The Students

The school year has come to a close. The students will begin their end-of-year examinations tomorrow morning, which will finish on Thursday, and then we will have a celebration to mark the end of the year on Friday – it will also mark the conclusion of my time here in Dar.

Trying to close this log with a summary of what these two years have been risks falling into danger of cliché or missing the mark completely, losing much in translation. In the end, it is probably best then to simply reflect on the month past and to let the story unfold from its events.

In two years I have never grown completely comfortable entering the classroom to a group of fifteen students rising in unison while greeting me: “Education for Love and Service. Good morning, Teacher.” This simple show of respect still catches me off guard most mornings. Yet I have grown comfortable with the fact that these same students are genuine in their greeting and understanding of what the school motto means to each of them. They are eleven-, twelve-, thirteen-, fourteen-year olds and inevitably they often remind of this: Michaella calling Franklin “Paraguay” because he is the fairest skinned in the class, William regularly calling out in the middle of class, Maria never turning in homework; however, this same group of students often astounds me with wisdom and love beyond their primary school years. As I have written before, their maturity in the face of tragedy is beyond me; how they host visitors and behave in their presence leaves me laughing at how awesome they are – my sisters coming into our class party last week and commenting on how it was as though they had walked into an afternoon tea. So let this story be about them.

On the far left is Patrick, the head boy. He is the one who impersonates me in class skits, a quiet leader and a friend to most in the class. Beside him is his best friend in class, Raymond – Pengo, since he is missing a tooth. Raymond is eleven, has skipped two grades, not out of choice, and still manages to scrap by with passing marks. Behind Raymond is Francisca, the head girl. She is from Kenya. Her family moved to Dar after the fallout of the 2o07 elections. Extremely bright girl and very polite. Franklin is grinning in the front. Franklin came to Gonzaga this year. He was struggling at the beginning of the year but this quarter has really turned it around, coming for extra help. It has been a blessing watching his confidence grow. He prayed over my body last week when I mentioned that I was going to the hospital.

Beside Francisca is Gabriella. Even now I am looking at the picture to see her shoes. Her identical twin, Michaella, is one over. They are a little adrift and often fail to complete their homework, yet they still regularly achieve top marks in English and math. They are both naturally very bright. Beside Gabriella up front is Maria. She often does not do her homework, however, unlike the twins, it is evidenced in her academic performance. She loves to sing though and often warms us in the mornings with variations of Celine Dion songs. Can’t beat that!

Severina is behind Maria. She didn’t study in a school until last year. She has made great strides. Eager to learn and a hard worker. She likes speaking Kiswahili with me. Then there is Innocent in the front. He is Raymond’s blood brother and they live with Severina in the SOS Children’s Village in Dar. Innocent is the hardest worker in the class. He arrived in Dar from little schooling and at Gonzaga he has improved his English to being one of the most confident speakers in the class. We see Michaella grinning back there and she would probably be upset with having been paired with her sister; there is no doubt, however, that she is very much an individual – sleepy but unique. Mageni, arms crossed, has just finished saying “Ndizi.” He has lost both his father and mother, and often writes about the sadness with which he walks. A sensitive boy and one who is not afraid to challenge authority – in a good way.

Jeromina, a head above everyone else. She came from a Kiswahili-medium school this year but her English is now arguably the best among the class. She is a vibrant girl, a hard worker, and eager to join her sister at Loyola in a year. Tall, beside Jeromina is Said, another student from the SOS Village. Said is another diligent student. He is quiet, and you need to be aware of when he has missed the point, but once he gets it – you’re set.

The last three boys are an inseparable trio – Abeid up front, then Robert laughing, and William. Abeid has not made it a hobby to study. He is more focused on playing for Manchester United in a few years. A very bright boy and one who would do very well if more disciplined. As it is, he manages to scrape by and hone his football skills at the same time. Robert is the best dressed in the class. He cuts his hair every other Sunday, always has his shoes polished, won’t play football if he is wearing his nice pair, and normally has a smile on his face. His English is terrific, he studies very hard, and wants to be a doctor. Despite all this, he still manages to find ways to create his little piece of chaos in the classroom. William. Bill. More recently with the conclusion of our reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Willy Wonka. He is brilliant in mathematics. Understands things in such detail that he enjoys throwing out extra formulas and different methods to try and stump me, while at the same time confusing his peers. He is a nut. Loves to make jokes. Loves to challenge the teacher, especially by referencing the Gospel’s message to turn situations in favour of his friends. Unlike Robert, he never has his shirt tucked in, but has recently got into a kick of pulling his shorts up to his chest, I think to mock my effort at getting him to tuck his shirt in. His English translates from Kiswahili, which can often make for some interesting expressions, but though it is broken in places, he is the least shy to practice and to get better, which is the best way to learn.

So, alas, that is it. These are fifteen students with whom I have spent the majority of two years. They have taught me many lessons and made me laugh, and so this month’s log and really the whole experience is a tribute to them.

See you all soon.

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.

A Leaf on a Stream

Writing about the second month of school during the second year here in Tanzania is far less captivating than it was last year. As I have sat here today setting the school’s midterm examinations, I have been mulling over what I could write about. The month did pass quickly, but I think if I was to look back through past entries I would find that I begin more than half of those with a sentence along the same lines. Yes, it is indeed true; time continues to pass ever more quickly and will undoubtedly continue to do so until I leave. This is to be my last reference to the fleeting nature of Time.

As eminent as February’s fugitiveness was its lack of extraordinary events. And so the news of February is perhaps its lack of news and what that implies. Surely if I were to look through the lens with which I viewed last year I could find something to report, but our lens is ever-changing. Fr. Don, our in-country coordinator when we first arrived, always reminded us when we found ourselves frustrated with circumstances or in awe at the differences between home and here that we are leaves on a stream. This was difficult to appreciate at the beginning, but as the year progressed it came to make more sense. What then became difficult was not maintaining a lifestyle of the leaf (it can be easy floating downstream), but rather continually being aware that as a Canadian living in Tanzania I am to be practicing leave-no-trace volunteering while watching what I consider to be injustices sprout around me; that is to say, actively participating in everyday activities while trying to ensure that my presence will not be felt when I depart.

Enter the second year JV. I think that one can grow tired of the constant realization of being a Canadian leaf on a Tanzanian rainbow-tinted stream, especially with the restraints that it can place on one’s actions. And so, to some extent, I feel that as I have commenced this second year at Gonzaga I have grown weary of the realization and have allowed myself to grow too comfortable with the surroundings. I haven’t stopped asking why?; instead I have stopped seeing situations about which to ask why? The rainbow river has tie-dyed my leaf. I have been travelling along here for such a length that new scenes no longer appear strange and I do not feel as out of place. This comes with advantages and disadvantages. I am growing in my enculturation with the people and this country, but at the same time I have stopped noticing the more subtle differences between the two cultures; differences that may stem from injustices here or that may promote equity here where it is absent at home.

Along with being a leaf on the stream, Don also warned that when we grow too comfortable we stop learning. I suppose it is time to slip some peas under the metaphorical mattress to rouse the sleep that is life in a different land.

Gonzaga Turns 1 or We Enter Our Second Year!

We marked the completion of our first year at Gonzaga this past Monday, January 26. With one year of growing pains under our belt, we have opened for the second time on much smoother waters. Three weeks deep into the new school year and we are now fully staffed, although I say this with fingers crossed as our final hire's first day is to be Monday. But I feel confident. Nevertheless, we are still ahead of last year's schedule when our last hire did not begin teaching until the middle of February.

In my second year here I am teaching a majority of the same students, having moved up from Standard (read grade) Five to Standard Six with my students from last year. The school currently has 236 students in eight classes spread out through six grades (kindergarten and Standards 1, 2, 3, 4, and 6). To the fifteen students I teach, I am their homeroom teacher along with teaching them mathematics, English, Catholic religion (to the Catholics) and phys. ed. I am no longer teaching the students of last year's Standard Three. When I am not teaching I have continued working in the school's administration in my role as the school's dean of studies - a position I will hold in full for only a shortwhile longer before beginning a period of transition with a Tanzanian who will fill the office permanently.

The new year has been busy with school's opening, but also with welcoming a couple of visitors from the Great White. Prior to the first day of classes, my two eldest sisters visited. We rung in the New Year together before spending two weeks catching up on the news from home and my life here in Dar. It was wonderful to see these two familiar faces from home and I feel refreshed and energized after their visit and our adventures. Plus, it was an added bonus that I got to taste a little bit of Mom's cooking. Jessie and Christina bravely transported in their carry-on a homecooked meal including a frozen pasta casserole along with frozen meatballs and moulignan. A real treat to get a homecooked Italian dinner an ocean and a continent away from home!

Since their departure, it has been school and everything that goes with those opening weeks and so there is little else to report at this time. I hope all is well with you in the New Year and that it has greeted you with many warm tidings. Stay warm.

A Lesson in Community

It has been a busy month. A friend working in Uganda visited at the beginning of the month, four new Jesuit volunteers arrived on the 5th, and then on the 17th we said goodbye to our communitymate of the last year, Kate. After Kate's departure, Caroline, I, and the four fresh arrivals escaped the heat of Dar and travelled north to the town of Lushoto for retreat. Lushoto is a town built into the Usambara mountain range. At 1,200 metres above sea level it was significantly cooler than Dar es Salaam, which at this time of year is hot and muggy. We were able to hike in Lushoto to a couple different vantage points outlooking a Maasai steppe.


We continued north to Moshi after spending four days in Lushoto. The bus ride north was uneventful, although for the second time in my Tanzanian experience a window from the bus managed to unseat itself and fall onto my arm. When we arrived in Moshi we introduced two of the volunteers, Talia and Mary Beth, to their home for the next two years. JVI, our organization, decided last year to introduce another community in Tanzania and so these two pioneers will be rooting a community in Moshi while working at Maria Goretti Secondary School run by the Sisters of Our Lady of Kilimanjaro. We spent the next few days up in Moshi being taken out by our Jesuit hosts to two villages to see Mt. Kilimanjaro up close. Alas, on the 27th we, Caroline, Emily, Christen, and I, made the trek back to Dar to settle into our new four person community. In the year to come Emily will begin teaching with me at Gonzaga as it enters its second year. Christen will work beside Caroline at Loyola High School, taking the place of Kate.


At the beginning of the month our neighbour's house caught fire. I was once again given the opportunity to learn a lesson in community living. As smoke billowed out from this house, the neighbourhood gathered around, although not in a style to which I was familiar. In my own setting, a similar situation would have also produced a crowd, but the crowd, for the large part, would have been watching the fire department put out the blaze as they pondered the fire's cause. Here, however, the crowd was involved; carrying buckets of water from their own homes, older men rushing in to salvage furniture and the fridge and clothes (forget about the old rule, "once you're out, stay out"), young men on top of the, dare I say, hot tin roof pouring in the many buckets of water, women organizing all of the exiting furniture and incoming buckets. A tremendous ordeal, though amidst the devastation it was oddly wonderful to watch the community spirit come alive so quickly, both from friends and strangers alike. I recognize that at home, if a similar situation were to arise, our response would hopefully be similar; however, for better or for worse, we don't often get to witness such camaraderie. I suppose it simply acts as a reminder to care for our brothers and sisters.


All for now. I wish you all a happy new year, that it may be filled with good things.

An Election and an End to Year One

Tanzania is fully swept up in Obama's victory. Driving into town last week I was driving behind a dala dala simply named, "Barack Obama." Sitting in church this morning, I was sitting behind a woman wearing a "Hongera (Congratulations) Barack Obama!" khanga, a piece of traditional cloth worn as a skirt or as a head dress, with a giant silk-screened image of Mr. Obama's face beside the African continent. In Mabibo you may choose to get your hair cut at the new Obama Salon. The president-elect has indeed inspired many new business names here in Dar es Salaam, but what has been more amazing to witness is the way this man has inspired an entire country and a continent.

School finished on Friday and close officially marked the end of my first year as a Jesuit Volunteer. Students celebrated the last day of class with their favourite dish, pilau, and song and dance performances they performed for each other. The students have taken great steps forward this year, not only in their studies but also in their understanding of what it means to attend a Jesuit school. Watching their idea of what it means to be, "boys and girls for others," shift from helping their friend on a test (cheating) to helping their friend study for the test (helping) is something Gonzaga can be proud of. This commitment to service and the high standard in academics the students achieved in the school's first year have led to the school's warm reception by the local community and in a few years our students will begin making great contributions to our sister school, Loyola High School.

While Obama has enlivened the African spirit with hope today, it will be these students, with their hearts aflame, who will truly achieve that promised change tomorrow.

Ramadan with Mama Nasma

We celebrated Eid at the beginning of the month. As Ramadan drew to a close with the crescent moon making its appearance on the 30th of September, the mosques were filled as sheikhs prayed the sermon; their voices echoing through the neighbourhoods from megaphones perched atop minarets. The next day, a holiday, we were invited to break fast with a woman who worked down the street from us. We arrived at Mama Nasma's in the afternoon as the meal was still being prepared. Mama had recently moved out of Mabibo and was now living with her children, her mother, and her sister in another neighbourhood half an hour away.

Kate and Caroline aided in the meal preparations, dicing and slicing vegetables for the kachi mbali (sp?), a type of local salad most often served with pilau – a spiced rice. As the other women were preparing the pilau and chicken, I sat and talked with the grandmother. She had recently moved up to Dar with Mama Nasma's sister to have surgery done on her eye in hopes of restoring some of her vision. As we sat on the floor, sharing conversation, I in my broken Swahili and her in Swahili, we shared a few meaningful exchanges, but mostly just sat in silence, appreciating the company we both offered each other.

As we sat, sharing the afternoon, the other women on the other side of the room prepared the meal over charcoal stoves. Finally, as the afternoon was drawing to a close, the meal was finished. In Tanzanian tradition – let us remember, “culture is thick” – Kate, Caroline, and I ate apart from the family, who ate together on the floor mat, sharing the meal they had worked hard to prepare. As we broke bread together, I was humbled by the sacrifice this family had made, welcoming us into their home to celebrate a special meal with them while they themselves had barely enough to celebrate this most sacred of holy days. The family, all so welcoming, in openly sharing their faith with us gave us a tremendous lesson in our own, helping to teach us what the Gospel means by “loving thy neighbour.”

Pictures and Narratives

It's getting warm again. The Dar es Salaam heat is coming as summer looms and the short rains are slowly arriving, adding humidity to the mix. I write with the same feeling one might have before a snowstorm, wondering whether or not a snow day is in the mix for tomorrow. Only today, the decision won't be based on snow, but rather the moon. If the moon is positioned correctly Eid ul-Fitr will commence tomorrow, the Muslim feast celebrating the end of Ramadaan. Otherwise, we return to school tomorrow and we will have Thursday and Friday off.

As we are nearing the completion of the first year we recently held our year-end retreat - Re-O/Dis-O - up in Moshi. As Kate was dis-orienting, Caroline and I were re-orienting for the year, asking what the experience has been thus far and where it might go in the time ahead. As we were waiting to board the bus to return home, a line of women were sitting at the bus station selling vegetables and fruits. The collections of green peppers, bananas, pineapples, oranges, carrots, and coconuts provided what Kate and I considered to be a beautiful foreground to what we have come to appreciate as a Tanzanian scene. I asked the women if it would be all right if I took their picture and was asked for money in return. Unwilling to pay, the women began lambasting me for having asked and then refusing to pay. Looking back on the moment, I asked aloud what would have happened if I had simply taken the photo without asking? Would they have minded? Would it have been okay or an invasion of their privacy?

In thinking about these questions, I began to realize once again how difficult it is to capture an experience such as this. The picture would have only conveyed a small part of the reality of that street scene. It wouldn't have captured the smells or the ever-present noise. Then how to capture what I am learning and seeing and feeling everyday? As I continue through the experience, I am amazed more and more by the importance of storytelling, both for me and for them. The women at the bus station could not have had their stories told with my picture. No, I think the picture would have only been the first step, or perhaps the last. In order for the people with whom I share this experience to be carried home with me, listening is necessary. To share the experience with others, it cannot be through pictures alone or only recounting the events. It needs to be done through narrative, which might help bridge the gap in understanding between where I am and where I come from, thereby connecting the two experiences.

Shifting Locales

August has passed and it is hard to believe that third quarter is already coming to a close. This semester time seems to be passing quickly, so I suppose I am either having more fun or am more comfortable. I think it is probably the latter, which inevitably leads to more of the former.

At the beginning of the month, we relocated, something we had been anticipating for the previous eight months. Shifting, as the locals call it, is quite a process in a place where people enjoy taking careful note of everyone's next move. As this entails taking note of all the little trinkets one owns, moving twelve years worth of stuff left by past JVs only added to the excitement. What did we find when we began sifting through the treasures of days gone by?

Well, at least 13 unopened bottles of Banana Boat sunscreen and other varieties (JVs coming to Dar, check it off your list!); many litres of bug spray ranging from 5% DEET to 50% DEET (I’m pretty sure the latter is lethal); many old prescriptions, some of which expired a decade ago; three separate first aid kits, none of which contained any medicine that hadn’t expired (side note: I made the five pharmacists in my family happy when I safely disposed of all the expired medications and old prescriptions); 7 full bottles of Gold Bond Triple Action Relief medicated powder (also, none of these have been opened (future JVs again take note)); and what we estimate to be three years worth of feminine hygiene products for a community housing at least two women, most of which have arrived via mail over the last decade as a way of deterring postal workers from investigating the contents of a package. Of course, there were many other jewels, but if I continued listing the contents of our community chest, I wouldn’t have time to tell you about our dogs.

If only I’d have been brave enough by press time to take a picture of our two guard dogs, Simba and Chuky. These dogs have come with the house, but are only temporary, do their job well. Unfortunately, they scare off not only potential intruders, of which we have had none, but also they scare our Tanzanian friends. There are few dogs in Mabibo and so most of Mabiboans (?) only know the animal by their vicious bark. As a result, most of our guests either do not enter inside the gate or run directly for the inside of the house (all of this happening while the dogs are safely chained). The dogs bark or whimper through the night which impinges on the sleep of Kate and Caroline. Luckily, my mother thought it a good idea to vacuum beside my head whenever I slept as a child and so now I can sleep through almost anything (including dogs barking who may be warning, “Hey, there’s an intruder.” For this, we have housemates I am told!)

No complaining. The house is good. Dogs included.

One last note before I send off and you can return to enjoying the last days of summer. In July, I talked about Saba Saba. Caroline, my community mate, informed me that I had forgotten what she considered to be a newsworthy piece of information. And how could I forget a shout out to the scouting movement to which I belonged for so long?
We were strolling along at Saba Saba when all of a sudden two dozen scouts strolled by linked to a piece of yellow polypropylene rope, à la kindergarten. We paused to inspect the formation when Tanzania’s Prime Minister Pinda emerged onto to the scene between the two rows of scouts. Scouts, doubling as Secret Service; somewhere Robert Baden-Powell was smiling down.

Enough is enough. Enjoy your Labour Day weekend and for those of you still studying, best of luck as you return to classes!

The Five-Star Cycle, Please

This month we returned to the classroom. We opened on 8th July, following Saba Saba (Seven Seven), a national holiday here and a day reserved for an international trade fair - an event mixing something near the magnitude of the Calgary Stampede with the organization of your local county fair; a very dangerous mixture. We made it to the event after being turned away in the morning from one of the local prisons. We had gone to visit a friend who was visiting a little longer, but the guards turned us away saying we needed to check with our respective embassies prior to entering the facility. We have yet to get our passports cleared, but I remain skeptical that even then will we be granted entry. Perhaps another story for another day.

The second week of the semester Gonzaga played host to a group of students from St. Joseph's University in Philadelphia. They were midway through a three-week immersion trip in Tanzania and volunteered as teaching assistants for the week. It was nice to have another group of students with whom to reflect and to share the experience. Since they departed, school has begun to settle into its groove. I was reminded before the semester began to not be discouraged when my students returned to school empty-headed (it happens everywhere, I was reassured). However, my students in both Standards Three and Five are doing well and have retained more information than I think I taught last semester. Most importantly, it only took them a day to reacquaint their ears to my Canadian accent and so we are flying along now studying the past simple tense and the metric system!

I recently had what I believe to be my first five-star laundry experience. As I sit like Peter Pan rubbing soap on my shadow (or pants, in this case), I have much time to ponder life's bigger questions and so recently I came up with this five-star rating system.

The first star is based on the amount of laundry you wash. The litmus test: did I get it all done? The second star is earned if at the end of the experience you look at your knuckles and they are not bleeding or oozing. You win another star if while washing your clothes, you can say (honestly) to yourself, "Yeah, I am being effective today. These clothes feel clean." This is not always a given for as anyone who has handwashed a lot of laundry can attest, somedays the clothes just seem to stay dirty. Now we are down to our last two stars and these are in Mother Nature's hands, although you can plan for this next star. Did the laundry avoid the "extra rinse cycle" (i.e. rain) thereby avoiding picking up that odd rain-residue smell? If so, tack on yet another gold star. Now the final variable and by far the most unpredictable. As you remove your clothes from the line and inspect the day's work, to put it plainly, do you see any crow shit? No? Not today? Then you win the final star! As was the case this past Saturday, I managed to pick up all five stars and so for at least a little while, I can feel good about the shirt I wear on my back.

I hope all is going well back home and that summer is passing with fine weather, good barbeques, and a few ballgames here and there. I am thinking of you all and praying for you. I only ask that you think of me every now and again as you take a dip in the Shediac Bay!

Arusha

Recently, we traveled to the northeast of Tanzania to a town called Arusha. Arusha is home to the entrances of many national parks and is only an hour's drive from Moshi, which boasts the title of housing Africa's tallest mountain, Mt. Kilimanjaro. Closer to Arusha is Tanzania's second highest mountain, Mt. Meru (pictured above).

We leave again from the Ubungo bus station. This time we are traveling on Fresh Coach, a division of Air Born City Ltd. We are two hours late leaving the terminal; buses in Tanzania will not travel until they are at least 96% full. Heading northbound, city limits are reached within twenty minutes and then the Tanzanian landscape takes over. Driving through Tanzania North-South, scenery changes are as regular as traveling Canada East-West.

Outside of Dar and for the next four hours the country unfolds as sweeping plains. Long-dry-soft-slow, lion-yellow grass is interrupted by maize fields, ranging in sizes from self-suffiency to plantations. Settled beside these corn fields are houses. Adobe mud huts and cinder block houses of varying degrees of completion. Some adorned with murals advertising Speedo™ ball point pens and oXo laundry detergent (gentle on hands, tough on stains); others stuccoed and converted into dukas (stores), this year reading, “Kuburudisho murua. Coca-Cola.”; and still others abandoned or perhaps simply ran-out-of-money-not-yet-finished, but Nature doesn’t wait and She has already reclaimed her land. These housed villages are interspersed evenly along the entire road north.

As we approach these mini-towns, the bus slows, and often stops, either to let someone off or to ensure that we are still traveling in one piece. We pull off the road into a makeshift driveway and salesmen beginning running up to the windows with their latest products. Several men are carrying twenty-five oranges tightly bundled in a mesh sac; another group is selling black bags of mangoes; a boy is selling charred corncobs poking out in every direction from the top of a broom handle; a few brave men are balancing bulletin boards atop their heads from which hangs a selection of a plastic doll, a gold water gun, different pairs of sunglasses, and several wristwatches of the fake Rolex variety. It should be noted here, however, that these men are not selling to people who are coming off the bus. They are selling to the passengers who are seated high above their heads. Their goods are thus balanced in the palms of their hands outstretched above their heads while they are running in pack formation to be the first to reach the wary passengers.

From outside the window I hear, “Hey White, watch?” or “Mazungu, buy oranges me, elfu tatu [three thousand].” For everyone else on the bus, the oranges are one thousand. We buy a bundle of oranges (for one thousand) at one stop to bring to our hosts in Arusha, Jesuits living at the Jesuit Novitiate. The bus rolls out of the stop, some men drop off, but others still run along with the bus, completing any last-minute transactions that are unfinished.

We continue upwards and the air grows cooler as we rise higher in altitude. The landscape becomes greener and the level horizon is broken up with hills and fifth-grade lollipop ebony trees, which take the place of the southern plains, palms and cacti. The scenery is once again lush as we plunge into valleys, crossing narrow bridges over dry-season rivers of murky water. The hills become more regular and are no longer hills, but mountains. The heights increase until we reach Moshi, where the range reaches its zenith in Kilimanjaro. The sun has set by the time we leave Moshi and we drive the last hour to Arusha in darkness, in awe that the driver can see out of the bug-splattered windshield.

Tuesday morning I arise stiff from yesterday’s travel, but taken with the serenity Arusha provides. It is eight a.m. and early-nineties pop classics are not blaring from the club across the street. Looking out behind the refectory, the Arushan plains extend outward for miles. On a clear day, we learn, one can see Mt. Kilimanjaro from the Novitiate. Over the next three days the sky clears so that we can "only" see Mt. Meru. On Wednesday, three novices agree to take us on a hike down through a nearby gorge. Daniel and Michael (novices who lived in Dar for ten weeks at the beginning of the year) and Oscar lead us out around the compound and down into the gorge. Throughout the hike we are overtaken with amazing, you-just-don't-see-this-in-Moncton scapes provided at different vantage points. At one point we encounter a river we need to ford. Caroline and Kate dutifully take off their shoes and cross safely following the pass forged by Oscar. I, on the other hand, decide it would be a good idea to follow Daniel who has bounded across the river over the protruding rocks. I forget that Daniel has done this countless times before and I am left stranded in the middle of the river, not nimble enough to make the final leap. I too remove my shoes and trudge the rest of the way through the river.

On the other side of the gorge is another set of views and a Masai village. A man leads us along and directs us to the next point where we are both able to cross the river and scale both sides of deep valley. We safely navigate our way past the sunflower field that served as our reference point and then we make it back to the home side.

We spend the next day and a half enjoying the calm Arusha offers. As we are on retreat, we enjoy this time while also reflecting on the benefits and challenges of communal living and the value of work and whether our work is leaving us healthy and whole and indeed serving the common good. We leave Arusha town Friday morning and as is usual, the ride home is never as entertaining as the ride there. However, we do manage to squeeze in a flat tire and another mini-breakdown along the way, leading me to think that when traveling in Tanzania a bus breakdown may be the norm as opposed to the exception!

I continue to think about you all back home and I am hoping the summer is serving up fine weather to reciprocate the snowy winter you had.

Thoughts on Food

It has been a month of slower moving here in Mabibo. May marked the end (for the most part) of the rainy season and it also marks the end of Gonzaga's inaugural semester. We held our first Gonzaga Day yesterday - a day of celebrating the feast day of our patron saint. The actual feast day is June 21st, but as we will be on June holidays, we chose to mark the end of classes with the celebration.
One piece of news that has affected us here in Dar has been the recent rise in food prices. While the increase does not seem to be closely linked to the factors listed as having an impact on the global food crisis (Dar's price increase has been largely attributed to road washouts, thereby preventing the transportation of food), the parallel timing as we have watched prices rise has provided some timely reflection.
Compared with Western societies where household budgets normally allocate 15% of their income for food, households in developing nations, I have recently learned, may set aside as much as 80% of the family budget for food. We have felt a bit of the strain of the recent increase in our JV community, but even so, we still only set aside 25% of our monthly budget for food and so we have plenty of wiggle room with which to work. Our neighbors can't speak of the same luxury.
Where we have three separate sources of consistent income, many of the households in Mabibo have a single earner in the house (normally working in the less-than-reliable informal sector) and that person is usually supporting a spouse, at least three children, and perhaps other relatives, such as parents or siblings, on an income that may be slightly higher than 150,000 shillings a month (approx. 130$). Therefore, four tomatoes that once cost 200 shillings (about 20 cents), but now cost 300 or perhaps even 400 shillings become a part of the diet that is quickly cut out and is substituted with more rice or ugali (maize flour mixed into boiling water), which is filling, but may be lacking in nutrition value.
Tanzania is not being hit as hard as other countries during this global crisis, but even so, the recent strain has put a noticeable stress on the families who rely on the consistency of the market. While I was aware of some of the realities that are linked with poverty, living in Mabibo during this time has, as I mentioned, provided some timely reflection and has awakened me in a new sense to the harsh truth that is hunger.
I ask that we may keep those who regularly go without food, both at home and away, in our prayers this month and that we continue to act mindfully as global consumers.

April Showers Bring...April Showers

Back home, the saying goes, "April showers bring May flowers." In Tanzania, I think the saying goes like this, "April showers bring April showers." Of course, the rains also bring long grass to our yard, providing a perfect breeding ground for snakes and it provides us with precious drinking water, but I would be remiss in not mentioning the wonderful showers with which it provides us.
* * * * * * *
A Quick Background
Our home in Mabibo is capable of housing running water. The water comes one night a week from the city and when needed this one night of water fills our two tanks, enough water to last us a month. The water in our top tank is what comes into our house. Normally, when we see the bottom tank is empty, we start opening up our pipes through which the city's water flows, since the city is occasionally sporadic with its water distribution. In the middle of March, we happened upon the fact that the bottom tank was empty. We began our nightly vigil waiting for water to come. A week passed, city water didn't come, our bottom tank remained empty, the top tank grew lighter. Another week passed, city water supposedly came, our bottom tank was definitely still empty, the top tank, still lighter.

We started asking our neighbors if their water was coming. First week, apparently no one got water. Second week, neighbors were getting water. Thinking it may be something the matter with our pump, we had it checked by one of the Jesuits. "Nothing wrong with the pump, just wait for the water," he explained. In the meantime, as March turned into April, the rainy season had arrived. By this time the top tank was empty and so buckets showers became the "in" thing. Our water source was no longer the city; instead, water came in the form of rain, which we caught in a single four-gallon bucket. With the rain water we faithfully refilled our small water basins, which all together hold 72 liters. Seems like a lot, but it reminds us how much water three people can use over the course of a couple of days.

We learned this past week we would no longer be receiving city water. We discovered that during the month of March as we watched water spouts sprouting up along the walk to school, water was being diverted away from its previous route. We missed the "update", and so now we fetch water from a neighbor's house.
* * * * * * *
Bucket showers are not fun (I am sure that some of my friends who have no option but to bucket shower will stop reading here), and this being the case, I tried going as long as allowed without showering. Finally, one Saturday, while Kate and Caroline were at a friend's house, it began down pouring. I leapt into my bathing suit, soap in hand, and made way for the water rolling out of the gutter. This gave birth to my new idiom, April showers bring April showers. My sole regret is not having tried it earlier; although, it is not as simple as it sounds, since we are in school during the majority of the rain and I have yet to muster the courage to excuse myself from class to bathe.
* * * * * * *
Rains bring water, yes. Thankfully, rainy seasons bring a lot of water. The rains keep things cooler, food grows, water tanks are filled. But I have also come to recognise that a month of rain with no sun also has its downside.

Midway through April, in the middle of our water story, I saw a few spots of mildew growing inside my hat. I didn't think much of it. It was only my hat and it was probably because it was dirty, unlike my clothes stored inside my drawers. All else was safe, I thought. Not true. I quickly discovered my clothes were damp. Actually, make that wet. Hanging them up in my room did not help and I think it may have actually made things worse. Too much rain, not enough sun. I was stuck between praying for water to fill our bucket and praying for sun to dry my clothes which were quickly being overrun by the spread of mildew. Luckily, this past Sunday, we had a slight reprieve from the rain, allowing enough time to wash away the mildew and to dry the clothes, thereby dodging a mini-disaster. Losing one pair of pants to mildew when that means halving your clothing options below the waist may constitute a mini-disaster.

Otherwise, all else is well here. I am grateful for your continued thoughts and prayers and know that you are in mine. Stay well, my friends.

Easter Break in Ndanda

School re-opened last week and second quarter is running much smoother. First session ended on the 14th and after hanging around Mabibo that Saturday as Kate and Caroline finished up parent-teacher meetings, we, along with Father Don, left for Ndanda on Sunday, headed for a four-day retreat.

We awoke earlier than normal and groggily walked to the Jesuit residence where Fr. Don was waiting with Fr. Mchopa, who had graciously offered to drive us to the bus terminal, were waiting. Mchopa served as our connection to Ndanda, a native of the South and knowing the priests with whom we were going to stay. We arrived at the bus terminal at 6:40 a.m. A little later than we had hoped, but still with plenty of time to spare in order to catch our 7:00 a.m. bus, especially when you factored in the usual 15 minute Tanzanian delay. The bus terminal was bustling already as passengers-to-be hurried to find the appropriate bus slip (North, East, Northeast, West, etc., etc.). Each slip held five buses, all lettered with different fonts, most of which looked as though they belonged to a circus company and all either praising Jesus or Allah, depending on the driver's religion. Through crowds of people some of whom were balancing suitcases on their heads, Mchopa carefully guided our car through the morning's obstacle course and eventually found a parking spot off the side of the entrance way. We parked, carried our backpacks out, and followed our leader out back. How he knew where to find the bus to Ndanda amazed us all, since we seemingly walked into a back parking lot where it appeared as though no one else was walking. Well, it turned out no one was walking back there because, as Mchopa learned, at 6:50a.m., the 7:00a.m. bus had already left the station. Puzzled by the new Tanzania we had just encountered, we hurried back to the jeep and Mchopa sped us along the empty streets to the next station about 15 minutes away.

We arrived at the next station, the sun a little farther along on its morning ascent. We watched from the car as Mchopa tried to learn the whereabouts of the missing bus. We hadn't passed the bus on our way to the station and it wasn't there. Thinking that the bus had left already and that we were out of luck, we soon learned that in fact it had not yet left the station in Ubungo, our original point of origin. We would wait for it and finally board. We waited and when it arrived, we boarded, hesitantly as we examined the exterior of our coach. Painted in lemon yellow lettering was the company name, Akida. The lettering wove about on the jungle green backdrop in a style that looked more fitted to the Ringling Bros. than Greyhound. As we climbed aboard, we launched ourselves up to the first step, which found itself 3 feet off the ground, all the while gazing at a massive crack, running from the top of the bus to the bottom of the window - a crack that had once been welded back together, but now remained agape. Nevertheless, we boarded, but found people in our seats. No fault of their own, however, as the bus had double booked our row! Mchopa's morning courtesy ride was still not over. As our bus began pulling away, Mchopa was still on board trying to settle the seat issue. He managed to get off the bus, although this would not be the last we saw of him.

At the next station, Mchopa again emerged. This time we arranged to have our seats back and the previous patrons took seats a little farther forward. Alas, we were on our way. Somehow. Rounding each corner at speeds that seemed unsafe for such a large vehicle, the bus, on its weak suspension, swayed to and fro. I quickly plunged my nose into a book trying to avoid recognizing the fact that we were careening down a two-lane road in a tour bus at speeds upwards of 90km/h.

About three hours after we left Mchopa, who had by this time hurried quickly back to say the 9:00a.m. mass, we entered into a stretch of about 70 km of pot hole-filled dirt roads. Praying for it not to rain so that we may actually cross this stretch that would become impassable if the sky was to open up, I found a moment of relaxation in realizing that dirt roads meant slower speeds. Or so I thought. 70 km covered in an hour and a half, minus ten minutes for a bathroom stop along the side of the road. Essentially, the bus driver thought he was driving a new Land Rover and not an aging tour bus. We would pay, in time, for our quick passage of the bush road. Aside from having an upper window fall out onto my lap during the course of the bumpy road, we apparently did damage to our engine. Not a complete shock as we had passed along a nearly impossible stretch of road at nearly 50km/h. After initially being told we were stopping for a quick snack break of about ten minutes, it soon became apparent after re-boarding the bus that we would be stuck for a while.

Three and a half (nearing four) hours later, we took to the road again. We arrived in Ndanda at about 7:30p.m. Slightly later than anticipated, but there in one piece. We were greeted by Fr. Severin, who kindly offered us a warm meal after the day's travel.

The next morning we awoke to the beauty of the southern country. Severin welcomed us to breakfast and briefly shared a little bit about the retreat center. The Benedictines had founded the current mission in Ndanda in 1906. Severin had been in Ndanda since 1966, so long ago in fact that he had initially arrived by boat. The Benedictines ran a hospital and trained the locals in different trades, most of which we would see to some extent during the course of our visit.

A German, Severin ran like clock-work. At ten o'clock, he said he would meet us and, sure as the sun rises, he appeared at 10:00a.m. and 10 seconds, BBC time, as my father would have me note. He welcomed us to the Ndanda Mission Press. A print factory that provided all of the printing for the south of the country. An impressive factory and Br. Markus who gave us the tour ensured that it ran smoothly. The factory was one of the first indications of the tremendous source of employment the mission offered the local community. It also demonstrated the extent to which the mission complex had become self-sufficient. Almost everything, down to the passion fruit preserves served at breakfast, was made in the village. They trained craftsmen in woodworking, stone masonry, and cattle raising. They helped run a hospital, two schools, a bakery, and a butchery. Up until last year, they had run the largest leper colony in East Africa. They generated their own electricity with the help of a water turbine and provided the community with clean running water. So clean you could drink it straight from the shower tap. Each day we stayed, I grew more and more fond of the wonderful work being done in Ndanda and the awareness that eventually all would be operated by Tanzanians. Walking around town gave the feeling that I was walking in what I imagined might feel like an old medieval village.

On our final day Severin drove us up to the top of the mesa and we gazed out into a valley that was lush given the tremendous rain the region had received during our brief stay. As we drove down the mountain, our eyes keenly taking in the new environment, we encountered several inhabitants of the mesa, donning a mix of traditional garb and second-hand t-shirts and shorts. These people remained mostly unaffected by the large mission below them and sustained themselves growing maize and potatoes, while trading mangoes and other fruit with the townspeople below.

The next day we awoke before dawn and boarded our bus - this time we chose to ride with Tito. Although it took us two hours to pass along the stretch of dirt road, we did not break down and so we returned to Dar es Salaam in time for the Holy Thursday mass, kicking off the Easter Triduum. We spent the Easter weekend celebrating with neighbors and the Jesuit community and catching a last bit of rest before school began again on Tuesday morning.