Silence is a Spider Spinning its Web

I wish I could take credit for that title, but I am happy to pass credit to the child who, somewhere, sometime ago, wrote it as a prayer describing the silence he heard. Like the child, I have grown very thankful for moments when I am able to hear the spider's silken web being woven.

We are enjoying frequent blackouts in Dar-es-Salaam these days. The country is run mostly on hydroelectricity, which is better than some other options available, however, during times of drought, along with no water, there is no power. Mabibo without electricity is different neighbourhood. Without the thump-thump of the neighbours' boom boxes, or the football game coming in through Mudi's radio, or the constant hum of our own refrigerator, we are presented with a nice opportunity to pick up the lesser sounds of the everyday: the salesman selling rat poison, advertising with a megaphone as he patrols the roads; children playing games, chanting and hollering and chasing; the choir's voices drifting atop the winds. These gentle noises are swallowed in the electric buzz.

Sitting in the darkness, with only the light of a candle to read by, it is often cooler without the fan in constant whirr than with it in rotation amidst all of the other hullabaloo carried along Tanesco's power lines. Sans the fixed stimulation of light and noise, the body is offered a quiet refuge into which it can retreat. I am thankful for these opportunities. This reflection is not a condemnation of electricity and modernity and industry, nor is it a plea for a complete return to a simpler time. The latter has passed and the former have all contributed greatly to our society today. For me, this reflection serves to remind me that there are many blessings to be found in quieting the mind and the personal environment; however, I am also reminded gently to be thankful for the developments allowed by electricity and technology in general. After all, without either, our web of communication would be quieted considerably. As a close, I offer a prayer of thanksgiving for these moments of silence and also a prayer of petition for those who are negatively impacted by the frequent blackouts.

I am posting a few days earlier than usual this month as we are heading out on retreat tomorrow morning. This is our year-end retreat and we will be returning to Moshi to the retreat centre we visited last year. You will all be in my prayers as we reflect this week on the year past.

Tarmac and Pineapples

Gonzaga has a library – at least one in the works – so this past month the students have begun to discover the wonders of the books and the mystical librarian.

We are in the midst of an election year. National elections will be held in January 2010 and so campaigning has begun with the ruling party, Chama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM), quite literally paving the way. With only a few months left in the term 2005 campaign promises are being fulfilled. This is big news in Mabibo, where the main road is being paved (a ditch was dug last year along the same road, though this has since been filled by the rubble of road construction.) To the locals, the situation is rather predictable as there tends to be an outburst of construction and infrastructure-related projects in the fall leading up to an election. While infrastructure development is needed and appreciated, frustration lies in the start-stop tempo of progress. I suppose we find solace in knowing that the master plan is beyond our vision.

I was recently invited to a celebration by one of our neighbours, supposedly for their grandson. The morning of the celebration I dropped by their house to confirm that I was attending and had breakfast with them. Taking tea, I tried to better understand what exactly I was getting myself into. Andrew, the son, explained that it was a family meeting. I laughed and explained to him that his mother had invited me and he didn’t need to cover up. He again said it was just a family gathering. I confirmed, in English, with him and the younger relatives that they too would be at the party, not giving up on this notion, though I was still unsure as to exactly what we were gathering to celebrate.

At four o’clock I left home with money in pocket in case a gift was expected and bought a pineapple to bring along just for good measure. I arrived solo and walked up to the family who were gathered outside the reception hall. I sheepishly handed over my pineapple to the matriarch of the clan and took my seat, waiting for the festivities to begin. An hour later we began. The family meeting was called to order. We sat together for four hours as they discussed plans for fundraising for their daughter’s wedding. Andrew wasn’t lying. While it was interesting to watch the communal aspect of planning for a major family event, my presence and, definitely, my pineapple were out of place.

The next morning I ran into Andrew on my way to mass. “Andrew, I didn’t see you at the family gathering yesterday. What happened?”

“Yeah, sorry. Something came up. I got busy.”

“Don’t worry about it. (While thinking, I don’t think you were ever planning on going since I was the only one there under the age of 40!)”

Kiswahili has improved, yet some things remain lost in translation.

Traffic in the Morning

We had a meeting last week in Tegeta, which is a ‘subdivision’ of Dar es Salaam, about an hour and a half in traffic from Gonzaga, the school where I teach. The new academic dean and I were to attend a meeting with academic deans from other local mission schools (schools with some religious affiliation) to discuss the most recent mock examinations administered by this group. These were taken following a first round of mock exams in May in preparation for the upcoming national mock examinations, all of which are done in preparation for the national examinations. A lot of testing; in fact, I think Tanzania has managed to outdo NCLB’s prolific assessment scheme, which is no small feat. Enough with the Tanzanian assessment system, however; this is supposed to be about the country’s transportation system, which is equally deserving of its own entry.

Tegeta, though the travel time may be misleading, is only 18 kilometres from school. The travel time, however, is about at standard for most major cities. However, I can’t say Boston offers the same adventure commuting in from Riverside. At 7:40 a.m., Emmanuel and I set out, first having to scramble across four lanes of traffic on a road where the pedestrian walks at his own risk to the boarding area. We waited roadside, watching the morning commuters pass us by in their respective daladalas (the local word for minibus). We waited as one full daladala after another headed to Mwenge, our transfer point, pulled into our waiting area. Slowing just enough so passengers could board and exit without injuring themselves, the conductor would holler out, “Ubungo, mia mbili, Mwenge.” After a half hour curbside, we reluctantly made the decision that we would board the following dala’ to Mwenge, regardless of how little space there appeared to be.

Our bus pulled in, we hesitated, it left. Another arrived and we forced ourselves into what was already an overloaded minibus. Standard daladalas are slightly smaller than a Volkswagen Westfalia. They are in fact Toyotas, and I believe the model in use was discontinued in Canada sometime in the mid-90’s because the vehicle failed to improve on its safety standards from the 1980’s. These buses are gutted upon arrival in Tanzania and are outfitted for maximum capacity: a back seat for four is installed (this usually is forced to hold five), along the right-side are three sets of two-seaters, and opposite them, on the left, save for the front row, are one-seaters, leaving an aisle the size of one seat, which in the last row is converted to a seat when the fold-down chair is dropped into place. Behind the front bench, a tire is cut width-wise and unfurled to create some cushioning for another bench above the vehicle’s engine (The tire is an added feature.). Crammed into the front, to the driver’s left, are two passengers, normally a couple of old men with whom no one seeks to quarrel. So in toll, there are seats for 18 people. Of course, we cram one more into the back seat and normally there are a couple of children resting on the laps of the fortunate few with seats to their name.

Then, we have standing room; if one is lucky, the owner has splurged and extended the ceiling upwards an extra foot. People will be crammed in so tight, as was the case last Wednesday morning, one barely needs to hold on to the bus’s edges, for one can rely on being supported by the persons in front and in back of you who are wedged up against the wall. The human body contorts in entirely different ways aboard a dala’: Feet can be planted aside the front row and yet somehow your chest will be pressing against the man whose rear end is two inches from the face of the unlucky person seated in the fold-down aisle seat. There is really no physical explanation, other than some distorted version of Parkinson’s Law. Instead of linking a certain act with an allotted period of time, the law might read that a minibus will fit as many people as need to board.

We were on board, we’d made it, we seemed to be last possible scragglers. And then, without anyone de-boarding, another two people climbed on at the next stop, and then a few more after them. We sat in morning traffic with arms wrapped around strangers, pressed against one another, but we finally arrived in Mwenge. We boarded another dala’, which was far less crowded now that we were headed outbound, and arrived at Tegeta at 9:20 a.m. with plenty of time to spare for our ten o’clock meeting…

The meeting was cancelled. Why weren’t we notified? Tanzanian custom holds that only confirmation warrants a phone call, cancellation is otherwise to be expected. Again, I am proven to be but a leaf on a river. Emmanuel, though he did not state this at Gonzaga, felt we should have called to confirm. Lesson learned. Emmanuel and I stopped to have tea and chapatti before beginning the harrowing journey back to Gonzaga and then we ventured back toward the city, although this time we were on the pleasant side of the morning commute.

Newfoundland and Hopkins

To the faithful readers of this web log, apologies for its hiatus. We are back in the midst of the second semester at Gonzaga and I have returned to my monthly updates. The latest happening in Luhanga involves the installation of a new flag pole in our courtyard at school. The Tanzanian flag now flies Monday, Wednesday, and Friday's, beneath the cloudy skies of Dar es Salaam in July. The students are back studying, and after three weeks, the last remnants of June's freedom – long hair grown out – have been sheared away, though not before our headmistress tattooed the boys with her version of racing stripes.

First semester ended with a flourish of excitement. The Dar community learned that pizza can travel, as I mother bravely sent a box of Charlie's Pizza over the ocean and across the continent, and it arrived in fine condition, still edible; God bless the timeliness of the Canadian and Tanzanian postal systems. At Gonzaga, the conclusion of exams was followed by the celebration of the school's feast day, Gonzaga Day, and a surprise visit from my friend, Erica, and her two sisters, who were travelling on their way home to Montana. They joined us as we celebrated our patron’s feast day and watched the students sing and dance and entertain. In the afternoon, as the last traces of the morning’s rain disappeared from the centre courtyard and the students had performed all in their extensive repertoire, a feast was served of pilau, vegetables, chicken, and soda. The students, and the teachers, enjoyed the day that sent us into our midyear break.

We spent the last week of June up north in Mwanza with the Moshi community for the spring retreat. Getting to Mwanza was an adventure that rivalled our travels to Ndanda last March. We arrived at the bus terminal at 5:30 a.m. for our 6 a.m. bus. At 8 a.m., we began wondering where it was, if we had missed it, and were reassured that it would depart within the hour. The hour passed. I befriended a boy named Khusulat and we sat and exchanged stories for the rest of the morning. Lunch passed and there we waited. Alas, at 3 p.m., after much debate between the other passengers and the driver over the bus's safety, we boarded, bound for Lake Victoria. We travelled into the night, the last two hours of which found us hurtling over dirt roads. After running into a barricade, the bus called it a day and we slept roadside for a couple of hours, during which time some passengers were able to track down baggies of Konyagi and brandy. At 5:30 a.m., we continued northward, and our fellow passengers, with no Konyagi left to sustain them, quickly fell away to golden slumbers. The following afternoon, after reading an entire book on the benefits of iodine supplementation, convincing my community mates of the benefits of iodine supplementation, and 33 hours of travel, we arrived in Mwanza, travel worn and ready to give thanks to God for our safe arrival.

Mwanza is a beautiful city. The surrounding landscape is dotted with massive boulders that I incorrectly hypothesized were remnants of glacier run off; they are debris from the formation of the Great Rift Valley. The city itself relies heavily on its fishing industry and so much of the city centres on the waterfront. Unsurprisingly, Mwanza comes across as more orderly than Dar and does not sprawl out. We were able to track down Castle Milk Stout during our stay, which was a major accomplishment since Caroline and I had been searching the country for over a year for this beer. After some reflections and Milk Stouts, we proceeded southbound with a different bus line and without incident, and were greeted by my father upon returning to Dar.

My father spent almost three weeks here and, again, the hospitality and generosity of my neighbours and friends remains peerless. In fact, according to my father, Newfoundlanders have officially lost their title as "World's Most Hospitable People" to the Tanzanians who graciously hosted him during his visit.

We bussed to Arusha and then climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro together while I was still on break, summiting at sunrise on our fifth day on the mountain. The summit at dawn is something beyond words. Someone once wrote how frustrating it is to describe a truly unique experience. So I find myself without words to describe the mountain’s majestic beauty. I might compare the task of doing so to illustrating the colours of the rainbow with charcoal. It can be done, though it is better left to our imaginations.

That morning I witnessed God’s grandeur, to borrow from Gerard Manley Hopkins; it was a moment where I simply needed to look skyward and laugh at our Creator’s absurdity.

We spent the last week of his stay in Mabibo, visiting families of friends and the sisters and priests with whom I work. I am not sure I can reflect on the hospitality of this community often enough to convey how unique it is. The people of Tanzania are models for how we might host our brothers and sisters: how to welcome them into our homes and lives and how we can show our love to them through simplicity and genuineness. For a few weeks at least, I walked alongside a fellow iodine advocate, and was again blessed to share this experience with a family member.

Dad spent the first two days of the new semester at Gonzaga, teaching Standard Six about the importance of math, calculating ages with birthdays and reviewing integer use discussing latitudinal ranges. It worked, as we then spent a few classes that week learning how a sun dial can be used to tell time. Now, it is onwards and upwards for these students. We are learning geometry in math; in English we are reading bits of Shakespeare and Hopkins, mixed in with learning the correct use of “used to,” as in “I used to live in Boston.” In between my words, the students continue to teach me and their insights into God’s Grandeur provide much food for reflection.

United in Suffering and Honour

May began on a sad note for the Gonzaga community. In my last entry, I wrote about the explosions that were set off accidentally at a local miliary base. One of our boys in standard one lost his father, a member of the military, in the blast. The following week, a boy in standard two's father passed away due to a heart condition. In both cases, the school sent a delegation of students from each of the boys' classes along with my standard sixes and a group of teachers to visit the boys' families in mourning.

I accompanied both groups and was each time deeply moved by the compassion showed by the students at such a young age. We were not alone as we joined the families to mourn their losses. At each house, women from the neighbourhood and the family gathered inside the home, while the men stayed outside beneath a tarp hung from the house's roof. The students, as we gathered, would lead a small prayer ceremony with the family. The students showed such maturity around death at such an early age, a result that comes from being exposed to it with such frequency. As I sat uncomfortable, my students took their place around the grieving mothers, greeting them and expressing their condolences. The mothers would, as is customary I learnt, serve us some food, either a late lunch or some juice, depending on the time of the visit. I would reluctantly take my plate, following my students' cue, and found myself once again pondering how I had come to be served when we had visited to offer our support to the family.

Tanzanian generosity continues to leave me in awe and teaches me how to love my brothers and sisters. When Isaya's family, whose front door opens onto a road across which lies a municipal dump, is able to find the strength to serve lunch to a group of 30 students and teachers, most of whom are strangers, united only in mourning the loss of their father, I am left with my heart broken open and with having bore witness to the realization of the Kingdom.

Fr. Gary Smith, S.J. recently reflected on the question: Where is God amidst all this suffering? He writes, "If there is suffering then all of us suffer. And if a suffering brother or sister is honoured with our skills, then we are all honoured. They learn through our hands, hearts, and heads of God's heart and that the world has not forgotten them." As I reflect on these experiences, Fr. Smith's words resonate within me as I rediscover the importance in accompanying those with whom I live and work in all of their life's struggles, for as they do, I do, and so our joys and troubles are forever united in our effort to build toward God.

No News? No News.

"Hujambo?" a neighbour asks as I return from work. I reply, "Sijambo." Translation: No news? No news. Indeed, such was April. Not much to report on this end. We went to Tanga for a retreat at the beginning of the month where we met up with the two volunteers from Moshi. They then came down to celebrate the Easter holiday with us in Dar where we got our fix of fishbowl and other fun-for-the-whole-family games. At midnight on the 26th we witnessed for the first time any type of outward celebration for a national holiday as we believe we heard fireworks exploding somewhere in the distance to celebrate Union Day - the day when Tanganyika and Zanzibar became one. A quiet month.

Some of you may have heard via NPR or the CBC of some explosions that went off the other day in Dar. A poorly disposed bomb at a local military armoury detonated and set off a chain reaction of several other bombs. While many people were injured and a few people died in the blasts, out here in Mabibo we were safe, as we are about 20 km from the military complex. Please keep those affected by the explosions in your thoughts and prayers.

We continue on well here. We are in the midst of the big rains, which has brought smiles to the faces of farmers and herders and those friendly folks who work down at TANESCO, the national power company, who have gotten in the habit of cutting our power.

Stay well, my friends.

A Family Reunion in Dar

Just finished up a wonderful two weeks with the Family Ford. School had a midterm recess and so during our week off we travelled north to Arusha where we went on safari to see the wildebeests and other wild beasts of this fine land. Despite the draught the country is experiencing due to the late arrival of the BIG rains, the wildlife was magnificient.

After four days in the north we headed back south into the heat of Dar es Salaam. In Dar, I was able to share with my family both the work I have been doing over the last year and my life outside of school - my friends, the neighbours, the boys who run the dukas. Watching my family interact and meet these wonderful people who have so warmly welcomed me into their lives and who extended the welcome to my mother and brothers and sisters provided a gentle reminder of what a grace this experience has offered. I was overwhelmed by the generosity we witnessed, whether from my sixth grade boys who performed a wonderful skit poking fun at my classroom demeanour, or the sixth grade girls who together gifted my mother a khanga, or our friends, the Mtengas, who kindly opened up their little home to share an afternoon meal with us.

In meeting my friends and their families we had everything from family sit-down meals to singing and dancing at Gonzaga to late-night chips followed by a photo bonanza with our host, a mama who late arriving after coming from a town hall "meeting" at a local watering hole. And through it all, as my family bravely trooped through sunrise wake-up calls and squeezed into dala dalas, always with room for one more, each gathering in its uniqueness helped shed light on the time between family reunions.

Sometimes, I was able to appreciate areas in which I have grown as I shared eating lessons with Anthony or washing lessons with Gina or language lessons with Lucie. Other times, and perhaps more importantly, the light exposed areas where I still have much room to expand my horizons and ask question and explore the roots of my Canadian tendencies as when I found myself waiting impatiently for food with Michael, wondering how the operation might run more efficiently or when pondering some of the social injustices with my mother.

After having said goodbye this past Saturday and through a brief reflection of the last 13 days spent in close company, I look back and feel genuinely blessed and rejuvenated by their visit and the time shared together and look forward to having this as a backdrop for further conversations upon returning northward.