going above and beyond the regular school-hour call-of-duty. You know the kind of educators I'm talking about -- the ones who get there early, stay there late, drive kids home, give out extra food, know every child's story, and buy the majority of their teaching resources with mad cash from their own humble pockets. Of course, not every teacher is this way, and Cypress is no exception to that rule. After studying staff photos hanging in the halls, however, I can see several of the people I joke around with in the break room every morning at ten have been at Cypress for YEARS, and that's saying something.
What's the big deal, you might be wondering. Many teachers hang out in one place for ages, haunting the same paste-smelling halls school year after school year. But Cypress is definitely a "have-not" kind of school, and most certainly a burn-out environment, even for the most persistent of earnest academic flames. Athlone, the township in which it is located, is better known for its gangsters, violent crime, and drugs (particularly heroine and 'tik') than anything else... except for perhaps it's depressingly apparent recent history, as well.
As we all know, it wasn't until the mid-90s that Apartheid finally bit the dust... which was, what, five seconds ago? I was in primary school myself, so what happened next would have directly affected me, had I lived in South Africa (this, specifically, blows my mind). Under Apartheid, race (as defined by the ruling white minority party) dictated everything -- where you were and weren't allowed to live, work, travel... and yes, where you were allowed to go to school. Not only that, if you were white, you went to the prettiest, pimpest, ballin' schools with all the resources, room, and educators money could buy. If you were classified Black, meanwhile, your schools were in the worst areas, under the worst conditions, and of the poorest quality curriculum you could find. If you were Coloured, your school sucked only a little less. Everyone lived separately from each other, pigeon-holed into their predetermined destiny, and grew up knowing their own neighbor as someone "different" and unapproachable. That was the reality, and now South Africa is working desperately to overcome it. It's slow and painful, let me tell you, and wildly interesting to see firsthand. The sea of shanty-houses just outside the city center in neighborhoods even worse off than the one my school is in is a testimony to how some parts of Cape Town and South Africa at large have not changed enough.
Cypress Primary falls in what was once strictly a Coloured township. Thus, many of the children live in "project" style housing (or even shipping containers, which are EVERYWHERE) and come from Afrikaans speaking families (although largely a less formal version of the language than that spoken by the former oppressors), The condition and resources within the school itself, as well as the demographics, are only just beginning to evolve. English is now the main language of instruction, although Afrikaans is also widely used, and many students travel from outside the immediate township from places like Langa, which is largely Black and Xhousa speaking.
I haven't been here long enough to give an accurate observation about whether or not much evolution has taken place, and if it's all been progressive and positive. What I do know is, according to the legislation, any student is now welcome there, as long as they can pay the fee. Still, I haven't seen a single "white" kid, and there isn't a single "white" teacher... except, of course, Me, as well as my fellow CCS Cypress volunteer/ partner in crime, Dave (who is now the unofficial Physical Education teacher... since they no longer have one). When Dave leaves in four weeks, it'll just be me (unless CCS puts another volunteer there).
Luckily, as I've said before, Dave and I have been most warmly welcomed at Cypress, so as of yet, there's been very little room for awkwardness or uncomfortable situations. Children continue to stroke my hair and arms, fascinated by the blondness, and most of them have endless questions for us about America (Have we ever met Obama? No? Surely Jay-Z?), but other than that, I feel more like a part of a community than a complete outsider. All of them call us "Sir" and "Miss," which I quite like, as it makes me feel less like a hot mess when I'm sweating in the heat and getting my curly hair pushed out of my face by a six-year-old boy as I bend over tiny desks and try to explain the plot of "Green Eggs and Ham."
Surprise, surprise, I'm starting to fall in love all over again. Just when I thought I had no room left in my bursting heart, not even for one more beautiful African child, I arrived at Cypress Primary. More information about specific children in my posts to follow, of course.
Just last night, I had yet another dream about my kiddos in Tanzania. Their faces won't leave my subconscious, and I'm not sure that they ever will. I wonder how long it will be before I start dreaming of Chad-lee and Lilitha and Alonzio of Athlone...
The School: Cypress Primary holds grades R (Kindergarten) through 7. The property is surrounded by an iron fence and barbed wire. Looming in the not-so-distant distance, over the roofs of the ramshackle projects that surround the school on all sides, is the literally breathtaking Table Mountain, often covered with it's "tablecloth" of clouds when I pull up in the morning. While the school has recently acquired a new computer lab, I've never once seen the door to the room marked "Library" opened... nor even ajar. In fact, I've never even heard it mentioned in conversation, and for all I know, past volunteers may be imprisoned inside.
Meanwhile, when compared with other countries Western and African, South Africa ranks near rock bottom in literacy attainment and reading test scores. Riddle me THAT.
Thus far, however, I've got nothing but love for the staff and students at Cypress Primary. The few teachers I've really gotten to sit down and talk with are completely committed to working with these kids, going above and beyond the regular school-hour call-of-duty. You know the kind of educators I'm talking about -- the ones who get there early, stay there late, drive kids home, give out extra food, know every child's story, and buy the majority of their teaching resources with mad cash from their own humble pockets. Of course, not every teacher is this way, and Cypress is no exception to that rule. After studying staff photos hanging in the halls, however, I can see several of the people I joke around with in the break room every morning at ten have been at Cypress for YEARS, and that's saying something.
What's the big deal, you might be wondering. Many teachers hang out in one place for ages, haunting the same paste-smelling halls school year after school year. But Cypress is definitely a "have-not" kind of school, and most certainly a burn-out environment, even for the most persistent of earnest academic flames. Athlone, the township in which it is located, is better known for its gangsters, violent crime, and drugs (particularly heroine and 'tik') than anything else... except for perhaps it's depressingly apparent recent history, as well.
As we all know, it wasn't until the mid-90s that Apartheid finally bit the dust... which was, what, five seconds ago? I was in primary school myself, so what happened next would have directly affected me, had I lived in South Africa (this, specifically, blows my mind). Under Apartheid, race (as defined by the ruling white minority party) dictated everything -- where you were and weren't allowed to live, work, travel... and yes, where you were allowed to go to school. Not only that, if you were white, you went to the prettiest, pimpest, ballin' schools with all the resources, room, and educators money could buy. If you were classified Black, meanwhile, your schools were in the worst areas, under the worst conditions, and of the poorest quality curriculum you could find. If you were Coloured, your school sucked only a little less. Everyone lived separately from each other, pigeon-holed into their predetermined destiny, and grew up knowing their own neighbor as someone "different" and unapproachable. That was the reality, and now South Africa is working desperately to overcome it. It's slow and painful, let me tell you, and wildly interesting to see firsthand. The sea of shanty-houses just outside the city center in neighborhoods even worse off than the one my school is in is a testimony to how some parts of Cape Town and South Africa at large have not changed enough.
Cypress Primary falls in what was once strictly a Coloured township. Thus, many of the children live in "project" style housing (or even shipping containers, which are EVERYWHERE) and come from Afrikaans speaking families (although largely a less formal version of the language than that spoken by the former oppressors), The condition and resources within the school itself, as well as the demographics, are only just beginning to evolve. English is now the main language of instruction, although Afrikaans is also widely used, and many students travel from outside the immediate township from places like Langa, which is largely Black and Xhousa speaking.
I haven't been here long enough to give an accurate observation about whether or not much evolution has taken place, and if it's all been progressive and positive. What I do know is, according to the legislation, any student is now welcome there, as long as they can pay the fee. Still, I haven't seen a single "white" kid, and there isn't a single "white" teacher... except, of course, Me, as well as my fellow CCS Cypress volunteer/ partner in crime, Dave (who is now the unofficial Physical Education teacher... since they no longer have one). When Dave leaves in four weeks, it'll just be me (unless CCS puts another volunteer there).
Luckily, as I've said before, Dave and I have been most warmly welcomed at Cypress, so as of yet, there's been very little room for awkwardness or uncomfortable situations. Children continue to stroke my hair and arms, fascinated by the blondness, and most of them have endless questions for us about America (Have we ever met Obama? No? Surely Jay-Z?), but other than that, I feel more like a part of a community than a complete outsider. All of them call us "Sir" and "Miss," which I quite like, as it makes me feel less like a hot mess when I'm sweating in the heat and getting my curly hair pushed out of my face by a six-year-old boy as I bend over tiny desks and try to explain the plot of "Green Eggs and Ham."
Surprise, surprise, I'm starting to fall in love all over again. Just when I thought I had no room left in my bursting heart, not even for one more beautiful African child, I arrived at Cypress Primary. More information about specific children in my posts to follow, of course.
Just last night, I had yet another dream about my kiddos in Tanzania. Their faces won't leave my subconscious, and I'm not sure that they ever will. I wonder how long it will be before I start dreaming of Chad-lee and Lilitha and Alonzio of Athlone...
een duisend nege honderd agt-en-tagtig grondboontjiebotter toebroodjies
Don't ask me what that means, because I have no idea.
Actually, that's a lie. I know what it means: 1988 peanut butter sandwiches. Just don't ask me to pronounce it. I most definitely cannot.
This, essentially, is how my Afrikaans lessons are progressing here in Cape Town. It's impossible, and I will never master the throat-hacking "g" noise. I think I'll stick with KiSwahili, thanks very much. Too bad the most widely spoken language at my primary school, in addition to English, is Afrikaans. At this point, I think I'd have better luck with Xhousa... and that one has about three DIFFERENT "click" noises in its pronunciation.
Naturally, at least 5 of my first graders speak almost exclusively Xhousa.
Solution: Begin speaking like Linus' teacher in Peanuts.
Actually, that's a lie. I know what it means: 1988 peanut butter sandwiches. Just don't ask me to pronounce it. I most definitely cannot.
This, essentially, is how my Afrikaans lessons are progressing here in Cape Town. It's impossible, and I will never master the throat-hacking "g" noise. I think I'll stick with KiSwahili, thanks very much. Too bad the most widely spoken language at my primary school, in addition to English, is Afrikaans. At this point, I think I'd have better luck with Xhousa... and that one has about three DIFFERENT "click" noises in its pronunciation.
Naturally, at least 5 of my first graders speak almost exclusively Xhousa.
Solution: Begin speaking like Linus' teacher in Peanuts.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
South Africa, Country of Contrasts
Molo! Greetings from Cape Town, South Africa! Finally, right?
Now, more than ever, I'm reminded of how busy one's first three weeks are when you arrive in country and volunteer with Cross-Cultural Solutions. My first week has been jam-packed with cultural classes, tours of the city, history and language lessons, and (most significantly) my work placement... not to mention the all-important trips to the beach. Hello summertime in Africa!
Cape Town itself amazes me -- full of extremes and contrasts. Everything from the most beautiful sights (like a cityscape cradled inside an epic Table Mountain and Atlantic Ocean) to the most depressing views (like the former jail cell of Nelson Mandela on Robben Island, which I visited on Saturday, and the shack-style housing twenty minutes away, as far as the eye can see, which I pass every day) surround me on a daily basis, to the point where it's really hard to reconcile. Every weekday morning, I hop in a van in our slightly-suburban-but-crime-riddled neighborhood near University of Cape Town and then cruise to the outskirts of the city center where the townships (former Apartheid segregated neighborhoods which now, as it was only a few short years ago that democracy and the "long walk to freedom" and multiculturalism took place, look like a gangster's paradise, at best, and straight up shantytowns, at worst) are located. There, in the neighborhood of Bridgetown, in the township of Athlone, lies Cypress Primary School -- my professional "home away from home" whilst in South Africa. And I gotta tell you, it already feels like home.
On Day One of placement a week ago today, I walked into the 1st Grade classroom 1B and have never felt more simultaneously welcomed and overwhelmed in all my life. Picture a room with minimal resources (and I mean MINIMAL, for an urban school, though it IS an actual room, unlike my former placement in Tanzania, as you might recall), a rising heat index, and nearly fifty 6-7 year olds, all with beautiful golden or dark brown skin -- and that's my class/personal heaven. Luckily, I am also blessed with a terrific partner in crime -- the teacher-extraordinaire Mrs. Peterson, who seems to have boundless amounts of energy and a keen sense of humor. Thus, all is well and good in South-Africa-Sarah-Land so far. I'm getting back into my "Teacher Sarah" mindset and quickly figuring how my limited knowledge and expertise could be utilized best. More on my teaching adventures ASAP, however.
In the meantime, I've started dropping Swahili bombs less and less (bittersweet) and am TOTALLY getting used to the idea of not having to use a bed net (no malaria threat -- hooray), having cool nights for sleeping, and sending my laundry out to a laundromat instead of using a bucket and line, weather permitting. Life is good.
Happy Valentines Day to all you lovebirds out there. I received a silk rose, a coffee mug, and an avalanche of hugs and kisses from MY six-year-old valentines -- what did you get?
With love, Sarah
Now, more than ever, I'm reminded of how busy one's first three weeks are when you arrive in country and volunteer with Cross-Cultural Solutions. My first week has been jam-packed with cultural classes, tours of the city, history and language lessons, and (most significantly) my work placement... not to mention the all-important trips to the beach. Hello summertime in Africa!
Cape Town itself amazes me -- full of extremes and contrasts. Everything from the most beautiful sights (like a cityscape cradled inside an epic Table Mountain and Atlantic Ocean) to the most depressing views (like the former jail cell of Nelson Mandela on Robben Island, which I visited on Saturday, and the shack-style housing twenty minutes away, as far as the eye can see, which I pass every day) surround me on a daily basis, to the point where it's really hard to reconcile. Every weekday morning, I hop in a van in our slightly-suburban-but-crime-riddled neighborhood near University of Cape Town and then cruise to the outskirts of the city center where the townships (former Apartheid segregated neighborhoods which now, as it was only a few short years ago that democracy and the "long walk to freedom" and multiculturalism took place, look like a gangster's paradise, at best, and straight up shantytowns, at worst) are located. There, in the neighborhood of Bridgetown, in the township of Athlone, lies Cypress Primary School -- my professional "home away from home" whilst in South Africa. And I gotta tell you, it already feels like home.
On Day One of placement a week ago today, I walked into the 1st Grade classroom 1B and have never felt more simultaneously welcomed and overwhelmed in all my life. Picture a room with minimal resources (and I mean MINIMAL, for an urban school, though it IS an actual room, unlike my former placement in Tanzania, as you might recall), a rising heat index, and nearly fifty 6-7 year olds, all with beautiful golden or dark brown skin -- and that's my class/personal heaven. Luckily, I am also blessed with a terrific partner in crime -- the teacher-extraordinaire Mrs. Peterson, who seems to have boundless amounts of energy and a keen sense of humor. Thus, all is well and good in South-Africa-Sarah-Land so far. I'm getting back into my "Teacher Sarah" mindset and quickly figuring how my limited knowledge and expertise could be utilized best. More on my teaching adventures ASAP, however.
In the meantime, I've started dropping Swahili bombs less and less (bittersweet) and am TOTALLY getting used to the idea of not having to use a bed net (no malaria threat -- hooray), having cool nights for sleeping, and sending my laundry out to a laundromat instead of using a bucket and line, weather permitting. Life is good.
Happy Valentines Day to all you lovebirds out there. I received a silk rose, a coffee mug, and an avalanche of hugs and kisses from MY six-year-old valentines -- what did you get?
With love, Sarah
Friday, February 4, 2011
Dirty Dar (and other Less Dirty Travels)
Picture the most pristine white sand, aquamarine-water-type beach of your wildest dreams. Now visualize snorkeling over epic coral reefs in the Indian Ocean, sipping sundowners next to a bonfire on the beach, and smelling fresh nutmeg and cinnamon on a farm in one of the spice capitals of the world. Imagine watching the sun set behind a deteriorating sultan's palace made of coral, falling asleep on the top of a traditional dhow boat, and losing yourself in the maze-like backstreets of a chaotic island port-town.
Throw in some hookah, a few hammocks, and some sobering exploration of the history of slave trade in East Africa, and you have a pretty decent summary of my short holiday in Zanzibar this past week. That place is INCREDIBLE, to say the least, and my pictures (which I cannot post, presently, as I'm held up in another, far crappier hostel) barely do it justice... though not for lack of trying; I think I took 300 photos while I was there.
Compare that to the 3 shots I've taken since I took the two hour ferry across the water to mainland Tanzania and arrived in Dar es Salaam two and a half days ago... and yikes, that doesn't say much for Dirty Dar. That's not to say I haven't enjoyed my time here, or that I'm not glad I made the trek to check it out. Dar is an interesting place in it's own right and deserves (like Zanzibar) a more lengthy blog post devoted to it alone... but I simply don't have that luxury (i.e. internet capabilities). Further, in comparison to Stone Town, Dar is a hectic pit of hot, dirty despair. Picture the worst part of the city closest to your home -- yeah, that's Dar. Only you need to factor in that it's in Africa, so things are going to be a little bit different. And by that I mean you can park your car on the sidewalk (if the sidewalk even exists), electricity appears to be optional, and you are the minority in every single way, among other things.
If I'm being honest, I'd have to say I liked Nairobi far better, as far as African cities go. The roads were wider and cleaner, and I didn't feel like carrying all my valuables with me at all times was equally as risky as leaving them locked in my hostel bedroom. Still, the more I ventured out into the city yesterday, the more comfortable I became being in it... although I'd NEVER want to live here. Give me Moshi any day of the week -- I don't care if we were at a greater risk for malaria. Bring it on.
It really wouldn't be fair to try to compare Dar to Stone Town, either. Although both harbor towns heavy into Muslim culture (I'm nearly immune to the call to prayer these days, even though it goes off every couple of hours and is largely a source of comfort to me now), Stone Town glows whereas Dar is dark and dreary. Sunsets over fishing boats and local Zanzibarians playing soccer on the grubby beach were idyllic; sunsets over the guys without shoes trying to pickpocket people the moment they climbed off the ferry in Dar, meanwhile, leaves you wanting something more.
Anyway, with that mediocre update of some pretty awesome solo adventures (as well as great memories/mini-adventures with rafikis Randi and Lucetta), it's time for me to go pack my bags and stand under the fan in my bedroom (so as to put off melting a little bit longer) before hopping a taxi to the airport at 4:30am -- Cape Town calls! As sad as I am to bid beloved Tanzania adieu, I'm ridiculously excited for settling down somewhere again (especially somewhere as awesome as Cape Town, which by all accounts is as beautiful and culture-rich as could be desired).
By this time next week, I will have started my new teaching job at a primary school, butchered at least two new African languages, and figured out how to navigate a brand new city... all, ideally, without losing my luggage. Fingers crossed. Wish me luck!
Throw in some hookah, a few hammocks, and some sobering exploration of the history of slave trade in East Africa, and you have a pretty decent summary of my short holiday in Zanzibar this past week. That place is INCREDIBLE, to say the least, and my pictures (which I cannot post, presently, as I'm held up in another, far crappier hostel) barely do it justice... though not for lack of trying; I think I took 300 photos while I was there.
Compare that to the 3 shots I've taken since I took the two hour ferry across the water to mainland Tanzania and arrived in Dar es Salaam two and a half days ago... and yikes, that doesn't say much for Dirty Dar. That's not to say I haven't enjoyed my time here, or that I'm not glad I made the trek to check it out. Dar is an interesting place in it's own right and deserves (like Zanzibar) a more lengthy blog post devoted to it alone... but I simply don't have that luxury (i.e. internet capabilities). Further, in comparison to Stone Town, Dar is a hectic pit of hot, dirty despair. Picture the worst part of the city closest to your home -- yeah, that's Dar. Only you need to factor in that it's in Africa, so things are going to be a little bit different. And by that I mean you can park your car on the sidewalk (if the sidewalk even exists), electricity appears to be optional, and you are the minority in every single way, among other things.
If I'm being honest, I'd have to say I liked Nairobi far better, as far as African cities go. The roads were wider and cleaner, and I didn't feel like carrying all my valuables with me at all times was equally as risky as leaving them locked in my hostel bedroom. Still, the more I ventured out into the city yesterday, the more comfortable I became being in it... although I'd NEVER want to live here. Give me Moshi any day of the week -- I don't care if we were at a greater risk for malaria. Bring it on.
It really wouldn't be fair to try to compare Dar to Stone Town, either. Although both harbor towns heavy into Muslim culture (I'm nearly immune to the call to prayer these days, even though it goes off every couple of hours and is largely a source of comfort to me now), Stone Town glows whereas Dar is dark and dreary. Sunsets over fishing boats and local Zanzibarians playing soccer on the grubby beach were idyllic; sunsets over the guys without shoes trying to pickpocket people the moment they climbed off the ferry in Dar, meanwhile, leaves you wanting something more.
Anyway, with that mediocre update of some pretty awesome solo adventures (as well as great memories/mini-adventures with rafikis Randi and Lucetta), it's time for me to go pack my bags and stand under the fan in my bedroom (so as to put off melting a little bit longer) before hopping a taxi to the airport at 4:30am -- Cape Town calls! As sad as I am to bid beloved Tanzania adieu, I'm ridiculously excited for settling down somewhere again (especially somewhere as awesome as Cape Town, which by all accounts is as beautiful and culture-rich as could be desired).
By this time next week, I will have started my new teaching job at a primary school, butchered at least two new African languages, and figured out how to navigate a brand new city... all, ideally, without losing my luggage. Fingers crossed. Wish me luck!
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Moshi Reflections-- The Rambling Continues
I left off my last post describing my last days at Amka School... even now, a few days later, I am avoiding the subject and neglecting to post because it's reminds me that I'm not going back. The faces of my students -- Ansila, Prosper, Ally, all of them -- swim through my head in a river of dreams even here in my crappy hostel bed in Dar Es Salaam. Irene's goofy grin and Sunda's crocodile tears follow me like shadows everywhere I go, while endless records of which students can add and which can only trace shapes, etc., race through my brain at all hours of the day. To what end! It feels like I'll never shake them. But, of course, I don't really want to. My only regret is not putting Irene in my backpack as her father suggested.
In order to capture and share with any success what these children really mean to me, I think I have to describe to you what the people of Tanzania and this whole experience has taught me in its entirety.
As a teacher (or "budding teacher," which I think is more accurate), I have faced many challenges big and small -- serious lack of resources, serious culture shock, and serious language barriers, but that's only the beginning. Patience, creativity, and the will to learn and forgive oneself became my personal, epic education survival kit... and it took me at least a few weeks to assemble it. At the end of each workday, I sat back in the volunteer van as it chugged its way through the hot, shadowy, and poverty-stricken dirt roads of greater Moshi and reflected on my morning as a teacher in Africa. Any day that I could recall my children sharing a book together, or receiving a high-five after finishing their assignment, and/or smiling at me when we finished singing a song together could be counted as a Great Success. Truthfully, any day that my students showed up and clearly enjoyed learning was a good day, and my mission as an educator was complete. Not only did I leave my mark there physically (in the form of a fabulously cheery classroom paint-job), but emotionally, too, I think: I felt true warmth and happiness in that classroom when I entered and exited to the chorus of "Good morning, Teacher!" and "See you tomorrow, Teacher!" ... even if they won't. I feel good, and that's closure.
I tried to explain to Georges -- my stellar boyfriend back in the States (talk about Patience) -- in an email recently about how it felt to be leaving Tanzania, and what I thought I was taking away from living here as long as I did. It's extremely difficult to verbalize all that has come to change within me, because I'm certain I'm not even aware of the half of it... but I'll try here, again. It's worth it, I think, to muse on what I've seen and try to reconcile it with all that I know. It all starts by asking yourself a lot of questions. How can such poverty still exist? How can children still fall through the cracks? How can the rest of the world live every day of their lives without knowing or doing something about it? When did we of the Western world put our blinders on and allow ourselves to get so distracted by petty wants and popular garbage in the media? Have we always operated that way? It's incredible!
Further, how can children so beautiful and innocent, like the ones I see and pass and work with here everyday, be left on the streets like someone taking their trash out at the end of the week? How can men be so oppressive and hurtful to their loving, gentle, and wise other halves? (Ask me sometime about the visit I paid last week to the local NGO N.A.F.G.E.M., which fights to aid girls and women, as well educate local populations, in the arena of Female Genital Mutilation... few hours in my life have been more difficult and important than the one I spent in that office, let me tell you.) How can governments with such humble, hard-working constituents be so corrupt? How can countries so rich in resources turn a blind eye to the undeniable poverty of our brothers and sisters? There's no answer to it, either... not to any of it. I certainly cannot reason it out, and won't begin trying. It seems silly to even ask these questions, most of the time. And yet they keep bubbling up angrily in my heart and mind.
My close friends and I, on several separate occasions, have found ourselves literally crying about the ridiculous generosity we have been shown by the people here in Moshi and in greater Tanzania. Seriously, there's nothing more weep-fest-inducing than being given gifts from people who don't even have running water. At first, it just makes you feel like complete rubbish, really... like I'd rather go sit in a dark corner and think about what a selfish a-hole I am than receive this token of kindness. But you cannot really do that, see -- it's considered rude. Even still, how am I supposed to accept that gift, however small or big it may be? How does one accept a gift from someone so poor, it makes one's chest ache to see it?
The week before my last in Moshi, Josie invited me over to his ghetto in Rau for lunch... and by that, I mean he went to the market himself, bought all the food, and then proceeded to cook me, a handful of his male friends, and two of his younger brothers a feast of ugali, spiced spinach, fresh cucumber and bananas -- all of which he prepared himself on a camping "stove" in the corner of his one-room, concrete home. We passed around each of the bowls and ate every last bit of it with our hands. Truthfully? I've never consumed a better meal in all my life, and nowhere have I felt more like a welcomed and honored guest. I have no idea how he paid for that food, either, because it probably cost him an arm and a leg. All of those boys live in that one room, all of them sleep on that one bunk bed, and all of them drew and painted the beautiful art that is plastered all over the walls of that grey jail-cell of a home (there one source of income, artwork)... but a home it most certainly is. Before I left, they asked me to sign my name on a piece of paper they had taped on the wall which read, if I remember correctly, "Guests and Blessings in 2011." Kill me, I thought. Just kill me now.
These people welcome us into their schools and homes and villages and offer us home-cooked meals and parting gifts, like we earned it or something, and it's just plain ridiculous. It's not easy to accept these things and continue to sleep at night. Truly, how am I supposed to sleep at night? The correct question, the one I should be asking, of course, is "Where did they learn such kindness?" Better yet, "What can I learn from this selfless kindness?"
What I've come to see, to understand, is that the only thing I can do in the face of this generosity is to be graciously and wholeheartedly grateful... and really show it. Appreciate every minute and every small bit of the blessings I've been given. And, most importantly, pass that kindness on. Pay it forward in spades. And live my WHOLE LIFE that way. That's the only thing that makes sense to me, the only sense I can make out of this whole new world of selflessness and blind generosity. Just give openly, and in abundance... whether it be food or shelter or materials or love.
Plus, none of my material possessions will mean anything to me when I die, and Lord knows when that will be, so its better to be at peace with the fact that the things I have today may not be mine tomorrow.... and that's okay. (This very thought ran through my head two days ago when I watched my huge backpackers backpack, filled with all my clothes and few worldly possessions, get dragged away from me and tossed onto the top of a ferry that I was then unceremoniously shoved into the belly off for my transit across the small stretch of Indian Ocean between the island of Zanzibar and Dar Es Salaam... that backpack and all of it's contents? Yeah. I might not see it ever again. And I had to be okay with that. Luckily, we were reunited later after I paid a ridiculous fee, so in the end, that was not the case. But you just never know.) Better to give what few things I have (and they are few, it feels like, at this point... one look at my bank account and my dirtied backpack could tell you that), because I can probably pick up another one later... if I decide I still need it, whatever it may be.
It's hard to remember, you know? It's incredibly easy to forget how lucky we are, sometimes, and how much we really do have to give. Often, as I've written before, I find myself sitting around and wishing I had this, that, and the other thing... and wouldn't life be so much better if I could just acquire it, and of course I would give so much more if I just had more money, or a better job (or ANY paying job, in my case, haha), or more time. And I think it's human nature to want to take care of yourself first (and if not you, than your family). I want more than anything now to remember what I've just rambled on about -- that I want to live my whole life graciously, giving every chance that I get -- but I know myself, and I'm willing to bet I'll forget, sometimes, just how lucky and able I am. Still... as long as I'm able to forgive myself, recover from my mistakes, and get back on track... it'll never be too late to regroup and start giving of myself again. I'll just need another little push from Miss Perspective, most likely. Thank goodness she's so pushy.
Thus, in review (bless you for even just skimming this thoughtful rampage so many paragraphs down), I think this is the heart of what I've learned in Tanzania: to live humbly and with grace, of course, but also to appreciate everything that I already have; to be patient with myself, because while my profession may be teaching, I am forever a student; and, most importantly, to give from the heart in all that I do. It's a tall order, but a worthy one. That's how I want to live my life.
Asante sana, Tanzania
In order to capture and share with any success what these children really mean to me, I think I have to describe to you what the people of Tanzania and this whole experience has taught me in its entirety.
As a teacher (or "budding teacher," which I think is more accurate), I have faced many challenges big and small -- serious lack of resources, serious culture shock, and serious language barriers, but that's only the beginning. Patience, creativity, and the will to learn and forgive oneself became my personal, epic education survival kit... and it took me at least a few weeks to assemble it. At the end of each workday, I sat back in the volunteer van as it chugged its way through the hot, shadowy, and poverty-stricken dirt roads of greater Moshi and reflected on my morning as a teacher in Africa. Any day that I could recall my children sharing a book together, or receiving a high-five after finishing their assignment, and/or smiling at me when we finished singing a song together could be counted as a Great Success. Truthfully, any day that my students showed up and clearly enjoyed learning was a good day, and my mission as an educator was complete. Not only did I leave my mark there physically (in the form of a fabulously cheery classroom paint-job), but emotionally, too, I think: I felt true warmth and happiness in that classroom when I entered and exited to the chorus of "Good morning, Teacher!" and "See you tomorrow, Teacher!" ... even if they won't. I feel good, and that's closure. 
I tried to explain to Georges -- my stellar boyfriend back in the States (talk about Patience) -- in an email recently about how it felt to be leaving Tanzania, and what I thought I was taking away from living here as long as I did. It's extremely difficult to verbalize all that has come to change within me, because I'm certain I'm not even aware of the half of it... but I'll try here, again. It's worth it, I think, to muse on what I've seen and try to reconcile it with all that I know. It all starts by asking yourself a lot of questions. How can such poverty still exist? How can children still fall through the cracks? How can the rest of the world live every day of their lives without knowing or doing something about it? When did we of the Western world put our blinders on and allow ourselves to get so distracted by petty wants and popular garbage in the media? Have we always operated that way? It's incredible!
Further, how can children so beautiful and innocent, like the ones I see and pass and work with here everyday, be left on the streets like someone taking their trash out at the end of the week? How can men be so oppressive and hurtful to their loving, gentle, and wise other halves? (Ask me sometime about the visit I paid last week to the local NGO N.A.F.G.E.M., which fights to aid girls and women, as well educate local populations, in the arena of Female Genital Mutilation... few hours in my life have been more difficult and important than the one I spent in that office, let me tell you.) How can governments with such humble, hard-working constituents be so corrupt? How can countries so rich in resources turn a blind eye to the undeniable poverty of our brothers and sisters? There's no answer to it, either... not to any of it. I certainly cannot reason it out, and won't begin trying. It seems silly to even ask these questions, most of the time. And yet they keep bubbling up angrily in my heart and mind.
My close friends and I, on several separate occasions, have found ourselves literally crying about the ridiculous generosity we have been shown by the people here in Moshi and in greater Tanzania. Seriously, there's nothing more weep-fest-inducing than being given gifts from people who don't even have running water. At first, it just makes you feel like complete rubbish, really... like I'd rather go sit in a dark corner and think about what a selfish a-hole I am than receive this token of kindness. But you cannot really do that, see -- it's considered rude. Even still, how am I supposed to accept that gift, however small or big it may be? How does one accept a gift from someone so poor, it makes one's chest ache to see it?
The week before my last in Moshi, Josie invited me over to his ghetto in Rau for lunch... and by that, I mean he went to the market himself, bought all the food, and then proceeded to cook me, a handful of his male friends, and two of his younger brothers a feast of ugali, spiced spinach, fresh cucumber and bananas -- all of which he prepared himself on a camping "stove" in the corner of his one-room, concrete home. We passed around each of the bowls and ate every last bit of it with our hands. Truthfully? I've never consumed a better meal in all my life, and nowhere have I felt more like a welcomed and honored guest. I have no idea how he paid for that food, either, because it probably cost him an arm and a leg. All of those boys live in that one room, all of them sleep on that one bunk bed, and all of them drew and painted the beautiful art that is plastered all over the walls of that grey jail-cell of a home (there one source of income, artwork)... but a home it most certainly is. Before I left, they asked me to sign my name on a piece of paper they had taped on the wall which read, if I remember correctly, "Guests and Blessings in 2011." Kill me, I thought. Just kill me now.
These people welcome us into their schools and homes and villages and offer us home-cooked meals and parting gifts, like we earned it or something, and it's just plain ridiculous. It's not easy to accept these things and continue to sleep at night. Truly, how am I supposed to sleep at night? The correct question, the one I should be asking, of course, is "Where did they learn such kindness?" Better yet, "What can I learn from this selfless kindness?"
What I've come to see, to understand, is that the only thing I can do in the face of this generosity is to be graciously and wholeheartedly grateful... and really show it. Appreciate every minute and every small bit of the blessings I've been given. And, most importantly, pass that kindness on. Pay it forward in spades. And live my WHOLE LIFE that way. That's the only thing that makes sense to me, the only sense I can make out of this whole new world of selflessness and blind generosity. Just give openly, and in abundance... whether it be food or shelter or materials or love.
Plus, none of my material possessions will mean anything to me when I die, and Lord knows when that will be, so its better to be at peace with the fact that the things I have today may not be mine tomorrow.... and that's okay. (This very thought ran through my head two days ago when I watched my huge backpackers backpack, filled with all my clothes and few worldly possessions, get dragged away from me and tossed onto the top of a ferry that I was then unceremoniously shoved into the belly off for my transit across the small stretch of Indian Ocean between the island of Zanzibar and Dar Es Salaam... that backpack and all of it's contents? Yeah. I might not see it ever again. And I had to be okay with that. Luckily, we were reunited later after I paid a ridiculous fee, so in the end, that was not the case. But you just never know.) Better to give what few things I have (and they are few, it feels like, at this point... one look at my bank account and my dirtied backpack could tell you that), because I can probably pick up another one later... if I decide I still need it, whatever it may be.
It's hard to remember, you know? It's incredibly easy to forget how lucky we are, sometimes, and how much we really do have to give. Often, as I've written before, I find myself sitting around and wishing I had this, that, and the other thing... and wouldn't life be so much better if I could just acquire it, and of course I would give so much more if I just had more money, or a better job (or ANY paying job, in my case, haha), or more time. And I think it's human nature to want to take care of yourself first (and if not you, than your family). I want more than anything now to remember what I've just rambled on about -- that I want to live my whole life graciously, giving every chance that I get -- but I know myself, and I'm willing to bet I'll forget, sometimes, just how lucky and able I am. Still... as long as I'm able to forgive myself, recover from my mistakes, and get back on track... it'll never be too late to regroup and start giving of myself again. I'll just need another little push from Miss Perspective, most likely. Thank goodness she's so pushy.
Thus, in review (bless you for even just skimming this thoughtful rampage so many paragraphs down), I think this is the heart of what I've learned in Tanzania: to live humbly and with grace, of course, but also to appreciate everything that I already have; to be patient with myself, because while my profession may be teaching, I am forever a student; and, most importantly, to give from the heart in all that I do. It's a tall order, but a worthy one. That's how I want to live my life.
Asante sana, Tanzania
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