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