Nitakuwasiliana "I'll keep in touch."
(Bridget's trip to Tanzania)
... & India

Habari, friends! (Literally, “news,” but essentially, “Hey!  How are you?”).  In regards to my failure to write home until now, all I can say is, “Pole sana!” (I am very sorry).  By now, you have probably begun to believe that either I never made it to Tanzania or that I developed some sort of grand scheme to move here permanently and never talk to anyone again.  I am happy to say, however, that after several failed attempts at sending news home, I have finally reached you and can say that neither of these possibilities is true.  I made it here with no complications in my flight, and while I am definitely settling into life here, I would miss all of you much too much to ever fail to return home.  Now that we’ve cleared that up, it would probably be a good idea to actually give you some information about my time here thus far.  At this point, chronologically detailing my experiences since I’ve been here would be entirely unreasonable – both in terms of me having the time to write and you ever having the time or desire to read.  Thus, I’ll try topically arranging some news for you, and hopefully it will be a little easier for all of us.

DAR ES SALAAM

Once the capital city of Tanzania, Dar has only recently lost this title to Dodoma.  Even now, it is still considered the industrial capital of the country, packed with factories and an unbelievable number of people.  The streets are a sight to see, suffering excessive damage in the event that you encounter a paved surface and otherwise simply entirely uneven dirt passages running every which way.  They are packed with innumerable cars, trucks, buses, cyclists, street vendors, beggars, and pedestrians – far from enough room for any of these groups – and lined with heaps of trash and countless factories and small shops.  Situated right on the coast of the country, it experiences a rather hot and humid climate year-round.  Although this is the coolest time of the year in Tanzania, the temperature during my time in Dar likely never dropped below the mid-80s.  Despite these somewhat overwhelming conditions, I quite appreciated the time I had in this region.  I spent my first five days in the country just outside of the heart of Dar in an area known as Mikocheni B.  Here, I lived in my program’s hostel with six other volunteers who arrived at the same time as me.  They ranged in age from 21 to 38; two were from Germany, three from Denmark, and one from the U.S.  We spent our days with a young man named Yoctan, who was thankfully nearly fluent in English and responsible for teaching us about the language and culture of the region.  We had Kiswahili lessons in the morning followed by some form of excursion in the afternoon to see different regions of Dar.  Our evenings were quite relaxed, mostly spent on a concrete porch in back of the hostel listening to music and getting to know each other.  The workers at the small kiosk at the end of street also got to know us quite well, as none of us were quite confident enough with the language or the region to go out past dark (note: daylight hours exist from a little before 7:00 in the morning to a little after 7:00 in the evening … and once it starts to get dark, it is dark).  As we had little else to do quite early in the evening, let it suffice to say that while I was only witness to this, every local variety of beer the country has to offer was tried … more than once.  I know, I know … I’m halfway across the world and can do essentially anything I want, but it’s all about personal preference, and I am still the same Bridget … would you have expected anything different?

MY PLACEMENT

As you may recall, I was originally expecting to be living and working at Good Hope Orphanage in Arusha.  I honestly can’t effectively explain the various circumstances that led to this not working out, but shortly after I arrived, I learned that I wouldn’t be going to this orphanage after all.  Fortunately, I was quickly reassigned to a new project with Anne, a twenty-six-year-old Danish girl who I had met during my first week in Dar es Salaam.  My new assignment was that of working at an establishment known as “Jane’s Place,” both a school for young children and a center for widowed Maasai women located in Ngaramtoni, about 12 kilometers outside of Arusha city.  When I first received the description for this project, it sounded as though about 250 orphans and 25 Maasai widows lived at some sort of institution at which I would be helping – an overwhelming step up from my original assignment.  In reality, there are just about 80 children, ranging in age from two to eleven, and no more than ten Maasai women.  All of them live within the community, as there is no actual established institution at which they live.  Although they are called “orphans,” most of the children still have either one or both of their parents.  Despite this, all of them are facing especially poor social circumstances that prevent their families from being able to afford school.  Monday through Friday, the children come to a one-room school house just a short walk from where I am living and attend classes from about 9:00 AM to 2:00 PM.  In addition, on Wednesday afternoons and Saturday mornings, a small group of widowed Maasai women gathers in the school yard to bead jewelry traditional to their tribe and to enjoy each other’s company.

Although I help out with the beading and really enjoy spending time with the women, the majority of my time volunteering is spent with the children.  Despite the school being only one room, the children are divided into three classes.  My class is known as the “baby class” and is made up of thirty children between the ages of two and five.  Although these children have very little and are faced with especially difficult circumstances at home, they never fail to show up to school on time every day with smiles on their faces, eager to learn.  Staff and supplies at the school are quite limited, but they do not allow this to discourage them.

To give you an idea of how the school functions, there is one permanent teacher for each of the three classes, and then whatever volunteers are present at the time help out the teachers (at this time, it is just Anne and me).  Each class has a chalkboard, helping to divide up the different regions of the room, and the seats and tables for the children are oriented to face the chalkboard.  While the two older classes have what one might consider fairly legitimate desks, my class actually has only long benches that reach just about a foot off the ground paired with long, bench-like tables that are perhaps two feet off the ground.  There really isn’t enough room for all of the children on these benches, but they crowd on so that they are shoulder to shoulder (as you might imagine, this does wonders in aiding their focus, as they are already very young children with quite short attention spans).  Conflicts over personal space, pencils, small scraps of paper, and interesting fragments of trash that the children encounter erupt frequently, often resulting in tears and indiscernible Kiswahili, but thankfully the teacher with whom I work has remarkable control over most situations.

Priscus, a twenty-year-old boy who lives near the school, teaches the baby class full-time.  He actually has no interest in ever becoming a teacher, but he has not been able to find a job since moving to Ngaramtoni from Kilimanjaro and has thus decided to spend his time helping the children of his neighborhood.  While the other two teachers are paid, he receives nothing for his help.  Despite this, he is unquestionably the most enthusiastic of the three and is adored by the children.  Each day, I assist him in teaching the children a variety of lessons including the alphabet, numbers, music, English, and coloring (my favorite, of course).  Due to the shortage in supplies, both of us also typically spend a good portion of time searching for and struggling to sharpen pencils for the children.  Only about half of the children typically have workbooks to write in, and we are always quite far from being able to find a pencil for each of them.  Chalk is quite the valued commodity, and as for blackboard erasers, it’s often a choice between your hand and a scrap piece of paper you happen to find on the floor.  The building is quite dim due to the fact that it has no electricity, and there is constant competition to be heard over the noise of the other two classes.  Despite all of these unfavorable circumstances, the children are a pleasure to teach and never cease to surprise me with how clever they are.  I am still working on names (I usually use break time to work on learning them), but just to give you an idea of a few of them off of the top of my head, there’s Lavu, Musa, Pendo, Esther, Felista, Baracka, Dori, Jenny, Noel, Bioto, Joyce, Mischa, Johnson, Samuel, Rachel, Leah, Prisca, Eliyah, Jackson, and Angel.  Certainly by the end of my time here, I intend to be able to name them all; I have to admit, however, that like all small children, they are often a bit difficult to understand.  Thankfully, I have some time yet.  I already know that I’m going to miss them all terribly when I return home.

MY HOST FAMILY

Although I was a bit disappointed at first when I learned that I wouldn’t be working at an orphanage, a major resulting advantage is that I am now able to live with a host family.  About a five-minute walk from the school, my host family includes Mama Grace (the mother); her two sons, Steve (26) and Gilbert (22); her daughter, Beatrice (19); and Victoria, a young woman who helps with work at the home and lives there along with her five-year-old son, Jackson.  The father of the family passed away seventeen years ago, and Lillian, the oldest daughter, lives in Dar es Salaam.  The family has been quite hospitable, and everyone except for Jackson speaks English remarkably well.  They are presumably doing better financially than many of the individuals who live close to the school, as they have electricity and a solidly built home.  Many of the families who live in the area still live in structures built of sticks and mud, so I admittedly feel a bit guilty for how well I have it where I am staying.  In only taking a very short walk to school or into the center of town, I am able to see quite clearly just how little I can take for granted. 

Although the mother, who is a pastor at a nearby church, and the children, who are either studying or working, are all quite busy, they always take time to say hello and see how I am doing.  I have also made it a point to help the mother, Beatrice, and Victoria in preparing dinner, so while I learn how to cook traditional Tanzanian food, I also have the opportunity to make conversation and help with the large work load that comes with living in any home.  I have also gotten to know the oldest son, Steve, quite well, as he has been especially helpful in showing Anne and me around the area.  Everyone in the family greatly delights in making fun of Anne’s and my relative lack of proficiency when it comes to finding our way around town, doing laundry, speaking Kiswahili, preparing their traditional meals, and so many other things; yet, they are certainly in their right, and we are luckily improving with time. 

Oh, goodness … I have so much more to tell about my time here, but before the power cuts out again (it’s happened about four times since I’ve tried to write home), I better say goodbye.  If I have any control over the situation, however, I will do my best to write again before too long concerning some of the interesting experiences and conversations I’ve had since I’ve been here.  It has been a lot to adjust to, but I am enjoying learning about such a different culture.  I hope all of you are doing well, and I would love to hear some news from you.

Until next time, whenever that will be, amani (peace),

Bridget

9 August 2008