It has been almost a month since I first saw Mt. Meru peaking out from behind the clouds. In that time, I’ve consumed copious amounts of hot chai tea, tried ugali, learned refrigeration is a Western world convenience, and grown accustomed to hearing “mzungu, how are you?” every time I walk out on the streets. I’ve learned that the passenger side of the car is on the left, and a ride on a paved, non bumpy road is a luxury. I’ve seen the contrasts between the relative quiet of Ngongongari village and the hustle and bustle of Arusha’s streets. I’ve bargained with street vendors over the price of mangoes and learned the proper Swahili greetings for both friends and elders. A thick coat of dust on my face and clothes has become the sign of the end of another day. I’ve delighted in hearing a chorus of “Good Morning, Madame Kate” from the kids at Shika , and it has been fun to watch them enjoy themselves dancing and playing after the school day is done. I will miss all of these moments when I head to Peru on Thursday.
I have been fortunate to have this time to spend in such a beautiful country, filled with people who have welcomed me with open arms. And yet, in the midst of this beauty and charm, there are some harsh realities. Coming to terms with these realities has been difficult. Realizing that they will continue to exist long after I go home is even harder. Poverty here is real. Not in an abstract, Saturday morning infomercial imploring you to “save the children” way, but in a woman selling sticks of gum and lollipops on the street corner to feed her family kind of way. It’s children not going to secondary school because the school fees would eat up almost all of their family’s income. In a lot of households, food isn’t prepared for its nutritional value, only for its capacity to fill your stomach until the next meal can be scraped together. A plate or rice or a helping of ugali ( mashed maize that has been removed from its kernel) constitute a meal. Lots of children have stained teeth from the high levels of fluoride in the local water. It is a lot to take in, a lot to see. It is even more when this is your every day life.
I’ve noticed that lots of people in town will dump water on the small patch of dirt outside their shop or home. It only lasts for awhile under the hot Tanzanian sun, but for a few moments, the dust settles. In a city where every step and every passing car stirs up a small dust storm that finds its way into your mouth and nose, coats your hair, and covers your clothes, a moment of clean is nice.
It can be easy to feel like aid work is pouring water on the dust. When you look at the problems Tanzania is facing, it is hard to believe that one day, some day, things will be better across the board. Yes, it’s great that the kids at Shika are getting help with their homework and having a chance to play after school. But what about the hundreds of other kids who live in the same neighborhoods and come from the same situations who aren’t at Shika? What about the people who live too far away from Jifundishe to take advantage of the Library?
In these moments of doubt and negativity, I choose to think about the primary school graduation I attended on Friday. In typical Tanzanian fashion, it began at 11:15 am, after the students were told it would start at 10 am. The test results that determine who goes to secondary school have not been released, so this was more of a celebration of completing primary school, than a distribution of certificates. Younger siblings ran up and down the aisles of chairs, sometimes ducking in front of the speakers or students who were performing. Halfway through the ceremony, one group of parents was asked to change seats, adding to the chaos. And yet, in the midst of all the hustle and bustle, there was genuine joy. The graduating class performed songs and dances that thanked their teachers and parents for helping them reach this point in their lives. Over the din of passing traffic and city life outside the school gates, the Head Boy, Albin, eloquently spoke of the challenges he and his classmates faced in achieving an education, but the determination they all had to do just that. After the ceremony, families posed for pictures, graduates beaming in their school uniforms. The photographer would appear again a few hours later with the prints. To mark the significance of the day, several families brought cakes, a very rare and special treat.
To me, this graduation can be looked at in two ways. On one hand, you could focus on the chaos. You could harp on the fact that many of these kids are essentially done with formal schooling and are about to be sent out into the real world. You could question why people decided to buy cake, when buying food is a daily struggle. Or, you could focus on the fact that close to seventy children finished seven years of primary school. While there may be gaps in what they learned and their English may not be perfect, they made it. They know the importance of school, and they will hopefully remember those lessons when they have families of their own. They’ve spent time with Shika, and they’ve learned valuable life skills that will be beneficial when they enter the real world.
It is far from a perfect system. There are still kids who will slip through the cracks and never be privy to the chances an education provides. But for some, there have been moments of peace in the swirling dust. And, until the road can be paved, removing the need for watering the dust, you have to work towards making the moments of peace more frequent.