St. Anthony's secret

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and it was only out of polite obligation that we didn’t cancel on our new friend Jonas. But went we did. And as the equatorial sun moved toward afternoon, we made our way down the dusty red road out of town. It was true, a more beautiful day you would be hard pressed to find the whole worldwide. Sunny and breezy with shadows just now starting to flicker over the road. Soon we were leaving our hilly haven far behind and descending down into the heat of the open African bush.

I had to admit, I was not at all prepared. Startled even. St. Anthony’s school was a few squat brick structures with holes for doors wide open to the rolling grasslands surrounding. Sand, paling in the sun, covered everything in view. It had become hot and sweat was on our backs. They came to meet us in the neck of the path after we turned off the road - a whole pack of them, faces turned upward into a burning sun and big baby-toothed gaps for smiles. Their little hands reaching up to us, clasping our fingers and thumbing our shirts. What was left of their too large, dusty old clothes were drooping down their chests and off their shoulders. All sets of curious eyes were on us and we were - for the moment - the very center of the universe. Expressive little sounds replaced words and signaled their excitement. “How are you?” they signed.

All were deaf and none could speak. A few had known speech as small children and from them you could sometimes catch a word in their sounds, like “mama”. Some had been deaf from birth. Untreated malaria or other fevers had claimed the hearing of the rest and for an unlucky few, took other pieces of the brain too. Uganda had too many hearing and speaking children to educate and to-be adults to find work for already, so it had no use for these children. Their parents didn’t know what else to do with them or how to communicate with them. So they were sent here - a small school for the deaf funded by small donations of churchgoers and what little guilt-money the government would drop. Orphans of functional society. This Sunday in particular had been a very special day - parent visiting day. Out of 36 children, 6 parents came.

But this did not keep them from smiling this afternoon. Within a few steps of our arrival, we were mobbed by children, and all our hands actively held. As we took a tour of the school, we were flanked by barefoot escorts who were walking through the brush in order to stay right at our sides. We saw the vegetable gardens where they worked to raise a little money of their own and the well that had been overrun with red mud. We saw the bunkbed dorms where they slept, mosquito nets full of holes and little old suitcase at the foot of each bed not much bigger than a lunchbox or just a few plastic bags - their belongings were not so numerous as to require much more. We saw the classrooms where they learned to write and to sign. More importantly, they were learning small trades and skills - ones that could perhaps someday allow them an income for themselves. Every last child knew how to work - garden, carry large jugs of water, lift a spade as soon as they were able. We took group pictures of them and loved to see themselves afterward - marked by a series of signs we didn’t understand and subtle squeals. We let them play with whatever things we had on us - an umbrella, a ponytail holder, a watch - and all were of immeasurable fascination and enjoyment. And then, we all went out back to play.

What kind of things can one play in a big empty field when no one can hear or speak? Answer = almost anything. The favorite game when the mzungus came was to be swung around by the wrists so that their little feet were airborn and their heads thrown back in happiness. Some of the older boys had set up a hurdle of sorts made out of sticks and they were competing jumping over it. There were backflips and handstands and cartwheels, ranging from impressive gymnastics to imitative tumbling and somersaulting in the grass by the little ones. These were the things you can practice when you don’t have toys or Tvs or sports equipment. In an effort to divert a fight between four children who wanted to hold my only two hands, I started ring around the rosie but without the song - they would just watch me eagerly for when it was ready to “fall down”.  Oh this, this was a good game. And it showed on their faces - exploding with excitement and suspense, fixed on my every move so as to leap into the air when it was time to go round again. With children, it seems that one little smiling face can sometimes expand to three times its normal size when having fun. And African children especially get these huge happy eyes and this incredible irrepressible expression - that when fixed on you is perhaps the greatest gift anyone ever gave you. Nothing was too simple to be thoroughly explored and enjoyed. And when that got boring, something else would surely present itself, in whatever form the spindly African bush and its white visitors would provide. They rarely cried when scraped - which happened often in bare feet. Instead some would cry sporatically in an exaggerated fashion in order to be picked up and held. For these young ones, being held in the arms of an adult no doubt happened rarely if ever. So we obliged them, we the big white santa clauses coming to town.  Yes, we were the headlining entertainment for the day. And tomorrow, surely there would be something else, if you knew how to look for it.

Soon it was time to go. The evening storms were coming and could be heard roiling in the distance. Time to make the long walk back up the hill before dusk. Goodbye was a non-event. No cries or fits,  just a smile and a wave. Loss was normal, goodbyes quite usual and everyday attachments far too fragile to fuss about. Come back soon, said Father Anthony, one of the three hearing and speaking adults helping run the school. Yes, we said. Couldn’t wait.

Three hours earlier, I had arrived, broken my own heart over the scene and cried quietly all over their little heads. Children of a society that never wanted to know them, who didn’t even have the words to express what that must feel like. No toys, no parents, no clothes or shoes to ease the pain. But when I left, I dare say, I felt quite cheerful. Quite happy indeed. They had infected me. Set me straight for that second. Shared their secret, one that not even most poor Ugandans knew. A secret that we could never fully unravel or take home with us. A gift from your God to his “forsaken” that none of the “saved” could know. That life is not worth waiting for. Promises not worth making. Comfort and convenience not worth knowing. The future not worth planning. Because without all those things, even without hearing, the metric system of life measures only in moments. These ones. Right. Now. Not even memories are worth more than a few shillings. Life is pennies in a pond - out of reach as currency but so very pretty when the sun catches them like that under those gliding, glittering ripples.

The Cats are out of the Bag

We finished our last days in Bagamoyo slowly and thoughtfully, alongside the friends we had made there. It was hard to believe that it was time to leave - it felt as if we had just arrived. I was still waking up every morning surprised and sticky with sweat before at last remembering where I was. The days with the kids seemed endless, and yet the day we had to leave them jumped up on me before I had any time to prepare for it. The days were dense and the nights dark, as the village was frequently without power.

Yesterday we went to school to teach an English class to the high school and say our goodbyes to the primary kids, now demure and happy as ever under their new Tanzanian teacher, Furaha. We and Furaha had became fast friends upon his arrival. He was smart and soft spoken, spoke meticulous English and was very interesting to talk to. He felt comfortable with us and seemed to enjoy our company, which is not always the case in a place where you are so visibly socially conspicuous on the fringes of a community that is not yours. Along with the privilege that comes with being white and a debutante of the first world order also comes that constant sense of standing outside looking in. The locals keep you at a friendly but protective distance and even when you try, it seems you are always a mzungu first and a person second. And can you blame them? Visit, stay, live here if you like…you will keep on a-knocking at the door and never get past the parlor, which of course they don’t have anyway. This feeling of isolation and the longing to belong runs constant through most of my first month.  Always as if you are outside the screen windows looking in - but language and your color keep you out in the dusk with the power out inside, straining to know what’s happening behind the eyes of Tanzania. Here, you can but wont understand it all. See, you will in pieces and try to remember. Guess, go ahead and try. But know, you can never. Furaha was one of those brave exceptions to the rule. Extremely friendly like most Tanzanians, but with seemingly little or no alternate agenda. A sincere interest in who we were, where we came from. We liked talking to him, comparing cultures, comparing traditions, asking questions. He gave us little insights into his life and we listened hard.

On our last day, we asked him if we could come say goodbye to the kids and he could explain to them in Swahili that we were going away. He agreed and even helped us organize one last class picture. I felt certain that the kids wouldn’t really understand and, just as kids are, would hear the news and move right along - in kid world, permanence doesn’t register as easily and living moment to moment is so much easier as you move from one mango tree to the next. They joyously riled around the camera with giggles as Furaha herded them into a somewhat orderly line. As we took the pictures, they never seemed to get tired of waving at the camera and squealing “bye! bye!”, which would collectively excite them into such a wave of delight, cheering and energy that even Furaha stopped attempting to quiet them. Their little personalities bloomed as usual for the duration of the exercise - funny faces, one pushing the other off a chair, some hiding behind the legs of a teacher. Finally it was time to go. I hugged a few of the kids and a bunch of them mauled me as they like to do, pulling my hands and crowding around repeating “bye! bye!”. Some of them planted kisses on my arms and petted my hair. I was welling up and thought it was best to get out before the sprinklers went off. On my way to the door, there was only one threat left to my game face --my favorite little girl, Josephine, and I was wary not to look her too long in the face to keep my composition. Leaving is just like ripping a bandaid off, right? She hadn’t made a move toward me and had a blank, absorbed look on her face. I thought, all the better that way and tried not to look back.

I trudged across the sandy courtyard heavy hearted and tottering on the brink of tears. But so far so good - I was as bone dry and dogged as the hot sand paving the way home. I made it almost to the school gates when I heard Furaha calling my name, “Kathryn! Kathryn!” (Tanzanians have a hard time pronouncing Kate so I have been introducing myself with my full name to make it easier for them, which they noddingly pronounce as “Kaserin”). I turned to see him standing in the doorway - little Josephine by his side. He motioned for me to come. I was as close to running as I could while walking. May day. May day. Looking at her sad little face my esophagus shrunk at least 3 sizes and I thought my diaphragm would surely rupture to make room for my exploding heart. When I got there she was crying and repeating something in Swahili I didn’t understand, and she wouldn’t return my hug in protest. Furaha was trying to comfort her on the other side. At last he asked - “do you think it would be alright for me to lie to her? To tell her you will be coming back?” The last thread my bastard heart was hanging on to split like a hair in my chest. “Yes, yes of course.” He said something soothing to her in Swahili and at last her little head turned, chin tucked, and she obligingly went inside.

We were soon biding our friend goodbye in the teachers lounge, shaking hands and promising to keep in touch. We told him we hoped for him to come to the U.S. someday or maybe we can come back and visit Tanzania. It was the kind of talk that you hope brightly will come to be someday but that the world would mostly likely swallow up like a fly on its way to the moon. We thanked him for everything and told him to keep us appraised of how the kids were doing. “I’m sorry to call you back today. ” he said, “Josephine, when you left, she cry.” I told him sorrowfully I couldn’t understand what she was saying in Swahili, but that I was glad to hear she was doing fine come lunch time. “She’s fine now, yes.” he said. “She can sense how much you love her.”

We are on our way into town for beans and rice on our last night. As we pass the ragga-wood shop fronts, the power throngs once, wavering like a single light bulb hanging in the cabin of an old ship on its way over a wave. Then the town plunges into a familiar darkness. The shop keepers keep on without a peep, and you can hear them scuffling slowly about, retrieving their candles. The speckles of a few dim gas lamps flutter to life and obscure the streets from view by keeping your eyes from adjusting to the dark. Colors of women’s khangas sometimes flash in front of the lamplight and the smell of cassava leaves burning reaches you in the dark. You can hear the entire village moving in the dark behind them, just steps away. I am a ghost here, retracing my phantom steps, hoping that those who have seen my apparition around these parts will remember me. My heart is heavy from goodbye, but too heavy to bring along with me tomorrow on a crowded Dala Dala into Dar. So now its on down the road, an elephant in search of shade through the grasslands. It’s a searching life that is still somehow so full of finding.

Younger Days

Her name is Josephina. She is five years old but thinks she is six. She is missing a front tooth in a row of her tiny baby teeth that, when she laughs, give you the same feeling in your chest as the soft inside of a puppy’s ear flopped up when it sleeps.  A squeeze on your heart as if it were a little ball of foam. She does not speak a word of English, except “teacha”, “toilet” and the universal language of a child’s many facial expressions. And as those go, hers are nothing less than exquisite. She tries hard in class, talking to herself in a hushed voice in Swahili as she diligently copies English words from the board that she doesn’t understand. When she gets tired, one eyelid will droop to almost close and she will sway in the effort of keeping her little head upright while. Her hair is always braided neatly into fuzzy little braids, the tiny tails of which all end in a little flower shape at the back of her head. She has exema or some other kind of skin condition that keep her little fingers in a constant state of roughness and peeling layers of skin. When she is nervous, she tucks her tiny chin in her chest and covers her mouth with her hands, looking up at you with huge center less lemur eyes. When she cries, she merely sniffs quietly and tucks her head away - a sight that could very well kill you on the spot from a weak heart. She does not misbehave often but when she does she responds to your reprimand immediately and sheepishly. Sometimes she is sick at school. And then you will find her lying in the sand outside and she will not come into class when called, an out of character behavior for the little miss Josephina who usually comes bounding in. You cant understand her almost inaudible complaints but she never wants to go home. In Africa, the lines between daily life, sickness and death are thin and skated across without remark. And so you watch her like a hawk but don’t have any cards to play in her favor, because in Africa someone else holds nearly the whole deck and most definitely all the aces. And that person you most likely wont meet again until you’ve played and lost. But the next day she is once again running to meet you  at the gate with arms outstretched and that heart-attacking smile in full beam. To know her, this Josephina, is to wring every drop from your heart loving her and not even wonder if she will remember you when you are gone as she moves precariously toward African adulthood.

His name is MickDadi. Not kidding. That is his name. He is arguable one of the smartest kids in class and one of the most disruptive - isn’t that always how it works. Disciplining him, or trying to, is more tiring than chasing bunnies around a meadow. Getting him to do his work is one thing, but keeping him busy after he finishes with perfect scores and gets to climbing up the shelves and sending supplies crashing down is another. When the new primary school teacher came to teach the other class, he gave MickDadi a talking to in soft but curt Kiswahili. And after that MickDadi came up to all the teachers, pulling our arms saying “I’m solly teacha, I’m solly”. Don’t get to thinking that the chat turned his collar up or made him vanilla. The next day we caught him hoarding crayons under his butt and chasing the other kids with a massive, heavy stick. We are not sure why he does what he does. But when one of the more popular kids stayed behind in class crying because we made him finish his work, MickDadi stayed  back with him, tugging at his arm, stroking his face and soothing him in Swahili. After the kid stopped crying and rejoined his friends in line, he was back to excluding and swiping at MickDadi, who sits at his own table in class alone. We have to put MickDadi in time out a lot. Sometimes its for not doing his work, sometimes for grabbing supplies without asking, sometimes for hitting other kids. Sometimes he does it for attention, sometimes out of boredom, sometimes out of his feeling of exclusion, and who knows why else. A smarter six year old, you will be hard pressed to find all across the world. We wonder what he will grow up to be. Which of his qualities - stubborn, sweet, obstinate, sensitive, sore, or smart- will follow him to adulthood and how they will define his life. When you are a teacher, you can’t separate that long list of qualities into good or bad. Not like you can in business when each has a price tag hanging from its ear. Because each one is both innate and herded through life by from those that surround us. To accept some and deny others would be to excommunicate all of humanity. When MickDadi marches over to Abduli and hits him hard, you should scold him. But hopefully you were watching closely and saw the look of loneliness and isolation in his eyes when Abduli refused to be next to him and hold his hand in a game. Look closely at the kids you know; they will show you on their little diorama stage what you are not seeing in the adults you think you do. So whatever your religion or opinion of human life, I think its obvious that once the lunch bell rings, we are all forgiven. Godspeed MickDadi.

Back to School

I am walking the long, wide stretch of sand from the teachers quarters to our whitewashed classroom full of primary school kids. Tall palm and other fruit trees line the edges with finger-thin trunks, swaying their leafy tops like the kids do during a song. Two high school kids in their white and maroon uniforms walk by, with a “hello Madam” as they pass. The usual stream of sweat passes down my back and the sun slices through the tree leaves, scattering any oasis of midday shade.   

Our kids are well behaved for the most part, which is suprising given that we don’t know much Kiswahili and have to teach in feeble English, most of which is lost on them. Giddy at the lack of sternness, structure and harsh discipline in our classes (as is often customary in African classes) the kids get distracted quite often, but in the event they can keep their seats they sincerely try hard, searching us with their big dark eyes. They are often quite shy when it comes to being called to answer a question they usually don’t understand in English, but after one gets called up to the board to try an exercise they all are up waving their hands anxious to be called, crying “Madam, teacha, teacha, pick me, teacha!” Some of them know so little English, most of our teaching is done by pointing and imitation. But they are smart, one of them so smart he ends up doing cartwheels and talking to himself in the back during most of the lessons because he finishes so early. Even we have a hard time keeping him busy and preventing him from yelling out the answers for all the other kids.

Their favorite game is duck duck goose. You should see the way they run and flop in the hot sand, grinning these big, garish grins when they get picked. We teachers get selected as goose more often than not, I think because the kids get a huge kick out of outrunning a figure of authority in total silliness. When we do, we always try to pick the silent little ones, heads down who don’t ever expect to get picked. Many of the kids wear the same clothes everyday, or alternate two outfits, and almost all of them look like they are straight out of a goodwill box - gaudy, lacey lime-green eighties dresses with broken zippers, oversized red turtlenecks in the blistering heat, old adidas T-shirts with stretched out necks. Its a reminder of how special an education can be in a little African town like this. The kids are completely and refreshingly unhindered by it and are too smart, energetic and generally joyous to evoke much pity or any other unproductive, well-manipulated first world responses. There is no toilet paper in the bathroom, which is customary in these areas (there is a reason it is polite to only eat with your right hand and rude to use your left). The food is beans and rice or ugali (refined corn flour mixed with water and fluffed) virtually every day of the week for the students. But as far as schools go, this is a luxurious one by local standards, particularly given the fact that there is a working library, a computer lab and mzungu management prohibits the teachers from hitting the children.

Almost a week deep, I knew I’d reach a few points of distinct panic and it seems I’ve hit a pretty good one. The heat in our bedroom soars at night without a cross breeze, augmented now that we are condemned to our bed nets after deciding to go off the malaria medication to save our livers some grief and also to seal off our beds from the nightly jaunt of the cockroaches. But we are paying for it in sweat (lots of it) and sleep, respectively.  The beans, rice and fried food that completely dominate the diet here go from novel to a total nutrient-deficient drag in no time at all. And with a house of 10 people sleeping in three rooms and a room full of primary kids, the pure lack of alone time has been enough to land me smack dap in my first silent breakdown.
And here is that voice in your head, the one you’ve been running from all your life. Telling you you’re way behind on your Kiswahili, you’re not a good teacher, you’re not flexible enough, you cant get comfortable walking in town, you don’t know your way home, you are too overwhelmed by the smells of the markets and the dust and the “mzungus!” shouted at you, if you can’t cool off you are going to scream, why did you come here, what were you trying to prove and why are you so bad at it?? Like a child, standing in the street with dust in her eyes.

The kids make the breakdowns worth having. Watching them try hard and having them run up to your legs and their “teacha, teacha!”s. They are so much work and sometimes you want to send them all home at noon and wash your hands of their shouts, and pushing and backtalk. But somewhere along the way I got bitten by the bug and I somehow look forward to seeing them every day. They make feeling so scared easier to forget.