Mzungu Mwalimu

Mzungu = Foreigner
Mwalimu = Teacher

I am both now. I'd apologize again for the lapse in communication but it really is totally unavoidable. You cannot possibly imagine the situation in which I currently write. It's actually amazing that there's a computer at all. Near our "compound" is Tengeru Village. The internet facilities are here. I cannot possibly describe to you the conditions outside the doors. It reminds me somewhat of a ghost town from the southwest - dusty and crumbling with chickens wandering the narrow loose gravel alleyways aimlessly. There's a key difference, however. The place is entirely kinetic - tailors sew on their porches, tiny children play independently, and many people wander the dirt paths that cross back and forth in no seeming organizational scheme. As they pass one another, they greet one another without fail - Shikamoo ( I respect you), Hujambo (Hello) and Habari (How are you?) must pass the lips of each individual one thousand times. Completely unlike the fast, ignoring Americans who pass one another at strip malls.

As energetic as the village is today, it is even moreso on market days - Wednesdays and Saturdays, when you can't even move for all the people. There are second-hand clothes and shoes stacked four feet high (which we've been told are mostly stolen from packages bound to Africa from well-meaning European and American donors), and a farmers market is crowded with individuals selling their bananas, mangos, dried fish - whatever they have - to make a pittance to feed their families. It's incredible. Hopefully, I'll be able to post pictures at some point, but everyone's advised us never to take pictures in the market because either a) our camera will be stolen or b) anyone in the general direction of our photo will expect to be paid a commission.

The small internet shop in which I reside is set in the midst of this place. It's almost incomprehensible to imagine that we're even in the same century as the internet was invented given our surroundings, but here I sit in the midst of total irony. That said, we are talking about a dial-up connection slower than the pony express, but there is something. I am sitting next to two small local boys whose father is giggling while watching them play a game in which President Bush and Condoleeza Rice are armed and defending themselves from potential assassins in the oval office. Small World.

Anyway, I came to the village to write to you about my volunteer experience so far. It's probably good that I've waited 4 days in to write this, because I've had the opportunity to see and feel a little more. Hopefully, I can find the words to describe it.

I am a teacher a Shepherds Junior Academy, a local primary school that has 6 classes; Baby Class (ages 2-3), Nursery Class (ages 3-4), Pre-Unit (Kindergarten), and Classes 1-3, which seem to generically correspond to our grade structure. I am in the Baby Class. These children are perhaps the cutest I have ever seen, snotty noses and all. Of course, I understand nary a word they are saying as, at this age, they speak almost exclusively Swahili. My favorite is probably Eliza, a little girl who sits near the back of the class and constantly says one of the few words I know to describe her perception of my degree of comprehension of the Swahili language - kidogo or "just a little." Of course, there's also Damares, Prisca, Melania, the two Charities, Collins, Faith and Jordan. All of them have the brightest eyes I've ever seen. They sing incessantly. My personal favorite:

Be happy, be happy before you die. (Come On!)
Be happy, be happy before you die. (Come On!)
My friend is ___________. She's a girl.
Shake-a your body before you die. (Come On!)

(In hearing from some of my fellow volunteers at local HIV orphanages and hospitals, death is much nearer to them than it ever is for American children. Just today, three of our volunteers attended a funeral service for an 8-year-old girl from St. Lucias who died not from her HIV infection, but from chicken pox that spiked a fever and, from the perspective of one of the volunteers, killed her from dehydration as they have no facilities to deliver IV fluids and have no time or resources to ensure the children drink a sufficient amount of clean water.)

As for my new favorite song, they clap along and they shake their little hips and dance during the last line if we've called their names. And we try to sing it for as many of the children as we can before 2-year-old booties can no longer sit still (and whose names we know - the teachers don't even know some of the children's names!) Of course, once they can no longer sit still, the teachers tell them to sit quietly and they pass out one stuffed animal to each child to play with independently. You should see these toys. The eyes are all gone and the stuffing hangs out on every single one. But they may have no toys at home, so they love them, and rock them like tiny babies.

Zoe, when I get home, we are cleaning out your closet and mailing them here.

There's a schedule on the wall that says what we're supposed to be doing when, but it seems to be completely irrelevant, at least this week, as it's the first week of school and our head teacher - Teacher Happy - is not feeling well at all. In fact, on my first day, she was not present and on our second day, she slept all day on the floor in the back of the room trying to recuperate. As she did, her assistant teacher (Teacher Angel) and I attempted to keep 33 2-year-olds entertained, quiet and sitting in their seats. It was a nearly impossible feat. The classroom is so small that you can't even get to the children for fear of stepping on another one. It's truly incredible.

Actually, though, I suppose I'm kind of surprised by how little I'm surprised. In truth, the school seems just like an American school with FAR fewer resources. It's not what we've got, but I do believe the children are learning and are cared for by their teachers. (This, in fact, may be the greatest lesson I take home: it's not so much that they have too little, though that's true - but it's become clear that we have far, far too much. And we've lost sight of the important stuff for all the material bullshit. For them, families, neighbors, friends and relationships are still clearly the most important.)

They have no crayons, balls, jump ropes, desks, toys, teaching aids, computers, text books, a/v equipment, etc. Even pencils and paper are terribly scarce. A teacher from another classroom came to our room today searching, in vain, for a pencil. I brought crayons in for the children to color an apple (a sound for apple!), and one little boy cried because he didn't know how to color - it seemed that many of them had never held a crayon before. I'd love to see an American teacher attempt to teach in this environment. This morning, for instance, I hand wrote out the letter a, instructions, the date, and 10 dotted a's to trace in 33 notebooks; in a separate 33 notebooks, I wrote the date and instructions and drew an apple for each child to color. Photocopying is simply too expensive. They work hard - an the teachers make only about 70-80,000 shillings (or about $60-65) per month for their efforts.

In addition to my work with the children, I've been working with the former-poultry-business-owner-turned-headmaster Lucy to develop a capital plan to raise funds to expand her school and start an associated orphanage. I believe this is actually where I may do the most lasting good. Lucy is a good woman who started this school. From everything I've seen and heard, she's done an incredible job given her limited resources.

You can bet that I'll be asking each of you to contribute to her fundraising efforts - I'll let you know more after my plan is complete . . .

Sanjay is at Upendo Nursery, a school for 2-6 year olds. He seems to like it, and I'm sure he'll post later with some details. Right now, he's teaching English to the school's staff.

Both of us are enjoying ourselves, but there definitely seems to be something critical missing. I was interviewed today for a PBS special about voluntourism. They asked whether I felt like I was doing "good." I really don't know. Here's how I feel: It feels good to have babies run to me, hold my hands and kiss me. It feels good to hug them and play with them. But, in all honesty, I feel like I'm getting more out of the experience than they are. I SO want that to be different, and I'm hoping that my fundraising plan is a step in the right direction, but I just don't know . . . some of the volunteers and I are also planning to paint some of her classrooms, so at least I'll leave some mark behind, I suppose.

This weekend, we're headed into Arusha for dinner and tomorrow we'll be camping in a Masai village. We'll be sure to catch you up upon our return. You can continue to expect our updates to be somewhat sporadic . . .

PS: I haven't had time to proof, but wanted to get you an update, so sorry for any necessary edits!

PPS: I'll also get some pictures as soon as I can - you've got to see these babies!!!!