The Great Rat Race of 2014

It all started in the early afternoon of a hot September day in Amani House. I was home from school because the plumber came to look at yet another problem with the pipes that occasionally bring running water into our home and because Standard 7 was taking the National Exam, during which no teachers are allowed in the school except for the headmistress.

So, there was I was, minding my own business, putting away tools and cleaning up after the successful repair of our waterways, when all of a sudden, I hear a scurrying from the pantry. I haven’t heard this scurry in a while. We knew we had at least one rat in our pantry a few weeks ago, but upon noticing this new housemate, living rent-free and eating our food, we put out a special buffet for him in the form of Supa-Kill, the Dutch rat poison we bought should such a guest arrive unannounced. (I’m not kidding, the name of this stuff is SUPA, as in super, Kill and is complete with toxic warning signs and a picture of a dead rat printed on the bright yellow and red box).

In the last few weeks since presenting our special guest with his feast, we heard no more scurrying…until yesterday. I turned on the light in the pantry to find a long grey tail following the small grey-brown body of our friend, Panya (rat in Kiswahili), down behind the cupboard. In the past I probably would have rolled my eyes in annoyance and hoped that he would eventually just leave or die, since I noticed all the Supa-Kill was gone. But today I was inspired. I grabbed a broomstick (without the broom part at the end), closed the door to the pantry with me and Panya inside, and climbed up on the cupboard with my flashlight and the stick, peering behind it, looking for our house guest.

I spotted him easily and began poking towards him with the broomstick. My initial plan was to scare him out in the open area and, to put it bluntly, whack him to death. Well, two things happened to curtail my clever little plan. One, I realized I would never be at a point where I was comfortable smacking the little guy to death and, two, he was faster (and cleverer) than expected. I found myself chasing him back and forth behind the cupboard for a while.

Then an idea came to me: block either side of the cupboard where he could escape. I set up two very nice little homes from old cans and boxes and wait for him to choose one. His choices were the giant can that used to hold peaches we got as a gift from the Sisters at Gonzaga or a small mail package box that came to us from America, two very suitable homes for such a small creature. After setting up my traps…I mean new living arrangements for our friend…I began chasing him back and forth again until he found his way in to the giant peach can, a good choice considering it was much roomier and probably smelled better than the old musty box. Once he found himself settled in his new quarters, I closed the door on him using a piece of cardboard.

Now it was time to move his new home outside. I asked my community mate to open the door to our gate so as to not take my own hand off the top of the can. Once I got outside the gate, I began walking a little ways from our house so that Panya would not come running back in after me. As I was walking, I began drawing attention, naturally, as people asked themselves why this white girl was holding that giant peach can covered with a piece of cardboard out in front of her with stiff-arms. I saw two girls about my age sitting outside and talking. When they saw me, as I drew closer to them and farther from my own house, one of them asked what was inside.

“Panya,” I responded, to which her immediate reacting was, “Don’t let it go! We have to kill it.”

So, with that, they got up and ran over to the open area where I stood, looking for rocks. The plan was for me to let the rat go and they would throw giant rocks at it. Just as I was preparing to let it go, a man and a woman were walking by, looked at us a little funny and then kept walking. Then another man passed by and nonchalantly asked, “Nyoka au panya?” (Snake or rat?), as if this were a typical goings-on in our neighborhood.

“Panya,” I answered and he prepared himself too with a rock and a stance that meant he was ready to throw.

Finally the time had come for me to release him and instead of running in the direction of the three musketeers armed with stones, he began running down the hill in the direction of the couple that had passed by a few seconds before. It was running right for the woman and as it got closer, she jumped at exactly the right time for it to pass under her feet and her friend to start kicking it. His kicking led the rat to run back up the hill towards us. It ran and he kicked but it still got away.

By that time, the three musketeers abandoned their failed attempt the throw rocks and they went after it in the same style of kicking that the man used on the hill. All of the beatings had certainly slowed the rat down which allowed one of them to simply, and sadly, stomp it to death. And while I find no joy in our having to kill the unwanted visitor, I was able to laugh at the slightly turbulent but communal effort to complete our mission and rid our neighborhood of its tiny intruder.

There was something so normal about six adults chasing the rat down for the sake of the neighborhood. Nobody would have wanted Panya to be their next unexpected visitor so they did what they could together to prevent it. I’m thankful for my neighbors literally jumping in to help and I felt one with them in the great task of catching the little panya.

Sitting in the Uncomfortable

There have been numerous occasions since I’ve been here, at least once a day if we’re being honest, when I felt uncomfortable. This is quite a challenge, namely because there was very little I could do about feeling that way. This ranges from being stuck on a packed dala dala (bus) in the middle of sweltering heat sitting at one of the busiest intersections in all of Dar for 40 minutes to conversations in Swahili that I sometimes simply could not understand, no matter how slowly or carefully the person spoke to me.

I’ve gone through a great range of emotions, a love-hate relationship really, with this idea of sitting in the uncomfortable. In the beginning, I had an “Embrace It All” attitude, ready for this new and exciting adventure. I was green, ready to blossom in all the ways I imagined I would. Nothing could get me down, not the longest bus ride or the most confusing conversation, because I was having an “experience of a lifetime.”

With time, however, my attitude shifted. It was no longer an “experience of a lifetime,” it was simply life. A life that my friends and neighbors will almost all have to live forever. This is not a choice for them, this is not a grand adventure, and this is not temporary. So, for a while, my mindset became: sit in the uncomfortable in order to better understand the lives of the people you love and to be in solidarity with them. Do it because they do it day in and day out.

This is still the bedrock of my philosophy…being in solidarity is at the center of understanding and my desire to work for change. But now what I have to consider is how I will walk with them from thousands of miles away, instead of in the same neighborhood, experiencing the same struggles and triumphs sprinkled among the everyday injustices. That is a whole new kind of uncomfortable.

With the views and ideas I have formed in the last two years, I have been able to understand more fully what life is like in the developing world. I will never fully understand, of this I am certain. However, now with my more extensive knowledge, I can be a better advocate and challenger of the imbalance between developed and developing. I have experienced daylong power outages and weeks without running water. I have sat in silence and sorrow as my friends mourn the (often premature) death of their children or parents. I have watched countless children sent home from school because their parents or guardians could not pay school fees. I have encountered people who have been so screwed by the system that they resort of thievery or booze. I have seen homes and communities destroyed by flooding that could have been avoided with better infrastructure and waste management systems. I have met people who were failed by the education system, which is brittle and full of holes. I have had many opportunities to sit with people in the midst of their own discomfort.

Now, more recently, I’ve found myself with a “sit in the uncomfortable because you won’t have to do it too much longer” outlook. I won’t have to sit on crowded dala dalas, or use any public transportation for that matter. I won’t have to walk a great distance over rocky ground under the scorching heat. I won’t have to haggle for a reasonable price for a piece of fruit. “Soon,” I keep telling myself, “you won’t have to take that extra breath for patience. It will all be easy again in a few months.”

This is where the real problem comes about. Does this mean that I believe once I get back to America, I no longer have to be uncomfortable or challenged by the things I witness and experience? And if I do believe that, what have the last two years been about anyway? This is a formation experience…a way to get a better grasp on the world and be a witness to the way most of humanity (aka the developing world) lives in it.  Just because I don’t really have to live uncomfortably if I don’t want to, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.

I must challenge myself to continue sitting in the uncomfortable. I must keep asking if I am contributing to the further destruction of the earth, what I am consuming, which organizations and companies do I support and how are they (if at all) supporting the people in developing countries that are not receiving a fair wage or their most basic human rights? What am I doing to tip the scales of justice and in which direction?

What am I going to do differently than I had done before coming here? Which lessons and intentions from my time here will follow me home? Will I continue to be careful of how much water I use and the way that I use it? Will I check products before buying them to ensure they are committed to ideals of fair trade and are environmentally friendly? Will I take time to do things like cook instead of paying for the convenience of pre-packaged food? Will I actively choose to take public transportation instead of getting into my big car, filling it with gas, and driving somewhere alone? Will I remember to take time for people, instead of isolating myself in Facebook World or TV Land? As a professional educator, how will I commit my life to improving education internationally? How will I treat the people I encounter that come from all walks of life?

How will I push myself to remain uncomfortable and ask the difficult questions? How do I keep from becoming complacent when it would be so easy to do so? Sitting comfortably is the same as being quietly satisfied and I refuse to be still and silent in a world that is in great need of social change.

How will I gently, without losing courage or conviction, push my peers toward the same call to action and advocacy? I cannot shrink away from the essential beliefs I have built upon during the last two years because I am afraid to challenge others and they are equally as afraid of being challenged. I must stand strong in my desire to stir the pot of complacency.

I will not sit and I will not be comfortable. We must go out into this big world, understand how we are failing it and each other, and do something about it…whether through being educated on issues of social justice and conservation or using the knowledge we already have, in partnership with our passions, to devote our lives to greater change.

Here’s to always sitting in the uncomfortable.

Gonzaga Day. Rwanda. Safari in the Serengeti. And the Gift of Family….all in one blog!

June.

Where do I even begin? I think I can safely say that this past June was the busiest month I’ve had in this country to date.

Gonzaga Day 2014

It started out perfectly, with a Gonzaga Day celebration that matched last year’s. My Standard 4 students sang “With My Own Two Hands,” by Jack Johnson. While none of them is going to release the next hit single anytime soon, they are definitely more adorable than any chart-topping artist this summer. As always at Tanzanian celebrations, there was excellent food and lots of dancing. It was so much fun and I will always cherish these memories with students when we can enjoy being together outside of the classroom.

Immediately following the big day at school, my community and I hopped on a bus which took us to Kahama, 16 hours northwest of Dar. This was our one pit stop along our journey to Kigali, Rwanda. From there, we traveled another 4 hours to the border and four more from there to Rwanda’s capital city. Rwanda is hands-down the most beautiful country I have ever been to. It lives up to its name as “Land of a Thousand Hills,” which is breathtaking; there was a view from wherever we were in the city.

View of Kigali city center

When we arrived, we found our way to the Jesuit community where we awaited the arrival of our Jesuit friend, Emmanuel, who was working in Dar at the high school but is from Rwanda. We spent a week with him there, visiting the Jesuit primary and secondary school there, meeting his family, exploring the city, and taking a day trip to Lake Kivu, on the border of the DRC. 

Dinner with Emmanuel and his family

After an amazing week learning about another unique part of Eastern Africa, we headed back to Tanzania to welcome the first in our long line of visitors from home. First was Former Jesuit Volunteer (FJV) Gretchen and then Katie’s friend Jimmy. A few days later FJV Cat arrived, then my entire immediate family, and then Katie’s dad. All of these visits (except Katie’s dad, who came later) overlapped for just one day, which also happened to be the wedding of our dear neighborhood friends, Mama and Baba Amos.

My parents and brothers arrived in Dar very early on the morning of June 28^th. There are no words to describe the feeling of seeing them again after 18 months. It was weird and wonderful and I couldn’t stop smiling. I sometimes still can’t believe that they were here. I am so proud of the way they jumped right into my life here.

First of all, on the way home from the airport, we got pulled over by the police. No joke. It was about 3:30 in the morning and my friend was driving us in his van. There was no one else on the road and suddenly this police man was waving at us to stop. So we did and one of them came over to my window. Not knowing what they wanted or what to say to make them happy, I started explaining in Swahili that my family had just arrived, that I was a teacher and volunteer, etc, etc. After a few minutes they let us go, without really explaining why they stopped us in the first place. What a way for my family to begin their trip!

After a few hour's rest, we headed to the church for the wedding mass of my friends. Then later in the evening, we hopped into 3 bijajis (small open cars used as public transport): myself with my parents and Christopher; Daniel with my community mates Erin and Alyson, and neighbor/co-worker Coltrida; and in the third, Katie, Jimmy, and the FJVs Cat and Gretchen.  When we reached the hall for the reception, we were welcomed into a typical Tanzanian celebration, full of music and dancing, speeches, soda, champagne and beer for the obligatory “cheers”, excellent food, and lots of gifts for the married couple. It was a perfect crash course in Tanzanian culture and my family quickly embraced it all!

Mama and Baba Amos leaving the church after the ceremony

Me with Amos and Donny (children of the couple getting married) before the wedding ceremony

Next, my family went on safari for just a few days. While we were all excited to see the animals and visit the Serengeti, the real gift for me during that time was having nothing to do or be responsible for except being with them. It gave us time to catch up and rediscover our family dynamic while enjoying the most incredible trip we probably will ever take together.  It was a strange balance, honestly, having my family, with whom I have shared the last 24 years, be in this place that has been especially mine for the last (almost) two years. Talk about worlds colliding! But it was wonderful; they were patient with me and I did all I could to include them in this beautiful place I now call home. We also had an amazing and knowledgeable safari guide that made our experience that much richer. Not to mention, speaking with him in Swahili and surprising all the other guides with our conversations was a lot of fun.

My family on safari

Hanging out with the Jesuits

When we returned to Dar, we began the part of the trip I was most excited about. We visited the Nandi’s, my host family, who have really taken me in as one of their own children since the day I arrived, spent some time in our neighborhood with Mama and Baba Amos (whose wedding we went to) and their children, had mass and dinner with the Jesuits, visited some of my favorite students who stay at SOS Children’s Village, rode a dala dala (the public bus), and had two incredible, full days at school with my co-workers and students. My students had heard so much about my family before they arrived, that my family didn’t even have to introduce themselves to my classes! My Standard Four ducklings were so excited and there are no words to describe the joy I received from watching my family interact with my “children.”

The Nandi Family

Dad reading Flat Stanley to my Standard 4B ducklings!

Introductions at assembly with all 530+ students

Hanging out with Standard 4B

I am beyond grateful for all my family did and sacrificed in order to see my life here. I am impressed by and admire the way they were up for any and all adventures. It is such a gift that my two worlds have now overlapped. I like to say “my American family and my Tanzanian family are now one.” When I go to school each day, my co-workers and friends ask about my parents and brothers, not because it’s the polite thing to do but because now they know them and genuinely love them. And now when I talk to my family on the phone and I describe something, they have a real sense of it in their minds because they have seen it and experienced it. I am so very grateful for the time each of my families was able to spend together. It's really an amazing gift which I will always cherish.

The teachers and staff of Gonzaga with my family

As I look now to the future of returning to that home in America, I know that I will have four people, who love me and can understand what I’ve experienced,  gently helping me re-navigate the home I used to know.

Kama Kawaida

Well, I realize that I haven’t updated my blog in a while and it’s probably because I have no insightful reflections or thought-provoking ideas to throw around these days. Things are “kama kawaida” (as usual/normal) around here. I don’t know if feeling this way is a result of becoming immersed in Tanzanian life or because I have become indifferent to how it is different from my life in America. I’m not sure.

Regardless, I do have a few updates:

First, sadly, it breaks my heart to share that my Pop, my mother’s father, passed away on April 9^th. He was 91 and a half years old and in failing health. It wasn’t totally unexpected but not being there was painful. I want to thank everyone, near and far, who helped support me in these last weeks. I felt every prayer and good vibe. Thank you for holding my up in my moment of weakness. My Pop’s memory will live forever in my heart and I will carry his spirit in everything I am doing here and for the rest of my life. He was an incredible man who has had a significant influence on the person I have become.

Second, our JV community and the community in Dodoma, met this past week in Moshi, near Mt. Kilimanjaro, for our spring retreat. It was a wonderful few days filled with swapping stories of the challenges and joys that come with our experiences here in Tanzania. I am grateful for that time not only to process and grieve my grandfather’s death but recharge and recommit myself to this life and work, as we enter the last weeks of the first term at school.

Lastly, I am very excited to announce that there will officially be a Gonzaga Magazine! (I should have it in my hands on Tuesday, God willing!) Due to a very generous donation, we now have enough funds to print the issue we created for last school year (2013). Our hope is that from the sales of this one, we will generate enough money to fund and print one for this school year (2014). Thank you SO much to our wonderful donors!

The Bibis and The Babies

In October of last year, during my Re-Orientation retreat, I reflected a lot on what happened during my first year here in Tanzania...challenges I faced, accomplishments I celebrated, and relationships I formed. But I still felt like two key elements of my experience were lacking.

Since coming to Tanzania, my faith has not been as strong as it was in college. Mostly, I think because I was no longer surrounded by my like-minded peers twenty-four seven. I also think going to mass in Swahili, when one is not fluent in the language, can make it slightly less fruitful.

The other missing piece was a community outside of our JVC house and Gonzaga. I was giving all of my time and energy to a school I love so dearly, that I was not totally aware of the neighborhood community just on the other side of our big black gate. On the retreat, I was asking myself: How will I find time for spirituality and community outside of school, where I often spend almost 50 hours per week?

Well, with a bit of reflection and a shared desire from my community mate Katie, we decided to join our neighborhood's jumuiya and see if it filled this longing we had to dive deeper into Mabibo. Jumuiya is a small Christian community that is made of neighbors that also go to the same church. Our parish has several jumuiyas, including the one for our neighborhood called Blessed Mary. These jumuiyas meet at 6 am every Saturday, at a different member's house each week.

So, after returning from retreat, I asked our friend and neighbor Dickson if he would take me with him that Saturday. Of course he was more than happy to and we went, bright and early, to Musa's house. Our other neighbor and Dickson's best friend, Isaya, was there. I recognized a lot of the other people, who I had only ever greeted in passing but didn't really know. Despite being half-asleep and having no idea what anyone was saying, I felt comfortable and quickly welcomed into this community of faith.

I decided I wold continue attending and shortly thereafter, Katie joined me. Slowly, we learned the order of the prayers and could even kind of say some of them. Our neighbors learned our names and invited us into their homes each week. They weren't just people to greet anymore, they became our community. I've learned a lot more about the people and the layout of our neighborhood in these past four months than I knew in the first ten.

Well, since we found ourselves becoming "regulars," it was only matter of time before the chairman asked if and when we would be willing to host the jumuiya at our house. I was SO excited. To be able to open our big black gate and welcome the community into our home, the same as they have graciously done for us week after week, gave me so much joy. And a few weeks ago, we did just that.

The Friday evening before, with Isaya's help, we picked up the plastic chairs at the chairman's house and carried them four at a time on our heads, over the bridge made of unsteady logs, through the entire neighborhood, to our house. And the chairman also asked us if we would read the first reading and the Gospel the next morning. We hesitantly said "Yes," and rushed home to practice reading the passages in Swahili.

We woke up early the next morning to set up the chairs and open the gate. Just before six, our neighbors started flowing in and we opened with a song that's slow enough even for me to sing. By the time the song was over, the chairs and mats in our compound were full of people I've always wanted to welcome into our home. There were more bibis (grandmothers) and babies than I could count.

After the Rosary, Katie read Somo la Kwanza, (the first reading) and had to say a word that I think had at least 15 letters in it. But she did great! Then as Mama Amos read Somo la Pili (the second reading), I suddenly became nervous, knowing that I was in charge of the Somo la Injili (Gospel). How daunting! But I did it...not perfectly, I'm sure but our luckily our community is so patient and understanding with our basic knowledge of Swahili. They recognize when we try. And that's what counts...that we genuinely try.

Needless to say, however, I was so relieved when my reading was over! After that, I was able to relax and be more present. I took in the scene around me and realized I had gotten exactly what I was hoping for since that retreat in October.

As I sat on that mat, next to Katie on my right, making jokes with the bibi on my left, and playing with the baby in my lap, I felt at home. I felt like a part of something. We have our babas and our babus, kakas and dadas, mamas, the bibis and the babies. We have a family here, centered in faith and just as supportive as my friends from college. I just couldn't help but smile, sitting among our neighbors and friends, feeling totally at home.

Seventy-four Ducklings...A Lost Anecdote of Year One

I wrote this blog post last October and forgot about it until now. Enjoy!

If you knew me at all before I left for Tanzania, then you know how much I dislike birds. They have always freaked me out. I would avoid them at all costs and cry in the times when they were unavoidable. Well, it seems as though Tanzania is really changing me. Let me just say how much I love ducklings. In fact, I love them so much that I have 74 of them. Seventy-four of the cutest, most loving ducklings anyone could ask for.

 

Let me explain, last year, one of the vocabulary words for my Standard 3 English students was “duckling”. It is definitely the easiest vocabulary word they had all year and so every single student knew it without fail. A few weeks after giving it to them, I found a copy of The Ugly Duckling storybook in the library and figured it was more than appropriate for me to read it to them…it includes their favorite vocabulary word and it has a good lesson.

Near the end of the school year, I was reviewing with one of my classes, helping prepare them for the annual terminal exam they would be taking soon. I decided to use ducklings as the subject for all my sentences and questions for various topics….counting ducklings to practice using phrases like “more than” and “less than,” writing sentences using possessive pronouns…whose wings? The duckling’s wings…ITS wings, and drawing big ducklings and bigger ducklings as a means of practicing comparative adjectives. Well, being the biggest person in the class obviously, I drew the biggest duckling with the name “Mama Lina,” underneath (some students have taken to calling me this instead of teacher) and it stuck. From that moment forward, I had an inside joke with my favorite class of students. I am the Mama Duckling and I have 74 wonderful little ducklings. Then, as a classroom management tactic, whenever they got loud after that, I would say, “quack once if you can hear me,” and once they realized I was saying “quack” and not “clap,” they immediately began quacking at the top of their lungs (we may have also done the slow, soft to loud quacking as made famous by the Mighty Ducks.)

Later that day, when I saw my students walking down for tea break, they were making noise and walking in what I can only describe as an incredibly crooked line. So, I went out into the corridor and asked, “What kind of line in this? Ducklings don’t walk in a zigzag line; they walk one behind the other, in a neat little row!” Miraculously this did cause them to straighten up their line….but the best part is that that night at dinner as I was telling my community about this cute interaction, my community mate and co-worker Beth, exclaimed, “oooooh, so that’s why they were all quaking when I was walking upstairs!” It turns out, that even after I was out of sight and ear shot, my baby ducks continued to carry on our little inside joke.

So, now birds don’t seem so scary. My ducklings are great, though not always perfect. 

Kuuliza si ujinga!

When I started thinking about what I would write to mark one year in Tanzania, I had all these great ideas, a clever title, funny stories, and lessons I learned. So, I began writing….I wrote for almost five pages. And when I came to the end of my train of thought, I realized that all the nitty-gritty details were not interesting to anyone, except maybe my mother (and that’s only because she has to be, it’s a part of her job description).

So I reread what I wrote and tried to narrow it down to one idea that I could easy share and that wouldn’t take an hour to read. Luckily, finding a theme in all my rambling was not too difficult. So here it is: If I have learned anything in my first year, it’s about perfection…..and how unrealistic it is. As I reread that sentence, it seems silly; it seems obvious. No duh. Nobody is perfect. BUT for a perfectionist like me, it is a difficult realization to accept. As I reflect on this past year, I have learned that I can’t always, and I rarely will, get it right the first time.

In every aspect of my life in Tanzania, I have learned that perfection is far from attainable and that no one ever expected me to be perfect, except for myself. I have imagined and dreamed about being an International Jesuit Volunteer for years, I had it all planned out; I knew exactly how it was going to happen….and I was sure it was going to be perfect. But now, my life, the way I view the world, the way I spend my time, the way I interact with people has changed so much. And for the better, I think, as I move farther and farther away from striving for constant perfection. Mistakes are bound to happen…especially when you live in a foreign country with a drastically different culture.

The first time I made chapatti (like a fried tortilla), they were incredibly salty and dry. The first time I tried to take a dala dala (public bus) home from the city by myself, I got on the one with the less direct route, which made my trip an hour longer than it needed to be and dropped me farther from our neighborhood; the first time I tried to use the verb in Swahili for “to understand” (kuelewa), I used the verb for “to be drunk” (kulewa) instead. When I made all those mistakes, I didn’t think I would ever make it here and was too afraid to ask for help for a long time. I didn’t want to look silly or incompetent by asking too many questions. But making mistakes and asking questions is how a person learns; it took me an entire year to be okay with that fact.

Nothing about my life is perfect and I am slowly but surely learning to find the beauty in that. I’m still not a master at washing clothes by hand, I am not very good runner (though I did complete my first half marathon on December 8^th!), I don’t always cook the best tasting food, I’m not the best at communicating with friends and family at home (I’m working on it!), I am not the best teacher, I am not always the most wonderful friend, I am not always pleasant to live in community with; the list goes on…but I am still doing all of those things and trying the best I can at them.

I spent my whole first year here trying to figure out how to operate, how to make this experience go smoothly. I have realized that in order to learn and give this experience my all, I will have to become comfortable with often looking like a fool or asking too many questions. The other day I was studying one of my Swahili books, and came across this proverb: “Kuuliza si ujinga” which means “To ask is not stupidity.” So, that’s what Year Two will be all about… asking questions so that I can learn and do more. I won’t do it perfectly but at least I will have tried.