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This is not a story of extraordinary feats or victorious conquests. it is just a story about one really tall woman from Mwanza, and the way she feeds all her neighbors and their children (and daylights as the domestic heroine of my life and home).
 
MAY is the cruellest month, breeding 
Lilacs out of the dead land, 
mixing Memory and desire, stirring 

Dull roots with spring rain. 
Winter kept us warm, covering        

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.

- The Wasteland, Edgar Allen Poe.


The second day of climbing eventuated in the helpless abandon of lush jungle hair in favour of a landscape more reminiscent of Edgar Allen Poe's wasteland. Sticks and twigs resembled crippled knuckles and witches fingers. Trees grew into massive pitchforks and exploded into fists of aloe leaves. At ten foot tall they were doomed to death, according to our commander. 

I made conversation with Whitey this day, intrigued by the 100-times-up-the-mountain-and-lost-count virtuoso. This job was his dream since he was 12 years old. He climbed for the first time when he was 18, without his parents blessing, and without a proper pair of socks. He didn’t have the money to make the trek as a tourist so he had to get a job as a porter to fulfill his ambitions. He froze and ached all the way to Uhuru with somebody else’s luggage and likely and ORYX can on his back. I wheezed under a 2 pound North Face backpack as he told me the stories of his strength and courage, and shrunk a little in my back straps. I wasn’t sure if it was an African thing or if he was just a much stronger human than I.

It was probably both.

Whitey’s not sure what his next dream will be, but he says he’s certain it will come. 
I tend to think he’s right. 


* * * 
When we reached the last resting point that day, we could see our cabin hoisted above the rolling hills and valleys. It was perched atop massive, jagged red rock. It looked as if a transformer had ejected itself from the canyons to dominate them in the shadow of Uhuru's icy peak.

 That night at mess hall I drank black tea with honey as bold rats with stripes like chipmunks played Russian Roulette across the floor. I couldn’t count how many there were, but enough to say a lot. 

I tried to write some things in my green notebook but my pen stopped up and my fingers were themselves too frozen to defrost the ink. Commander Ernest took it in his palms and rolled it around softly, alternatively shaking it slowly. 

“It’s too cold,” he said with ease.

I retired, thinking again of the hybrid rats. I hoped there were none in the V-shaped cabins where we spent the night in beds carved into the floorboards. Either way, I would have been to cold to fight them off, so I bundled in my fleece and cradled like a baby zipped in a parka. 




 
Mr. Ernest and Mr. Whitey, our guides to the peak, addressed me as Commander Jody. I liked the sound of it, so I made sure the students overheard.

They gave us a pep talk as we wound up and around wicked hills on the way to the Kilimanjaro National Park entrance; “it’s not a joke” and “it will be memory-ble for the rest of your life,” were among their most determined councils.

They spoke of the importance of the mountain spirit and I was so excited to hear of such a spirit that I could feel my heart beating in my heels. 

We passed buses with names like “Islam” and “Love Boat”. Our driver was a heavy African lady with a smart weave and a rasta cap. The background of her phone featured a picture of Jesus Christ with a Molly Shannon haircut. I wondered if that was reserved only for Sundays, as today was. 

That day we climbed through the dense jungles of Tanzania which I had not known to exist. Trees sunk from heaven, reaching down to stones clobbered by moss. The vines were such that I thought about Tarzan for a few of the 6 hours we walked that day. 

“Pole Pole, Commander Jody,” Ernest said when I walked too fast. Many times I heard him give such a gentle reproof along the way.

When I needed some motivation, Handsome Furs drown out the soundtrack of the jungle; a constant rushing waterfall in the distance and birds in a good mood.

When we arrived at the mess hall of the first cabins, we were all relieved. My back was sweaty from my day-pack, but the mountain chill obtrusively blew my t-shirt stiff and cold. I winced, as I would with increasing zeal many times more. 

In the dining hall we drank Milo, Australian hot chocolate, out of tin cups so cold they turned our knuckles blue.  Hot water from thermos slowly melted the tin, and then the tin slowly melted my palms. 

When I felt my warmest, I made for the sleeping quarters, a cement flat with three rooms, reminiscent of an African hospital and fitted with iron bunk beds and thin mattresses. The girls took the room furthest left, and the boys stayed a room apart, to the right.

In the night, I ached to pee; filled with now-chilled Milo and the effect of the altitude tablets, I couldn’t bear the hurt.

I crawled out of my sleeping bag and made for the outside of the cement walls. 

My skin picked in such an unpleasant way as I downed my pants and crouched out of the shadow of the porch light. The cold was unbearable.

I tried to go as fast as I could. It wasn’t fast enough. A voice on the porch whispered. 

“Hey!”

Oh my G.O.D. I looked up from my compromised position. It was Kumayl, a small Grade 7 boy, looking down on me from the raised doorway. 


“I’m peeeeing!” I whispered with such desperation that I felt my lungs deflate. 

“I have to go too!” he replied. 

I clutched my white bum and stared up at him with the dog-eyes of a girl in shame, “Well, don’t come here!!”

I think he finally awoke from what stupor he was in and probably disappeared around the opposite corner, though was so jilted I couldn’t tell you for sure.


By the time I returned to my sleeping bag my heart was galloping at a speed unmatched  and with such strength that I could see the puffy exterior of my blanked thudding up and down, up and down. I couldn’t breath; my heart was swimming in my neck and a blazing tide was rushing below the skin of my belly. The altitude was hitting me hard now, hot on the trail of my nervous breakdown sans pants. I concentrated to regain my breath and laid still for a minute. 

When I calmed, I rested- violently and uncomfortably, just caught in that layer between sleep and consciousness, where you are taken by dreams and mind-tricks too strange to escape to reality or sleep from. I turned over. My forehead smacked the cold cement wall.

I would have taken twice that beating to save myself the shame of being seen my Grade 7 student with my underwear dropped around my cold, blue ankles. 

 
sunflowers in a cornfield. 
 yellow-headed, flat-faced sunnies don't seem frightened by corn-stalk zombies.

a whole army of corn soldiers stand haunted and still behind naive and smiling prey.

an african boy in royal violet track-pants with a canary-yellow racing stripe looks up at a sunflower with big petal ears staring stupidly at stretched ribbon arms sprouting from the stiff skeleton of an advancing corn tree. 

the hands of the corn husk lurch forward, frozen but sailing.

it is about to strangle the head of the dumb-happy wildflower. 

 such a big yellow head would pop right off,

and thud onto the mud ground, at the feet of the boys athletic pants;
 his yellow racing strip bleeding for the murdered sunny.


 
 
. . . A little light is filtering from the water flowers. 
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry: 
They are round and flat and full of dark advice. 
 Cold worlds shake from the oar. 

The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes. 
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand; Stars open among the lilies. 
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens? 
This is the silence of astounded souls.

- Crossing the Water, Sylvia Plath




We followed our Dive Master in nervous proximity. He was a Spanish blond with sticky long hair who rolled his own cigarettes and shaved his whiskers at sea to prevent water from leaking into his mask mid-dive. He was an under-water rebel of paradoxical wisdom and responsibility. I was so hurting for him I wondered how my heart didn't inflate with such zeal that it ballooned me straight to the surface of the sea.

Needless to say, my bubbles followed his. 

When we hit 30 minutes underwater we rested our knees on the sand in a cluster of rubber suits and deflated buoyancy vests. One by one we turned off our torches.
When we were surrounded by heavy darkness too thick to see our own hands, we began to stream our fingers through the black salty sea water. 

Plankton, by the millions it seemed, lit up as we ruffled them swimming by. In the most deliciously romantic and indulgent way, they danced like fireflies around our flapping arms. 

Each of us made butterfly, conductor and kung fu patterns in the sea and I felt our breathing slow to sighs.

I felt like an underwater astronaut; knees on the moon and sea stars reflecting in my rubber goggles. 

The dive master began to yip and howl like a cowboy in the distance; his cheers gurgled through his regulator and echoed through the silence of the dive.

We concluded our starry-eyed pow-wow after ten minutes worth of dancing, and streams of light neutralized the plankton’s glow as we turned our torches back on.
 
White eels and shiny octopi crawled out of their holes and slithered through black and violet urchins.
It was goodnight for me and the cowboy seal. He retired in his aura of mystery and yellow hair. 

The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes. 
 
Today was a day that has to be called inspirational. This place is real, straight up. The people are real, the problems are real and life leaves no room for superficiality. We began with a tour through the primary schools in the field opposite our hotel. It was a boarding school with about ten classes and dorms where students stayed on site. The washrooms were housed in two cement structures to the east of the property. They were dirty, of course. There is little to say about the condition of the places here in Kibaya save for their inadequacies. Speaking of such eventually loses meaning or at least intensity of meaning here. So often we see things which can be called dirty, appalling, broken, deteriorated and worse.  If you’ve seen one African toilet, you’ve seen them all. It’s not to generalize or be ignorant, rather to save the repetitive and exhaustive descriptions; when it comes down to it, the toilets are toilets. The buildings are buildings; they are all broken, dirty and old.

That being said, I continue to describe. The classrooms were empty, some with chalkboards, others without. One class had desks, lined from front to back. They were the kind you see in rural education pamphlets; a bench attached to a desktop; to be shared by two or three students each.

Lou explained to us the challenges faced by these students as we sat in the library resource center where her office was. This place was beautiful; classrooms were colourful with chalkboards, a big rug and posters on the wall. Nobody learns there sadly, because the teachers lack motivation to bring their students to this special place. Teachers here are trapped in a dead end and suffocating career. 

To understand the problem of rural education, consider how these ones become teachers in the first place. After form four, you must write an exam to continue your secondary schooling education. If you pass, you can carry on and finish your high school before entering university or starting your own business. If you don’t pass, you cannot carry on to finish your secondary school education. What you can do is enter into Teachers College. Being a teacher in Tanzania is not like being a teacher in the West or otherwise. Teachers do not take pride in their work and are not highly regarded in society. Ironic, when the nation is built on the foundations of Mwalimu (Teacher) Nyrere. Regardless, teaching is not an enviable post here. The wages are low- starting at about 200, 000 Tanzanian shillings per month; roughly 150 USD. Interesting, when you think my house cleaner earns 90, 000 Tanzanian shillings for two days of work per week. Further, upon graduation from teachers college, jobs are assigned randomly. Teachers do not apply for positions, rather, one day they get a letter stating where they have been posted, and then they go. Teachers from busy cities like Mwanza, Arusha or Dar es Salaam, may be sent to a village like Kibaya, where they have no family, no friends and no desire to be. Then they are given accommodation (taken out of their already pitiable salary) and they get to work. The classes may have anywhere form 50 to 120 students in them. Students pack four to a desk and sprawl on the dirt floor. There is no electricity, no water and definitely no resources. Pencils and paper are about 100 shillings each; about 7 cents. In a class of one hundred, maybe 8 will have a pencil and paper. The rest sit and listen (hopefully) so that when they have to write entrance exams they can manage a correct answer here and there.

These working conditions lead to a lack of motivation amongst the teachers, and therefore, poor quality education and high quantity corporal beatings.

Louisa told of a teacher who is a village drunk, with 50 years experience in his profession. She was shadowing a class of his when he walked through the rows to hear each student reply to one of his questions. A student in the class is autistic or otherwise challenged.

“Wewe!” the mwalimu shouted as he slammed his stick on the table in front of the boy. The teacher asked a question for which the student (obviously) had no answer. This enraged the teacher who stumbled closer and grabbed the skin on the side of the boys face. He took a clawful of his cheek and began to shake his head screaming, “ Wewe, your stupid! You know nothing!”

This teacher is regarded as one of the best in the region.

**

After the resource center we hiked up the hill about a kilometre to the only secondary school in the region. Along the way we passed the ravine where women were lined up with multicoloured buckets and bags of laundry. The pit was dry and cracked, with little water in a couple hollowed out pools. Lou pointed out the dirty water they were waiting to wash their clothes in. It looked like a mud puddle, flies hovering over the splash of dark brown water.

We carried on, shikamooing the mamas as we walked. Cows crossed our path in rows.

The air was thinner here, especially being used to sea level in Dar. The uphill walk took my breath without sending me into sweaty gulps for oxygen.

When we arrived we browsed the school; much like the last. Dirty, incomplete and crumbling all at once. The head master came and greeted us in his short-sleeved suit jacket. We sat in his office later and the students fired questions for their assessment task at him, one after the other. When they finished at least an hour’s worth of questions, we signed the guestbook and headed back to the courtyard where a few local students waited to be interviewed by our Grade 7s. One wore slick pants, a black suit shirt and long dress shoes, black leather with a white toe. Another was a Masaii boy with tribal markings burned in his cheeks. He wore purple. Fatema, one of our scarved, ultra conservative Muslim students looked back at me, “I’m scared,” she whispered with her body held awkward and gawking as usual.

Sometimes such remarks are difficult to answer effectively.

The last student was a girl about 18, in a peach synthetic pantsuit. The top was a flowing chiffon-like tunic, and the pants were bellbottomed with slits on either side. She wore beat-up black pointed heels. We matched a few of our students with theirs and off they went to tour the school with their new guides.

Us adults held back and later toured Mindy and Michael’s house at the back of the school. They were Peace Corps volunteers who would soon begin their work as the science teachers in this school.

When we finished at this school we descended the mountain for lunch at the local Tanzanian eatery; the menu featured beans and rice or chipsi mayai. We sat around the table, and I smiled at my company.

Michael was a striking looking nerd type; beautiful eyes and baggy khakis. His wife, Mindy, was short and blonde with dry red cheeks. Her eyes were quite pretty, too. Keith was an interesting fellow. He lumbered over the rest of us on lanky legs tucked in new balance runners. He wore stiff khakis, too. His face looked like the lead singer from Nickelback, with something of a goatee and a sharp nose. He spoke slowly with a sarcastic hook on each of his words. His Californian accent made his Swahili easy to understand. He got along famously with the kids, charming Francis from the start. He was Peace Corp, as well.

Louisa was British. She had a beautiful face with soft blond hair that she wore wavy down her back. She was shortish with a body appropriate for her 40 years and an African diet. She was great with the students; showed personal interest but didn’t hesitate to point out when they were being rude.

Finally, there was Flor, the German anthropologist with the mouth of an American trucker. He swore unapologetically, dropping the F-word several times over lunch with Grade 7. He was a firecracker, a lone wolf and a showstopper all in one. His accent made most of what he said funny and drinks made his wit more pronounced.

I started to wonder, Oh my gosh who am I? The overly skinny bearded guy? The moral nerds? The independent blonde with a heavy middle section?

I guess only time will tell what cassava and dala dalas will do to me. But I’m getting more moral and less skinny day by day.

**

Today was World AIDS Day. The festivities were scheduled for “Under the tree”.

After our bellies were full of starchy carbs and sticky nyama we sauntered up the hill to said tree. White plastic chairs were lined up in a half moon surrounding the emcee who spoke Swahili heavily into the mic. We made it just in time to see Masaii women perform a traditional dance. About seven of them faced the audience hopping up and down to a drum beat. Their earrings and bracelets clamoured in tune with the music. Turn by turn one or two would enter the front of the circle and shriek as she hopped relentlessly on two feet.

“Ayaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.. Iye Iye. Ayaaaaa!”

They were shy. It was beautiful.

When they finished their performance the babu returned to the mic and spoke more unintelligible Swahili. Catching sight of us he capitalized on wazungu fever. He called Lousia to the mic and Keith quickly headed for the limelight. Soon we were all ushered in front of the crowd to introduce ourselves and our mission in their village. We were to be the festival headline act, closing out the ceremony with a round of introductions.

The kids stood in their red DIA tees and Keith went through each stating names and places of origin: China, Vietnam, Dar es Salaam, America, France, Kenya and so it went until I was the last woman standing.

“Na wewe?” Babu asked in the mic, shoving it in my face not long after.

“Natoka Canada.” I giggled like a fancy teenager and looked down at the ground.

Man, those Masaii were a tough act  to follow.