Unbelievable! A second semester has already come and gone and I am hours away from leaving on my last extended safari. I’m really looking forward to the next four weeks of travel but I have a lot to be grateful for looking back at the last three months. This semester was far more difficult than the first. As the weeks went by, the only thing that kept me going a lot of the time was the constant encouragement I received from Daniel, my family, and my friends via email, snail mail, or phone. It seemed like the months were just stretching out before me with no end in sight!
My afternoon classes: We agreed to schedule the class a half hour earlier and shorten it to 1.5 hours instead of two in the hope that this would encourage my students to show up more regularly. The first weeks, the level of enthusiasm is always higher than at the end and most of the class showed up. But once the mid-terms were completed, attendance went downhill. I had long conversations with the Principal and the Academic Dean about what I could do to improve the class, lessons, etc. But nothing seemed to make a difference. The breaking point came when my class decided en masse not to attend one afternoon because they needed to rest – this after a stat holiday the day before!
But all the frustrations and discouraging moments pale in comparison to the bright lights I’ve discovered among my students. They are the ones who push me to be a better teacher and to pass on as much of my knowledge as possible. We ended the semester with a drama exercise: each group had to write their own ‘story’ and present it to the class. My highlight was the re-enactment of ‘Samson and Delilah’. They did such a fabulous job rewriting the biblical text and acting it out for the rest of the class. They even pulled together some props and costumes. Hanania, who played Samson, was sporting a wig made up into a fro! It was priceless!
This past Sunday, our village/ school was hit by the strongest storm I’ve ever experienced! Gusting winds, pelting rain, fearsome thunder! I sat next to the wall in my room in case the wind blew the roof off, that’s how bad it was. The next morning, I received a call from Principal to survey the damage. I had to see it to believe it: the roofs of our dining hall and one of the students’ homes were blown right off and the twisted metal lay metres away. The front awning of a staff member’s home had been pushed right over the top of the main roof. Thankfully, no one was injured, although the student in question was in his home together with his family and several students, studying for final exams. We’re fortunate the storm hit when it did – the students were preparing to leave the next day after writing their last exam.
The College had no emergency funds to pay for the iron sheets needed to recover the roof of both the dining hall and the damaged homes. On top of this, the Kanisa Menonnite wa Tanzania was having their bi-annual conference at the school that same week with over 150 pastors from all over Tanzania expected to participate. And then the unthinkable happened: the local Member of Parliament came to survey the damage and pledged 1 million Tanzanian shillings (approx. CA$ 800) and 200 iron sheets to repair the roof. What an unexpected answer to prayer! God is good – all the time! All the time – God is good!
Prayer Request: I’m travelling to the TZ capital of Dodoma Tuesday for a few days to visit some fellow MCCers. I’ll be heading to Zanzibar for some R&R before we have our team meeting in Arusha on Good Friday. My mum arrives in Nairobi on April 15th – yay! We’ll spend a week in Cape Town with my aunt and return to TZ to meet my host family and fellow staff, see Nyabange and Musoma, maybe squeeze in a short safari to the Serengeti. There’s a lot of travel involved, travel arrangements can change on a dime, and transportation is notoriously unreliable. Please pray that everything will go smoothly and there are no major hiccups.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Family Safari
I thought a new blog might be in order as my malaria story might be making some of you queasy by now! I promise this one will be upbeat and positive, no gross details.
I had one day’s notice that we’d be visiting my host mum’s family in a small town called Nyarero, about two hours drive from here. We tried to get an early start but didn’t hit the road until 10am. The small 4x4 was loaded with groceries my host parents had purchased the day before for their family. My host father managed to secure his company’s vehicle for the day and because he hasn’t driven a vehicle in quite some time we had the company driver chauffeur us. What a welcome change to be in our own vehicle with air conditioning instead of a stuffy overloaded dalla dalla! I certainly appreciated it. After a brief stop in the “big city” of Tarime, we hit the red dirt road at full speed. I have no idea how we stayed on the road. There were huge potholes and exposed rocks all along the road. We blew past men riding bicycles loaded with three or four whole banana branches. We were in the middle of banana country, banana trees everywhere. We arrived at Nyarero around noon.
I was introduced to my Tanzanian grandmother, Mama Deborah, a few of her 9 children, and several of her grandchildren. We were seated inside her house and munched on some of the smallest sweetest bananas you’ve ever tasted, straight from the backyard! Mama Deborah and one of her grandchildren occupy this mud house consisting of a large bedroom/ storage, one small bedroom, an even smaller storage room, and the living area. The whole house couldn’t be more than a couple hundred square feet. My host parents helped pay to construct her home after the other one collapsed during a storm, a fairly common occurrence with the mud structures most people here live in. Tanzanians are ingenious when it comes to making the most of what’s at hand.
My host father took me on a tour of the area. For all you (Mennonite) history buffs, Nyarero used to be the location of a fairly large and thriving Mennonite mission compound. The grounds must have been several hundred kilometers in size with various buildings scattered throughout. The building directly across from Mama Deborah’s property used to be a school compound for the missionary kids. My host father remembers how the place used to look like and all he could do was shake his hand. For whatever reason, most of the buildings have fallen into serious disrepair and disuse since the Mennonite missionaries handed over everything to the local Mennonite church. We walked the length of the grounds to the top of a hill and found a classic Western-looking church standing there. My host father explained that the buildings nearby used to be a hospital with a maternity ward, the only one of its kind in the area, allowing women from the surrounding villages to receive excellent care. Now, they either have to brave a bumpy journey into the city or have their baby at home.
Upon our return, even more of my host mum’s relatives had shown up and when I sat down on the grass, I was surrounded by a group of curious children whispering “mzungu” under their breath. Mama Deborah quickly came to my rescue and reprimanded them. “Say ‘Shikamoo, mwalimu’!” (“Greetings, teacher”). They instantly obeyed and chimed in unison “Shikamoo, mwalimu”. Over the next hour, we said goodbye to everyone, took some family pictures (everyone crowded around, fascinated by the camera’s ability to instantly show them the picture), and headed home. But not before my host father showed Mama Deborah how to use her new cell phone. It was an amusing sight: Mama Deborah trying to follow my host father’s instructions on how to make a phone call and send a text message. Even at 60, she was quite quick to pick it up!
What a day…
I had one day’s notice that we’d be visiting my host mum’s family in a small town called Nyarero, about two hours drive from here. We tried to get an early start but didn’t hit the road until 10am. The small 4x4 was loaded with groceries my host parents had purchased the day before for their family. My host father managed to secure his company’s vehicle for the day and because he hasn’t driven a vehicle in quite some time we had the company driver chauffeur us. What a welcome change to be in our own vehicle with air conditioning instead of a stuffy overloaded dalla dalla! I certainly appreciated it. After a brief stop in the “big city” of Tarime, we hit the red dirt road at full speed. I have no idea how we stayed on the road. There were huge potholes and exposed rocks all along the road. We blew past men riding bicycles loaded with three or four whole banana branches. We were in the middle of banana country, banana trees everywhere. We arrived at Nyarero around noon.
I was introduced to my Tanzanian grandmother, Mama Deborah, a few of her 9 children, and several of her grandchildren. We were seated inside her house and munched on some of the smallest sweetest bananas you’ve ever tasted, straight from the backyard! Mama Deborah and one of her grandchildren occupy this mud house consisting of a large bedroom/ storage, one small bedroom, an even smaller storage room, and the living area. The whole house couldn’t be more than a couple hundred square feet. My host parents helped pay to construct her home after the other one collapsed during a storm, a fairly common occurrence with the mud structures most people here live in. Tanzanians are ingenious when it comes to making the most of what’s at hand.
My host father took me on a tour of the area. For all you (Mennonite) history buffs, Nyarero used to be the location of a fairly large and thriving Mennonite mission compound. The grounds must have been several hundred kilometers in size with various buildings scattered throughout. The building directly across from Mama Deborah’s property used to be a school compound for the missionary kids. My host father remembers how the place used to look like and all he could do was shake his hand. For whatever reason, most of the buildings have fallen into serious disrepair and disuse since the Mennonite missionaries handed over everything to the local Mennonite church. We walked the length of the grounds to the top of a hill and found a classic Western-looking church standing there. My host father explained that the buildings nearby used to be a hospital with a maternity ward, the only one of its kind in the area, allowing women from the surrounding villages to receive excellent care. Now, they either have to brave a bumpy journey into the city or have their baby at home.
Upon our return, even more of my host mum’s relatives had shown up and when I sat down on the grass, I was surrounded by a group of curious children whispering “mzungu” under their breath. Mama Deborah quickly came to my rescue and reprimanded them. “Say ‘Shikamoo, mwalimu’!” (“Greetings, teacher”). They instantly obeyed and chimed in unison “Shikamoo, mwalimu”. Over the next hour, we said goodbye to everyone, took some family pictures (everyone crowded around, fascinated by the camera’s ability to instantly show them the picture), and headed home. But not before my host father showed Mama Deborah how to use her new cell phone. It was an amusing sight: Mama Deborah trying to follow my host father’s instructions on how to make a phone call and send a text message. Even at 60, she was quite quick to pick it up!
What a day…
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
I'm a real Tanzanian! Warning:
My apologies for my online absence for over a week but this time I have a legitimate excuse. It only took seven months but I finally got malaria this past week. Yup, those anti-malarials I’ve been taking faithfully every morning since touching down in Africa failed me. In all fairness, the box does have a disclaimer stating it’s only 99% effective. The longer you stay in a malaria zone, the higher your chances of it taking hold at some point.
I woke up Thursday morning feeling ok but by early afternoon I was in bed with a serious fever, at least, I hoped that was all it was. I spent the night wrapped in a fleece jacket, yoga pants, and socks under a quilt, freezing. The next minute, I was so hot, I could barely stand having a sheet on top of me. Coupled with frequent trips to the bathroom, let’s just say I had a rough night. The next morning, I announced to my host parents I had malaria and would they be able buy some malaria medication for me. My host father and my boss insisted I get tested first and I agreed. We took a taxi to a private clinic – it was very clean and well-run, reassuring to me in my state of illness. Well, I managed to get through the blood test but as I waited for the results, I got seriously nauseous. The last thing I remember was hanging over the rail trying to keep steady and then I was sitting on the floor. My host parents picked me up and leaned me against the railing and I collapsed again. This time, the doctor and a nurse joined in to carry me to a nearby bed. I think that’s the first (and second) time I’ve ever fainted...
Turns out, my glucose levels were too low and my heart rate was sky high. I hadn’t eaten much for the last 24 hours because I had no appetite. The doctor immediately put me on a glucose drip and, lucky me, I got to spend the rest of the day in hospital. I was well-taken care of: my host parents stayed with me for most of the afternoon and my boss plus some other co-workers dropped by on their way to town to check on me. My host mum went home to get me some fruit, chai, and fresh juice in an effort to perk me up and get me eating again. One of my students accompanied her and both of them made certain I was comfortable and had everything I needed. Thankfully, my stay did not involve a hospital gown The doctor let me go later that evening and I was just happy to be home again and in my own bed. What was supposed to be a quick visit to the clinic to get a malaria test and some medication turned into an all-day affair. As far as hospital experiences go, this one was pretty good although I’m not keen to repeat it any time soon.
Saturday morning, I woke up to find my co-workers and students waiting to visit me. By early afternoon, I’d welcomed a steady stream of well-wishers. They were all concerned after it was announced in chapel that their English teacher was in hospital. I reassured them I was on the mend and thanked them for their prayers. Then the rash hit, big red spots that spread all over my body and itched like crazy! At first, I thought I’d have to go back to the clinic immediately. Then I calmed down and texted another team member who’s a nurse. I guessed (correctly it turns out) that I was having an allergic reaction to the malaria medication I had popped that morning. Sure enough, it turns out I’m allergic to sulfa. Who knew? All my life, I thought I wasn’t allergic to anything and it takes getting malaria in Tanzania and being prescribed the one malaria medication that has sulfa in it to discover my allergy! 24 hours later, the red spots disappeared and I was feeling relieved that the worst of my ordeal was now behind me.
I returned to class the following Monday, much to everyone’s amazement (I think my students were hoping for a longer English break :-). The internet’s been acting wonky for over a week so I didn’t have a chance to email anyone, including my mum, about what was happening. Now you’re up to date on the latest. I am so thankful for all the prayers that were offered up on my behalf, even if you didn’t know what was going on. I know that God had a clear hand in bringing me to the hospital when He did. I am so blessed to have people here and at home who care so much about me and take such good care of me. Thank-you!
I woke up Thursday morning feeling ok but by early afternoon I was in bed with a serious fever, at least, I hoped that was all it was. I spent the night wrapped in a fleece jacket, yoga pants, and socks under a quilt, freezing. The next minute, I was so hot, I could barely stand having a sheet on top of me. Coupled with frequent trips to the bathroom, let’s just say I had a rough night. The next morning, I announced to my host parents I had malaria and would they be able buy some malaria medication for me. My host father and my boss insisted I get tested first and I agreed. We took a taxi to a private clinic – it was very clean and well-run, reassuring to me in my state of illness. Well, I managed to get through the blood test but as I waited for the results, I got seriously nauseous. The last thing I remember was hanging over the rail trying to keep steady and then I was sitting on the floor. My host parents picked me up and leaned me against the railing and I collapsed again. This time, the doctor and a nurse joined in to carry me to a nearby bed. I think that’s the first (and second) time I’ve ever fainted...
Turns out, my glucose levels were too low and my heart rate was sky high. I hadn’t eaten much for the last 24 hours because I had no appetite. The doctor immediately put me on a glucose drip and, lucky me, I got to spend the rest of the day in hospital. I was well-taken care of: my host parents stayed with me for most of the afternoon and my boss plus some other co-workers dropped by on their way to town to check on me. My host mum went home to get me some fruit, chai, and fresh juice in an effort to perk me up and get me eating again. One of my students accompanied her and both of them made certain I was comfortable and had everything I needed. Thankfully, my stay did not involve a hospital gown The doctor let me go later that evening and I was just happy to be home again and in my own bed. What was supposed to be a quick visit to the clinic to get a malaria test and some medication turned into an all-day affair. As far as hospital experiences go, this one was pretty good although I’m not keen to repeat it any time soon.
Saturday morning, I woke up to find my co-workers and students waiting to visit me. By early afternoon, I’d welcomed a steady stream of well-wishers. They were all concerned after it was announced in chapel that their English teacher was in hospital. I reassured them I was on the mend and thanked them for their prayers. Then the rash hit, big red spots that spread all over my body and itched like crazy! At first, I thought I’d have to go back to the clinic immediately. Then I calmed down and texted another team member who’s a nurse. I guessed (correctly it turns out) that I was having an allergic reaction to the malaria medication I had popped that morning. Sure enough, it turns out I’m allergic to sulfa. Who knew? All my life, I thought I wasn’t allergic to anything and it takes getting malaria in Tanzania and being prescribed the one malaria medication that has sulfa in it to discover my allergy! 24 hours later, the red spots disappeared and I was feeling relieved that the worst of my ordeal was now behind me.
I returned to class the following Monday, much to everyone’s amazement (I think my students were hoping for a longer English break :-). The internet’s been acting wonky for over a week so I didn’t have a chance to email anyone, including my mum, about what was happening. Now you’re up to date on the latest. I am so thankful for all the prayers that were offered up on my behalf, even if you didn’t know what was going on. I know that God had a clear hand in bringing me to the hospital when He did. I am so blessed to have people here and at home who care so much about me and take such good care of me. Thank-you!
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