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.
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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.
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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.
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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.

Doctor, Sometimes I Feel Like A Bulldozer

Two weeks ago, as I made my way into the city centre I was amazed by the number of men working at the side of the road digging a ditch. What was amazing was neither the fact that the new ditch would finally allow for the dirt road to be paved nor that these men were laboring in the midday sun. I was amazed because Tanzanians were, admirably, still relying on their own work force to build and maintain infrastructure. There is no shortage of labor in Tanzania or in other developing nations as a result of soaring unemployment rates. Yet so often it has been my experience, either through direct contact or through reading, that the governments of these countries begin to rely too heavily on the donations - sometimes machinery, other times an entire labor force - of larger donor countries in an effort to speed development. The results often find the developing country remaining idle or worse - moving in the opposite direction.

I am specifically thinking about a book I read recently where the author describes a like situation in Malawi. The locals are complaining about the condition of a national highway. The road wasn't always in such a mess, they confess, actually going so far as to say that the road was well maintained for several decades. But then an international donor jumped in and the Malawian government bit the bait. In an effort to help clear landslides from the road in a more timely fashion, a dozen bulldozers were donated to help maintain the highway. However, post-donation, the road is crumbling. The bulldozers' initial impact caused hundreds of laborers to lose their jobs because they were no longer needed to clear the rubble from the road. Then after several landslides, the bulldozers successfully clogged the roadside ditches that had been kept clean by the roadside laborers for years. This led to the roads being washed out by future rains and helped cause the mess they are today.

If you are still with me (I am waaayyyy up here, balancing on my three wobbly soap boxes typing this message) then I can say that I am including these two stories as a way of reflecting on what role I am playing here in Tanzania. Am I laboring with the ditch diggers or am I donating unneeded and unwanted bulldozers?

This remains the question that continues to riddle my stay here in Tanzania. I came to Tanzania with the hope of doing the former and yet as I continue to explore my position at Gonzaga Primary School I realize that such aspirations require more work than initially anticipated. I wrote in my last entry about trying to accept my role as a leaf floating down the river; however, my current position at Gonzaga makes it hard to simply drift with the Tanzanian current when teachers are asking me when and how they should submit tests and lesson plans. I am juggling how I am supposed to accompany the people with whom I live and work while also providing them with the leadership they expect from the position I hold at Gonzaga. More than anything, I recognize how important communication is in working with my colleagues. Essentially, when they ask me a question, I sit on it, return it back to them, wait for their answer, and then give them my reply, which closely resembles theirs. This works to a certain extent, but occasionnally I find myself frustrated by the roundabout way they may want to use and I suggest a way I think we could do things "more efficiently". This is when the question really emerges: ditchdigger or bulldozer? Am I working with the people in a way that will help them improve their own country's development or am I simply imposing my North American tribe's point of view in a way that may impede their progress?

Thank you all for your support in what has proven to be a challenging month away from home. Your warmth has been felt here and for this I am grateful.

**An aside: The roadside ditch in Mabibo was dug the length of at least two kilometres in about a week and a half. It is now being laid with stone.**

Argh, Maty! Let us Take to the Skies!

Well, school is in full swing! The students finally arrived at Gonzaga last Monday, giving the school a much needed boost of energy. By the end of the week, we had begun following the daily timetable, almost all the students were adorned with Gonzaga blue and white uniforms, and any student who had dared to return to school with long hair was clean cut. Almost everyone! There is still one child with dangling braids who is sticking it to the Man, coming to school with a new 'do every morning. Although I am sad to report that I think tomorrow Mona Lisa will meet her match. Sister Georgine has promised to don the barber's hat if Mona's flowing locks remain in tact. As someone who has enjoyed having long hair, I have found myself struggling with this aspect of private education, but I recognize that it is a reality, in some form or another, at most private schools throughout the world.

This picture of Gonzaga was taken back in December. This picture appears to show a building nearly completed. Well, somehow, this is indeed the case, although there remains much work to be done. The construction has continued through the opening of the school. Last week the workers finished the ground floor where classes are being held and this week the work has shifted to the upper level and to finishing the cafeteria so we can begin making our own food. Our sister school, Loyola High School, has been kind enough to aid us in tea and lunch preparations for these opening weeks, however, I am sure the wonderful women working in their canteen will be more than happy to shed the responsibility of having to sort through an additional sixty cups of rice each morning!

I am teaching English to Standard Three and Five and mathematics to Standard Five. I also have managed to finagle my way into acting as Gym teacher for these two grades and as a religion teacher on Friday mornings. Let me take this opportunity, though, to explain how religion classes are taught. I was hesitant when coming to Tanzania to teach any sort of religion class because of my own perceptions of evangelizing; however, the Jesuits with whom I work have made it very clear that the purpose of our school is not to proselytize, but rather it is to educate. Therefore, each student is offered the opportunity to study his or her own religion. Every Friday morning all students have religion class and instead of being broken up by grade level, students are divided by religion and they attend the appropriate class. This is a practice that must be adhered to not only because we are a Jesuit school, but also because religion is part of the national curriculum. While I am always trying to understand Tanzanian culture and appreciating my role, as one Jesuit has put it, "as a leaf, floating down the river," this system seems to work well and it definitely provides food for thought. And so I welcome any reflections and questions you wish to share.

Here is a picture of the house in which we are living. We are preparing to move to a new house, but this has been our home during these first two months, and will continue to be for the foreseeable future. It is nice living in a community and to return home to two people at the end of the day. My community mates, or sisters as I have grown accustomed to calling them, are both teaching first-year students at Loyola High School. It is entertaining, if nothing else, to compare our teaching stories at the end of the day given the two very different environments. Yesterday, Caroline was doing an exercise asking students to name what they would like to be when they grew up. One student promptly raised his hand and expressed that he wanted to be a pirate. Caroline made a hook with her finger and "Argh'ed" to confirm his declaration, to which the boy responded with a confused look and said louder, "No, a PIRATE!" Finally, after several moments of chaos, another student raised her hand and kindly explained to Miss Caroline that Tito wanted to be a pilot, not a pirot.

We are beginning to catch on to certain "L" an "R" mispronunciations, but every now and again, we are caught dumbfounded. Leafs floating in a river!

Finally, we remain safe here in Dar, but we ask for your thoughts and prayers to be with our brothers and sisters to the north in Kenya. It is a difficult time for East Africa and we pray for a speedy and peaceful resolution to the current conflict.

The Schnozzberries Taste Like Schnozzberries...

Zanzibar was wonderful. Kate was proposed to twice on the beach. The first proposal came from a Masai named Cheap-o-price, the second time, from a young Muslim man who, in an effort to woo her, calmly explained that all she would need to do in order to convert to Islam was change the way she dresses. Kate was almost convinced, however, the conversation was interrupted by the call to prayer from the neighborhood mosque. Finally, we returned home to Mabibo where Club D' (a.k.a. The bar directly across the street from our house, which plays extremely loud Shaggy and Sean Kingston songs on repeat from 6am until 1am) was waiting for us.

Preparations for the holidays do not take long here. In fact, Christmas may have passed by entirely unnoticed, with the exception of Christmas Eve mass, but for the one skinny Santa dancing in front of the supermarket and post office who reminded us of the holiday that was about to arrive. Despite being in church from 8PM until 11:30 PM, mass was wonderfully celebrated. Enough incense was burned to give the impression we were celebrating an Eastern Orthodox ritual, children were dancing at the front of the church for the entire length of the mass, and the choir sung beautifully, leading the entire congregation throughout the celebration. The following day we enjoyed a delightful feast with the Jesuits and we spent the afternoon chatting and snacking on cheese - a rarity in our diet.

In between Christmas and the New Year we were invited to dinner at our neighbors house. We were excited to find out he was serving pork, although this excitement quickly diminished as plates loaded with cubes of pork fat and the occasional piece of meat were passed around. My fellow community mates were wise enough to politely pass on the majority of the fat, explaining to our gracious host that they were simply too full to enjoy the local delicacy. I, on the other hand, felt somewhat obliged and, just like Jack Sprat's wife, I licked the platter clean. So clean that I was offered more, and when I tried to politely refuse another helping, Kate was kind enough to urge me on. Down went another serving. Later that night, my body, overloaded with pork fat, explained to me that I should never, ever to do that again.

New Year's Eve was celebrated in a mass. This time mass went from 9PM December 31st until 1Am January 1st. We rang in the New Year before giving the sign of peace, which means that communion and final prayers took an hour all unto themselves. I am beginning to sense that Tanzanians like long celebrations.

In my short time in Dar, the thing that stands out the most is the pollution. Streets are littered with trash - empty bottles, used batteries, plastic bags. What ever is not strewn about the streets is burned, and so it is not unusual to walk through clouds of black smoke billowing from piles of burning plastic, paper, and other waste. As I walk to Gonzaga Primary School everyday I cross a river. Every day, and occasionally at different times during the same day, the water flowing beneath my feet is a different colour. I am reminded of rainbows and can only think that such a river belongs in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, where the green water tastes like lime, red tastes like cherries, black tastes like licorice, and schnozzberry taste like schnozzberries. Indeed, this is no exagerration and each day I am amazed and perplexed that such environmental tragedies can and do occur. It is evidence of the sad reality that environmental concerns in developing nations like Tanzania are simply too far down on the list of humanitarian priorities to be recognized with any real sense of urgency.

We are in our final week of preparations for Gonzaga Primary School. I think we are very far behind where a school preparing to open for the first time should be at this point of time, but I hope to be happily surprised upon our opening next week.

Well, I am grateful to two new Jesuit noviates who have just arrived from Sudan and Ethiopia and who have given me a way to end this entry because I need to welcome them since there are no Jesuits around.