Teaching

My role as teacher is a recent development. In many ways, it feels natural to me. Of course this might have to do with my audience’s low expectations. According to my audience (a subdued bunch of fourteen to nineteen year olds) I am not an entertainer. In fact, I am to be revered and feared. I am God and they are my hapless victims. They stare at me with their sheepish eyes expecting the worst. I am known to bring fear into their young fragile lives. I will reprimand them for actions they have not committed or committed by mistake.

But, I am a foreigner with a foreign accent and I am an anomaly. I could be God; I could be a clown. They do not know, and I do not know either.

They all stand up at once, making a raucous as they do so. “Good morning sir!” They stand with their backs straight, waiting for the appropriate response. I realize then that this could easily be an infantry of soldiers. They are unconsciously obedient and have no intention of sitting back down. They are patient. Only a response from me will relieve them of this most awkward duty. I have never been called sir. How does one react to such reverence?

“Good morning class,” I mutter back.

They sit down, and the air is once again quiet. I can sense the curiosity in their eyes. Who is this white creature and where did he come from? How will he speak and what will he tell us?

The subject is English and I do not know where to begin. I do not know their names and they do not know mine. On the blackboard I write my name. They try to read along not sure what letters will follow. It is like a puzzle, and only the final letter will reveal the truth. They mess up my last name, pronouncing the “g” strongly. I correct them and they try again; accurately this time making the gods smile down in glee.

Their names are equally foreign to me. I am incapable of remembering them. I am generally bad with names, but again this is all new to me. They introduce themselves with a kind of brevity that is both innocent and unwelcoming.

The room is quiet again. You can hear a pin drop. The air is still cold from the previous night. I’m suddenly aware that the ball is once again in my court. I have to say something, do something; anything that will give the impression that I’m prepared for this. The fact of the matter is that I’m not. My only background in teaching is a two-day crash course in “interactive learning.”

They are looking at me and I feel the seconds tick away into oblivion. What am I to do? On the blackboard I draw a map of Africa. I’ve had a lot of practice drawing this map. I can feel the perplexity in their eyes. I ask them where they come from. Africa is a huge continent, and Tanzania is vast. It’s normal for people to send their children across the country in order to receive a better education. It turns out that some are from opposite ends of the country: places that take two or three days to get to on broken down buses that date back to the seventies. Most make this journey alone, and sometimes they do not see their families for months at a time.

There’s a girl here who lost her mother a year ago, and whose renegade father wants nothing to do with her. She’s on scholarship, and hasn’t seen her family since that fateful day she went back home to bid farewell to her dying mother.

Death I find out is an everyday occurrence for many people.

They ask me where I’m from. That I am from Africa is something they have a hard time accepting. The girls look at me in shock as though I’ve just insulted them. The boys have this look of doubt. Has a trick been played on them? Am I the trickster? On the map I show them where Cameroon is in relation to Tanzania. It is a long and arduous journey across Africa, one that I would like to make one day. Their ancestors made it a long time ago, before the white men came and changed everything. But, this is a foreign concept to them. Why would someone make such a long journey, if not for material wellbeing? In a world where most people struggle to survive, altruism becomes a highly mistrusted and even rejected ideal. They eye it with skepticism, knowing only the despair that surrounds them.

I was on a daladala bus a few weeks ago. It was packed to the brim. A woman got up at her stop, and as she did so, an elderly woman went for the now-vacant seat. But before she could make it, a young man snuck in front of her and sat down. Such is the desperation! Is it this that beguiles man to commit so much injustice? There are many places in the world where there’s only one seat left and where everyone else is left fighting for it. How many seats do we give up?

My first day of class is almost over and I’m beginning to learn their personalities. Agrapina is shy, yet assertive with her eyes. She’s amused at my presence, and can’t help but let her friends know it. Erasto has a perpetual look of fear on his face. He doesn’t say a word throughout the period. Pascazia’s shyness is adorable. She whispers her questions so only she can hear them. She looks away and smiles whenever it’s her turn to say something. Elizabeth never looks me in the eye. In fact, she never looks up. She turns out to be one of the smartest kids in her class.

Dar es Salaam to Zanzibar

From Dar to Iringa

I leave for Iringa on Sunday.

Dar es Salaam

In Iraq you have the suicide bomber; in Tanzania you have the bus driver. They are both disillusioned, albeit by different reasons. Most importantly, they are both suicidal. This may come as a surprise, but don’t fool yourself. The bus driver is equally lethal and loyal to his cause.
The bus driver is not afraid to force his way into incoming traffic. In fact he relishes such moments. “Off limits” is not part of his vocabulary. The sidewalk is simply another lane, and the pedestrians are target practice.
If you are a Tanzanian, the bus driver plays an important part in your life. He will try his hardest to get you to where you want to go even if it costs him his life (and the life of his passengers). With the bus driver, you can always be sure of a destination, although it isn’t always clear what that destination might be. The afterlife isn’t quite what I have in mind though (at least not at this point in my life). And don’t imagine for a second that you will have a comfortable mechanism under your now well pounded tush. Quite the contrary, you will for the first time in your life, realize how boney your ass is (evolution seems to have missed this most important element to bus riding). Of course, this is only if you have procured yourself a seat. If not, then you can rest assured that you will have your face jammed up someone else’s not-quite-deodorized armpit. You will then realize that this may very well be the last breath you will ever take. If you are seated, your parting wish will be to have been granted a well endowed behind (this applies mostly to white men, of which I am proud to have been denied membership, fingers crossed). If you are standing, and your face isn’t where it belongs, your last breath would bring with it that fresh flavor you have only begun to grow accustomed to, and, which, you hope will grant you favor with whichever God you pray to.
Now, sometimes you will never get to your destination. Oftentimes, the buses run on empty, and the only thing that is pushing it forward is the engine that has undergone some serious readjustments making it resistant to periods of drought (African style). There are times when even the most resistant of engines will fail, and the driver’s assistant will run off with an empty plastic tank, only to return five hours later to find all the passengers have left.
There are also other times when you won’t reach your destination. If the driver realizes that it is not in his favor to continue his route he will politely, but firmly ask everyone to get out and find another bus, at which point you would like to end his life with one swift blow.
Such is life in Dar. It can be quite frustrating for any law-abiding visitor. Despite this, it is important to note that in the midst of chaos there seems to be some sort of organization. The buses are all tagged with their particular destinations, there are bus stops (although they look like any other street corner), there are traffic lights that magically work, garbage collectors, a fire department (which I will have to describe at another time), and occasionally you will see a street name.
There are Japanese restaurants; not one, but two Subway’s (sadly yes); a myriad internet cafes; a Persian art store; numerous Indian neighborhoods and restaurants; and so many other things I cannot think of right now.

The French, the Swiss, and the Italian

So I made it to Dar es Salaam! I made it without my shampoo but I made it nonetheless. Security confiscated it at Reagan airport. Damnation to all those nitwits who tried blowing up planes with such lethal devices. Seriously, its shampoo guys! Why was I carrying shampoo in the first place? I certainly wasn’t planning on blowing myself up. And an airport shower wasn’t too compelling. In actuality there was a method to my madness. I was relying on my carry-on luggage to avoid paying the $180 surcharge for checking in an extra piece of luggage. It worked quite well on the United flight to Logan airport, but failed to fool the Swiss.
Logan airport was in disarray when I arrived. I had an hour to pick up my luggage, catch a bus to the Swiss Air terminal (with all 5 pieces), check my luggage in (again), and go through security one more time. Walking passed the security line, I saw people, hundreds of people, inching their way to some vague destination. The line seemed to spiral on and on, and on, and on. Now remember, I had less than an hour to get to my flight.
A heaving donkey, I made it to the Swiss ticket counter. There was no line. That was good and bad, but at this point no line could mean only one thing: I was too late, they had already boarded. In fact, that was what the woman behind the counter told me. She said it with such honesty I could have punched her in the face. Not really though. I told her why I was late; that my rink dink plane from Alaska had crash-landed thirty miles away, and my back was about to explode from all the walking and carrying. She didn’t buy it, so I told her the sobering truth. It was a United plane that I had managed to crash-land after all four pilots had simultaneous heart attacks. She still didn’t buy it. So I told her the real truth. Surprisingly, she sympathized with the reality of my situation. She asked how many bags I wanted to check in. I said two. She said three. Freaking Swiss and their attention to detail! At that point, all I wanted was to board that plane, so I conceded. She weighed all three pieces, and without charging me an extra dime, penny, shilling or franc, handed me my boarding pass and had me whisked away to a much shorter, but equally slow security line. In my haste, I forgot my sleeping bag, and as I turned around to go back and get it, a young woman with a beautiful smile and slender arms threw it at my face. How graceful the Swiss are. No really, she handed it over so politely I could have cried. Ah, the Swiss! Who would have known?
My problems hadn’t left me yet. I still had the exceedingly slow line to go through. A man with a walky-talky and the seriousness of a soviet soldier wasn’t sympathetic to my plight. I tried telling him about my plane crash but he too wasn’t interested. When I informed him that my flight was about leave, he looked at me with an I-don’t-like-you-because-you’re-obviously-a-spoiled-american-and-only-speak-English tone of voice, and asked me if I spoke any Italian (in Italian of course, and don’t ask me how I know that). I shook my head and he shrugged his shoulders. Freaking A! Italians! Where is a Swiss when you need one, eh? At that moment, if someone had asked me to pick one person to live the rest of my weary life with on a deserted Island, I’d have chosen a Swiss, preferably one with a beautiful smile and slender arms. Maybe the Italian could tag along to fetch water.
Inching along the line, a man walked right passed me and ducked under the separating line-tape (or whatever it’s called), cutting his way to the beginning of the line. As I admired his self-righteousness and seeming rudeness, I heard someone say something about him being French. Ah, the French! How bold they can be, eh? Blowing up a Green Peace boat is just the beginning for any law-abiding Frenchman.
I hit up a conversation with an elderly American couple standing behind me. Finally, some friendly world travelers. After hearing my numerous sob stories, the man lifted the tape and beckoned me to go on. I politely declined the offer. By golly, I was going to avoid being French (at all costs if necessary). American I stand! American I fall! Well, truth be told, I began to rethink the whole American bit. Maybe, I shouldn’t always have to be the polite American. Maybe, I too could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and even get away with it! Maybe I could be French. In fact, the situation demanded it! I slowly lifted the tape, and took on the (heavy) responsibilities of being French. Of course, I couldn’t stop there. I had to go on cutting in front of more people. And more people. And more people. I was beginning to enjoy my new self-proclaimed identity. Of course, I hadn’t completely lost my previous more-polite identity, so I made sure to ask the next person if she was okay with me being French. She said, “by all means necessary.” Wow. Who would have known that people would actually concede to such Frenchified demands? I suddenly felt liberated.
So, that is how I made it to my flight on time. And just maybe, on this hypothetical little island of mine, there could also be room for a Frenchman. And a Tanzanian (even though they apparently love cutting people off), and a Persian, and whoever else can put up with me odd ways.
I've been hanging out in Dar as I wait for my visa to get processed. I'm enjoying being here, and spending time with my friend's family, as well as another family visiting from the States. They have two very cute, extremely energetic girls with superhuman pain receptors who chase me around all day, get into my luggage and ask me for chocolate and to play tag with them every chance they get. Lovely!

Will try to post pictures soon!

P.S. I don't really identify as American or any other nationality for that matter. I was being sarcastic for comedic purposes.

I am a slave aboard this ship
that moves with ferocity and stubborn agility
towards some magnificent tragedy.

Propelled forward by the stories we're told
of valiant men and tragic heroes
who give their lives every day
for the service of a few
and the tears of many more.

A face among millions. A face long forgotten.

A thousand times I jumped into those treacherous waters.
A thousand time I was dragged back kicking and screaming,
my lungs filled with water,
spilling songs of places
I have long forgotten.