Ground Zero

I’ve had a few Ground Zero experiences in the last week or so.

Last Monday the Doctor took us out to visit a village about an hour and a half from Tabora, where there is a school that Africare supports as one of its outreach projects. We rode in the back of the Africare truck on a packed dirt road for about 45 minutes, then turned off onto a dirt track and then another dirt track and then another one, which took a further hour or so. It’s pretty hard to describe the scenes we rode past – just that there were these mud huts in the middle of the biggest Nowhere I have ever seen, populated by chickens, half-naked toddlers, headscarved bent-double women and the occasional goat, all wandering about or squatting underneath leafy trees dripping with mangoes that dotted an otherwise very dusty, red landscape. Every now and then there’d be a village along the track, and by village, I can only say they qualified because there was more than one mud hut and at least one woman sitting under a tree selling tomatoes in fungus (piles of four). It was almost impossible to realise that many people who lived here would be born, live and die in the same square kilometre of land. Although that being said, we passed hundreds of people just walking, walking walking… from where? To where? I never found out, but man, did they look patient. Lucky no one in this country is ever in a hurry (and by that, I mean I trip over people walking in front of me because I am physiologically incapable of walking as slow as Tanzanians).

When we got to the village we went to the school and parked in the middle of the quadrangle. There were seven teachers at this school, seven classrooms and 550 students (yes, you read that right). We went into one classroom and all the students rose, dumbstruck, and said “shikamoo” (that’s the Tanzanian greeting to someone older than you… you say “marahaba” in return) with their hands touching their heads (more respect). It’s possible many had never seen wazungu before, living, as they were, in Ground Zero Africa (I don’t think it’s possible to get any closer to real, living Africa than the trip to this village). There were one hundred and fifteen students in this one classroom (yes, you right that right too), and walking in was like crashing an assembly, not a classroom. I tried to take a picture but I couldn’t begin to fit all the kids in the one frame, so I took three pictures (above) of the same classroom to try and at least attempt to communicate how many children were attempting to get an education in this one room. At HAPO, we work with the children in the classroom every day. We have 35 kids and there are four of us plus a teacher and every two seconds there’s a kid pulling on our arms saying “Sister Liza..... mwalimu (teacher)… mimi fundisha (teach me)”. I can’t begin to imagine how anyone could successfully teach over a hundred students at once. In case I haven’t successfully communicated the pattern here, there is a severe shortage of teachers, desks, classrooms and school latrine facilities in this region (in Tanzania in general, but I only know specifically about Tabora). The average classroom size is 45 to 50 students which is massive by Australian standards, and here I was standing at the front of a classroom with 110 kids. It blew my mind.

All the teachers came to meet us and then we went to visit each classroom, where the kids were made to stand up and say “good morning, our sisters”. Needless to say they loved the digital camera experience and were very well-behaved and quiet until the second we left the room, at which point we heard them cracking up into gales of laughter. Once all the classes were let out the entire school convened on the quadrangle to get a better look at the wazungu and line up to have their photo taken with us. The most hilarious part of this experience (and it’s a close competition) was the way they couldn’t get the hang of staying in one place to have their picture taken… so in attempting to get a picture of me surrounded by hundreds of kids, Rebecca ended up being pursued by a giant wave of miniature, uniform-clad humanity who moved in a pack while singing. I have the video, it’s hilarious. This school had less than nothing but when we left, the headmistress heaved a huge sack of peanuts onto the back of the truck as a gift. It left me feeling very small and very big at the same time.

On the way home we visited a high school at another village where the staff wanted money to build a dormitory to house all the children who want to attend high school but live too far away to attend. At the moment these children are living in one room, all together, boys and girls. Total cost of building a dormitory with separate rooms for boys and girls and provision of food every day for all: $13,000. Everything here costs an absolute maximum of a tenth of what you would imagine. Mangoes are 15 cents. Four tomatoes cost 10 cents. It’s an advantage for tourists and fantastic if you ever want to come here and feel like you are making a difference in people’s lives… but the only problem is government corruption.

Today I went to visit the home of two of our girls, Zaituni and Zawadi (zawadi means “gift” in Swahili) who live with their aunt in Kiloleni on the other side of the tracks (literally, not figuratively… the train line runs right through Tabora). Zawadi has been consistently absent from HAPO and on the weekend the kids found her at the railway station, about to board a train with a man she had met who (we found out today) promised to give her food and clothes take her to Dar. Originally we thought it was a woman she met, which happens a lot because in Swahili there is no distinction between she and he so Swahili speakers often mix them up in English. Zawadi is a real wild spirit and runs away a lot, but to me, there must be something fairly seriously wrong for a little girl to spend three days without food rather than go home or come to HAPO (our kids often don’t eat at home). Zaituni also seems troubled – she’s very bright and has been chosen to attend boarding school next year (sponsored by a former volunteer) but there always seems to be something bothering her. So Mandi and I, Mr Mwendapole (the program coordinator) and Sheki and drove out to Kiloleni to visit. When we got there Zawadi took one look at us and ran, but was hotly pursued by Sheki who brought her (sheepishly) back to talk. We were invited in to her house by the aunt, who, according to Zawadi, is a heinous abusive witch. But this woman (who seemed no older than 30 so I can’t believe she’s the older sister, and there were four other children in the house) seemed really nice and made us sit down on these wooden planks while she squatted in the corner next to a pile of charcoal and some cooking pots. This room had no ceiling and no floor, just mud on the ground and the walls. Zawadi herself seemed extremely withdrawn and answered our questions with a minimal amount of communication.

Anyway at the end of it, we went back to HAPO and discussed the possibility that one or both girls are being interfered with, to put it delicately. Zaituni is a lovely little girl but she often has these inexplicable moods, while Zawadi is running away from home and exhibiting behaviour that concerns us: last Saturday we had a sports day, and while the children were standing in line waiting, Zawadi started messing around with another girl in a sexually suggestive way. She’s only ten years old and there’s no MTV or internet or sexy magazines here for her to see that kind of thing, and Tanzanian society is very modest about sex (except on the dance floor where all bets are off, but that’s a story for another post) so we can’t imagine she just generated that behaviour without someone showing it to her. Anyway, not to keep writing about entirely miserably depressing things… the upshot is that we spoke to Mama and Sheki about possibly taking all the girls aside and talking to them about their bodies and their rights. Also, we are going to call in a psychiatrist to talk to Zawadi alone, which is something that has been planned for all the children but had taken some time to eventuate. I think the suspicion we have about Zawadi’s home life might help to speed up the process and put psychiatric evaluations on the top of the agenda.

I realise I keep writing about the sad stuff but that’s only because they are the experiences that resonate the most. It’s definitely not all doom and gloom here, far from. Every day I have a little connection with a kid, and it’s always a different kid; like yesterday, I went over to Iddi, who I’d never spoken to before, and I touched my nose to his, and we had a whole conversation and I learned his name. It’s a fantastic feeling when I arrive there in the afternoons and the kids yell “Sister Liza!” and come running for hugs and hand-holding. One of the funniest things so far is the kids’ discovery (Christina made it and then it spread through HAPO) that my legs are only smooth every third day, and that the rest of the time, they could prick their fingers on them. Africans don’t shave their legs so I had to explain this to Christina by pointing to her head (all the kids have their heads shaved every few weeks, I think just because it’s easier and cleaner) and making the shaving sign, then pointing to my legs and doing the same, while explaining that shaving is something mzungus have to do even if Africans don’t. Christina thought this was the most hilarious and ridiculous thing she had ever heard and dragged other kids over to me, grabbing their hands and guiding them to my legs to feel them. Then they all had to compare the hair on my arms to their enviously hairless skin, so by the end of this examination, I was feeling quite the hairy mzungu. But it’s worth it to see the reaction of each kid as they run their hands over my legs and literally recoil in shock, and then examine their fingers for an explanation!