Think. Fikiri. Hope. Tumaini. Question. Uliza. Wait. Subiri.

I am days away from the one year mark.

I think. I hope. I question. I wait.

Thoughts and reflections from the past year flood my mind. Thoughts of disappointment, struggle, fear, shock and worry overwhelm me. Have I accomplished what I came here for? What have I accomplished and what did I even want to gain from all of this? Am I so blinded by my American desire to gain, achieve and grow that I am missing the day to day successes that confront, challenge and change me for the good?

It is true that my students LOVE me and their English is improving daily. I have friends here. I laugh everyday. I am still fascinated by my Tanzanian host culture. I am learning a new language, seeing a completely different side of the world and getting to know more about myself.

I still find that everyday I hear that small inner voice inviting me home, home stateside.

I think about the people, places and comforts of home constantly. I think about grabbing a beer with my brother and sending my sister a silly text message whenever I want. I think about brisk fall weather and swaying evergreen trees. I think about the holidays up ahead and a world that feels for far away from my current reality.

I think about joys in the waiting. I wait to discover new joys. I wait to receive new joys. I wait to construct new joys.

I think about my new JV community saying goodbye to their families and preparing to join me here. I think about another Christmas away from home. I think about the family dog, Coco. I think about family, their ups and downs, struggles and triumphs. I think about communication, cross-culturally, cross-continentally, criss-crossed and continuously interesting.

I think about constantly learning and the new lessons that a second year has to teach me.

I think, maybe too much, about the future and the evolving sense of home that awaits me in one year from now.

Then I think about the fact that I am here. I remain here while my heart balances gently between a home of raincoats and coffee cups and this space of unending thoughts, hopes, questions, waiting and an ever so slightly, changing Shea Patrick Meehan.

Think. Fikiri. Hope. Tumaini. Question. Uliza. Wait. Subiri.

My life here in NUMBERS

1          times during the week when I use internet.

11        number of monkeys I have seen.

1          number of camels I have seen.

1          number of times, per week, that I eat fish. Every Friday night at dinner with the Jesuits.

6          number of months it took me to realize that the mystery meat served on Tuesdays at school lunch is in fact liver.

4          number of times I have eaten whole boxes on Mac & Cheese sent from home… all by myself.

0          number of times I have driven a car in the past year. 

25        approximate number of cards I have received from my Aunt June and Uncle Tom.

2          number of poisonous spiders (the size of my hand) that I have killed. Number of those I have seen… countless.

3          number of jelly fish stings I have gotten while swimming in the Indian Ocean.

2          number of motor cycles I have been on.

4          times in the past year that I have watched the movie “Love Actually”.

4          number of seasons of Heroes (the television series) I have watched in TZA.

4          number of seasons of Brothers and Sisters (another television series) I have watched in TZA.

4          times during the year when I take de-worming medicine.

4          times during the year when I am supposed to re-apply mosquito repellant to my bug net.

1          number of times I have had malaria.

2          number of times I have had to give stool samples. 

4          number of hospitals I have visited.

6          number of days I have worn contact lenses.

1          days of the week that I shave my beard, Monday mornings.

22        approximate number of pounds I have lost in one year.

2          number of belts that I own which have saved my life this year.

9          number of months since I last cut my hair.

3          number of average of times during the day when a student or stranger touches my hair.

3          number of times I have been to Moshi, Tanzania.

2          number of times I have been to Dodoma, Tanzania.

1          number of times I have been to each of the following places around Tanzania: Zanzibar, Tanga, Lushoto, Sanya Juu.

5          approximate number of visitors coming to Tanzania in the next year.

3          number of books I am in the middle of reading.

2-3       number of scoops of instant coffee I add to a frozen water bottle that I consume each morning. Iced coffee is wonderful.

5          number of minutes it takes me to walk to work.

1,320   number of students at Loyola High School, dare s Salaam.

153      number of students I teach.

153      number of students who constantly remind and redefine my ideas of patience, determination and love.

39        number of students that I am the homeroom teacher of.

45        number of students in Arts & Design Club of which I am the club patron.  

4          number of days I have spent in parent-teacher conferences.

1          number of staff meetings we have each week.

8          number of Jesuits who work at Loyola.

60        approximate number of teachers at Loyola.

7          number of older women who work at Loyola who have crushes on me.

2          number of those women who are nuns.

2          number of school-wide, outdoor assemblies we have each week.

3          number of students who have promised to come home with me next year.

12        number of students who performed songs, dances or poems in our last class together. Celine Dion, Justin Bieber and Lil’ Wayne never sounded better.

4          number of co-workers that I can call my friends.

6          number of students who have requested to be my friend on facebook.

0          number of students I have accepted to be my friend on facebook.

10        (in the AM) time of the day when I have my favorite meal: Tea Break. Tea with milk and doughnuts.

26        number of lessons per week I taught last term.

12        number of English Writing classes per week.

6          number of Oral English classes per week. 

6          number of Values classes per week. 

2          number of Catholic Religion classes per week.

3          number of people in my current community/house.

9          number of Jesuit Volunteers currently serving in Tanzania.

4          number of people who will be in my community/house.

3          age of the person I last celebrated a birthday with.

3          number of guests who came over to celebrate my birthday last October.

300      amount in Tanzanian shillings it costs to take a bus into town.

9          number of Maasai shukas I own.

2          number of articles of traditional-ish clothing Muslim men wear that I own.

980      number of songs on my iPod.

76        number of Christmas songs I have in my iTunes account.

5          number of times I have gone out for dancing.

3          number of memory cards full of pictures I have taken.

6          number of shirts I have made out of CRAZY Tanzanian fabrics.

45        number of pairs of socks I brought to a humid, tropical country.

20        number of pairs of socks I have yet to use.

3          number of hours on average it takes to wash three weeks worth of my dirty clothes by hand.

2          number of hours on average it takes for the sun to dry my hand washed clothes.

2          approximate number of gallons of water an average bucket shower requires.

4          approximate number of hours it takes to collect, boil, cool and then filter drinking water.

3          approximate number of hours it takes to sort rice and beans for rocks, sticks or insects, to cook and then prepare for a meal.

14        number of bus rides lasting more than 8 hours I have taken this year.

105      number of minutes an average Catholic mass runs.

4          number of guests we had over for Thanksgiving.

7          number of dishes served at our Thanksgiving this year.

2          number of new tattoos I want to get when I return home. Sorry Mom/Dad.

7          days of the week that I think about something relating to Disney movies or parks.

2-4       number of meals I prepare from scratch per week.

5          number of days it usually takes three of us to finish a jar on peanut butter.

3          number of times I have eaten Ethiopian food this year.

2          number of times I have eaten pizza this year.

1          number of cheese burgers I have had this year.

1          number of times I have carried a goat into a wedding.

1          number of times per week that I eat French fries for dinner.

358      number of days I have lived in Tanzania.

384      number of days I have left in Tanzania.

A Ride of a Lifetime?

You may have running water and dependable electricity but you do NOT get random days off in the middle of the work week for Muslim holidays. Today is a Wednesday and I am sitting at home cooking rice and beans and enjoying a wonderfully relaxing day off.

Life in Dar es Salaam is moving along in what feels like slow motion on the daily but when I look at the calendar I realize that my time here is flying by! Sometimes I think that being at home with Iced Americanos and all of the cheese that I want would be great. Things here just do not come easily and while I appreciate that haunting realization that ‘I am probably becoming stronger and a more well-rounded as an individual’ I still yearn for many of the comforts back at home in the States. I am not saying that things, foods and comforts of America are the true source of happiness, mine or others, but I miss certain things that I took for granted.

Prime example: Transportation

I miss the freedom of getting into a car and going somewhere on a whim. Leaving the one-mile radius of my home is an all day adventure by bus usually involving a goal of buying an item for our house, a trip to the post office to send a letter or the occasional trip to visit students, beaches or a new part of the city. Buses are crowded. Buses are crazy. Buses are called Dala dalas. Buses drive on sidewalks. Buses don’t follow stop lights. Busses ARE urban Tanzania and very much so a part of my reality here in Dar!

Buses are recycled school buses shipped over from China. The busses were meant to carry very small children to school. (It is common to find painted walls depicting playgrounds, cartoon animals and the like on the insides of these moving mad houses). Each bus has about 25 seats (usually bolted to the floor) but the average trip into town packs close to double the capacity. These human sardine cans of wheels serve as the main form of transportation for the inhabitants of Dar.

One learned and observed realization of this place has showed me that Tanzanians pride themselves as being a peaceful country founded on the ideas of harmony and unity. Interestingly, however, if you choose to board a dala dala during rush hour, prepare yourself to experience the unexpected! Old women being elbowed, children being stepped on and drivers stepping on the gas while patrons are only halfway up the steps and onto the bus! There seems to be no mercy on these buses.

Oh, and did I mention that people pay to ride these buses!

So, with my knees jammed up against the half-bolted seat in front of me, it is the norm to share that bench with one or two others. There is almost always a small child within arms reach (or resting on my own lap) staring at or crying on account of my presence. (Mind you that child is crying because my skin is the oddest/scariest thing he or she has ever seen). All of that just to buy sponges to wash dishes or to send a letter.

To add to the fun, children are not the only ones staring. It is extremely rare to see a white person, mazungu, riding a dala dala. So, not only am I holding a strange child who is crying at the sight of me but I am sweating in a seat made for a tiny Chinese child while dozens of Tanzanians look at me like: ‘wow, he must be lost’. On a recent trip back form the beach I even had to ask a group of women to stop pulling on my hair… At first I thought that it was the wind blowing my luscious locks but when the brushing feeling on the back of my head shifted from stroking to yanking… I knew that something was up. I turned around to see a woman chatting it up on her cell phone and confused as to why I was upset about her pulling on my hair. I told her to stop, immaturely reached out and touched her hair and turned back around leaving her confused and shocked by my own reaction to the situation. (Yes, I pulled her hair. Not my most shinning moment but I had to show her how awkward the whole thing was and… that was the first thing that came to mind!)

Best ways to find humor in the situation include:

1. Making faces at children.
2. Staring back at the Tanzanians who think I am lost and then greeting then in Kiswahili.
3. Joking with old people. (I find that this is a cross-cultural trend that old people just like to talk and have young people listen to them).
4. If the children do not respond to jokes or faces, I find that pretending to cry myself usually confuses them so much that they stop crying.
5. Looking out the window. This is my standby. I never fail to see someone or something interesting, entertaining and unexpected walking the streets of Dar.

Anyway, back to my original thought: that ability to go anywhere, whenever I want is seemingly impossible. Mobility in this life is limited in terms of experiencing other areas, realities and sites outside of my immediate neighborhood without hassle! At the same time, I am blessed by the people of this neighborhood. I am energized by the mamas cooking on their doorsteps, the children playing soccer against our front gate and seeing the shift of people as they stop staring plainly at me as an outsider and start seeing me as a part of this small, bustling part of Dar es Salaam.

Freedom Criers

Last night I watched the movie “Freedom Writes” with Hilary Swank. About halfway through the movie I found myself crying… almost uncontrollably. Now, I am not really known as being a ‘movie-crier’. In fact, that was only my second time ever crying during a movie. Was this my first time seeing this particular movie? No. Is Longbeach, CA during the LA Riots similar to Mabibo, Dar es Salaam? No, not really. Do Hilary Swank’s character and I really have that much in common? Nope. Then I am still left with the question of why was I crying and why am I now feeling inspired to write about it!

Teaching is such an emotional experience. Each and every day I try to give something new and somewhat helpful to my students in terms of lessons, conversations and extracurricular activities. Some days, however, I wonder if the language skills, writing techniques and grammatical exercises are my real purpose here or my true gift to my students. Yes, the lessons are tiring and the tasks that I am expected to perform are sometimes obnoxious but the times in my day that keep inspiring and challenging me to do better are part of a bigger picture.

I have been the teacher to seek stolen rulers. I have been the teacher to dry tears when exams are failed. I am the teacher at parent’s funerals. I am the teacher who gives high fives and not slaps of the ruler to the back of the hand, the arm, the back, the legs. I am the teacher encouraging art projects. I am the teacher making birthday cards. I am myself and I am the odd teacher out.

Education here, in my views, weights heavy in punishment and light on encouragement. Hearing that the majority of my students will not graduate from the high school that admitted them and feeling that I am the biggest advocate for these young individuals is daunting, even depressing. I am lucky to go to work everyday and laugh, smile, learn with and love my kids. However, what is really enough and is it possible to do more?

Balloon Balog

I knew that these two years would be eye opening and formative, however, over the past seven months the lessons have been like a non-stop water balloon fight… YES, a seven month water balloon fight.

JCV Dar es Salaam: an epic battle of fun, craziness and bursting thrills (on the hottest day of summer).

I am not saying that living here is a battle of us versus them. There are no real sides of this adventure. Sure there are different angles, views and lenses that we look through but this experience is much more like a free for all! New ideas, understandings and people are constantly throwing themselves at me, rushing onto my radar and thrusting some new lesson into my heart.

Every time I am hit with a new altering understanding, I barely have time to wipe the water and bits of balloon and I can see a huge, ready to burst orb of wisdom hurdling at me! The ‘I thinking I’m an introvert’-balloon. The challenges of living in community balloon. The Kiswahili-balloon. The family back at home balloon. The missing things, food and people-balloons. The cooking fun new meals-balloon. The hetero normative balloon. The my kids drive me crazy and I adore them at the same time balloon. The co-worker-balloon. TANZANIA-balloon.

Hearing the stories of students becoming orphaned, experiencing a failing healthcare system, riding on overcrowded, unsafe city buses, missing home and seeing friends struggle to find employment are just some of those stinging hits that make the balloon fight overwhelming and daunting. Then there are the balloons that uplift and inspire such goodness. Weekends spent roaming through the city with Cat (my community mate), students singing covers of popular American songs during Oral English classes, visits at home from my students, limited but engaging conversations in Kiswahili and invitations to share meals with Tanzanians are those huge hits that soak you to the bone and inspire a laugh attack so deep from within that your whole body becomes overwhelmed with love and giddiness at the same time!

Each balloon can good and bad, wet and awkward, expected but surprising none the less and such an awe inspiring reminder of how dynamic my time here is. This Tanzanian water balloon fight ends in about 16 months and I am so torn between the thrill of it all and the desire to catch my breath that I find myself lost. Lost in a chaotic summer-time brawl!

While I may be lost in my thoughts and reactions toward Tanzania at this point, I am slowly finding my way and beginning to navigate through this water balloon blast of an experience. Who knows what will happen to me in the months to come or even I will learn tomorrow BUT I am standing at the ready! Bring it on Tanzania.

What is Africa?

What is Africa?

What is it like to live in Africa?

What makes someone or something African?

You might think that having lived here in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania for the last seven months I would be able to answer these questions.

You might think that I now have an insider’s view of this part of the world.

You might think that I understand or gasp or even belong to Africa in a greater sense.

The majority of my time here has been spent learning. Learning language, learning about people’s lives, learning about myself, learning to be far from home, learning about Tanzania, Dar es Salaam, my neighborhood called Mabibo. One of the most interesting lessons that I have been reflecting on lately has to do with the vastness that is Africa.

Growing up in America and being educated through the eyes of the Western world, certain stereotypes, prescribed ideas and visions of what Africa is has influenced my views within this experience. Of course! Enculturation, media and tendencies toward ethnocentric understandings are universal. We see the rest of the world through the eyes of our own culture. (This is one of the running themes of anthropology classes that I took during my undergrad). That being said, my understanding of Africa were largely based on things like The Lion King, Save the Children infomercials and calls to action clubs on my college campus. Have I heard the phrase ‘hakuna matata’? Yes. Am I faced with poverty and children in need? Definitely. Are there actions that the West can take that could bring effective aid to Africa? Yes.

I am embarrassed to admit this in many ways that it took moving abroad and living in a place so different from my own home to start truly appreciating the diversity and vastness of this world. Trying to explain what is African or who is African is impossible. I am still learning, seeing and feeling the extreme differences that make each person, tribe, country and location within the continent unique. Thinking about the experiences of Africans in Libya or Sudan and then comparing that to the longstanding peacefulness of Tanzania, I am struck by the vast differences of ‘life in Africa’. Wars rage, revolutions erupt, peace endures and Africa continues struggling to overcome the effects of colonialism imposed for centuries. As new forms of marginalization and oppression infiltrate African soil through big corporations, farm subsidies and neocolonial pressure, countless cultures strive to maintain their identities in this constantly changing world.

To emphasize my point, I think about how different Seattle and Spokane, Washington are. Then compare Washington State to the State of Mississippi. Even more drastically but still within North America, Mexico City and Anchorage, Alaska. Diversity. It is easy for me as an American to say: “Seattle and New York… different worlds”. Likewise, prior to moving to Tanzania I didn’t think twice about saying: “yeah, I would love to see Africa” or “Africa seems so interesting to me”. It is amazing how blanketing and overwhelming those statements are. Africa is HUGE! There are Africans with skin whiter than mine. Some speak French, others Bantu languages. Some live in villages made of mud and thatched roofs while others dwell in high rise condos. Some eat with their hands and others with fork and knife. There is just so much diversity that I feel inspired to learn more!

It is also a struggle to understand the diversity of Africa as many of the stereotypes that I had about Africa are true of or are within Tanzania. Tanzania contains the largest peak in Africa, Mt. Kilimanjaro. Some of Africa’s most famous, most impressive Nature Reserves, National Parks and Conservation Areas are here in Tanzania. The Serengeti, elephants, giraffes, lions, zebras, cheetahs and so on dwell here. The Maasai are one of the most photographed, studied, preserved and fascinating tribes in the whole world. (My anthropology professors cited this culture in almost every class I took). Tanzania is full of fertile farmlands and natural resources. You can fine tropical islands, deserts, mountain ranges, grasslands and forests. Tanzania is also part of the developing world making it impossible to overlook the extreme poverty and lack of infrastructure.

Tanzania has a lot going for it and I am blessed to witness so much of it. However, as learn more about this country, I find myself wanting to question more and more my biases and then dive deeper into seeing Africa in a more holistic sense. (Don’t worry mom, I am still planning on coming home at the end of my service... no cross-continent expeditions are planned as of yet). I do find myself being challenged to keep learning. I continue to push myself to see more, ask more questions, listen more, eat more crazy foods and so on! I guess in a way I am also challenge anyone reading this to see and think of Africa in a different light, as I am striving to do. Friends, have your views of Tanzania and Africa changed since you started reading this blog?

Surprise Attach

“Shea, your students are at the door.”

“Who? Students? Like plural?

“Um… yes.”

“How many?”

“Um…a lot.”

I walked outside to see a flood of six students waltzed through our gate and into the compound. Let me stress that these are not just any students but actually a gang of some of my most rowdy, rambunctious rebels. Yes, the circus began at three pm on a Saturday afternoon.

Don’t get me wrong, I may call them rebels but for every comment said out of turn and every joke that breaks the focus of the class, these same boys are hardworking, fun loving and more loving than I could ask for. Also, random visits while most likely illegal in the states due to child protection laws are all too familiar. We average at least two visits from students on an average weekend. They usually do not travel in packs of six, however!

Loyola High School is currently in the middle of terminal exams and the twelve days straight of testing is wearing on students and teachers alike. It was a pleasant yet unexpected invasion of these over-energetic, study-crazed students. Once I got over the shock, I turned to Cat my community mate and could think of only one thing. “UNO?” I said. “You read my mind!” She responded with a smile.

As soon as she and I got the game, the living room and the boys set, another know at the door pulled Cat away. She returned to the living room with one of her students who had decided to stop by with the goal of teaching Cat (also known as Miss Catherine) how to make henna tattoos from scratch. Yes, this fifth grader walked up, pots and pans in her school bag ready and excited to teacher her favorite teacher how to do this beautiful Muslim tradition.

There we were playing cards in the living room and cooking up henna in the kitchen.

In one room we played UNO for over an hour until my boys, whose attention spans are currently even shorter than usual, got restless and requested a break to play football (soccer) outside in our compound for a little while. Don’t worry, however, the football match was only an intermission as round two of UNO continued for another hour or so.

The card game UNO is our go-to, let’s entertain these guests activity. This simple, yet wildly entertaining game conjures up memories of trips to the Oregon Coast with siblings and my aunt and uncle, Thanksgiving Day afternoons and power outages passing time with the family. It is crazy to me how this game, with its Spanish name has entertained me, my family, my community mates and countless East Africans. Talk about spanning cultures!

All in all, it was a good visit from my kids and though they could and would have stayed all weekend, two and a half hours of UNO and football had taken its told on good old Mr. Patrick. Reluctantly, we parted ways and they promised to visit at least two or three times during our upcoming month-long break, a promise that I fully expect will be followed through. About fifteen minutes after that amidst Cat’s students drawing henna tattoos on Cat’s hands, there was another knock at the gate and another one of my students had ventured over with the intention of teaching me a card game. This student, orphaned at the age of eleven and currently living in a youth hostel, has visited several times over the past few months. He is incredibly kind, insanely polite and extremely gentle. (If I were to admit to having favorites, he would probably be on the short list). We played cards for a while, practiced a little English, joked about my knowledge of Kiswahili and made plans to hangout during the June break. (It looks like I am already busy for the break!)

After cleaning up the house a little and Cat saying goodbye to her student, it was all too fitting that there was another knock at the door with a student Gretchen (the third member of my community) at the door. Uno? No. Henna? No. Jenga? Yes. A rousing battle between teacher and student commenced. After the fourth round, the score was tied, two wins each. Finally, in a dramatic showdown, Teacher Gretchen rose to the top as the day’s winner as her student’s turn brought the Jenga pieces crashing down onto the coffee table.

A surprise invasion of students turned out to be a wonderful way to spend a Saturday. Amidst correcting exams, proctoring tests, and calming the stresses of students and teachers for over a week, I have felt overwhelmed and bogged down by work. This random Saturday full of visits reminded me to of the bigger picture. I am here to be a teacher but I am also here to love and learn from these incredible individuals. All children, and especially our students, have a wonderful way of reminding us to see and embrace the joy that fills this world.

Carry here, carry there

The things that we carry say a lot about ourselves. Sometimes it feels like what or where of how we carry defines us. That which we carry can help us fit in better. On the other hand, these things can make us stand out and not fit in.

During a recent spirituality night, a component of the program where my fellow volunteers and I reflect on our experiences, I thought about this question. The prompt was: choose two pictures and think about the dynamic between those images here and back in the United States. I chose one picture of an iPod and another of a Maasai warrior. The Maasai are a prominent tribe from Northern Tanzania who still wear traditional clothes and are known for their strength as warriors. (I have become fascinated and in awe of these people).

Anyways, looking at these two images, I got caught up in thinking about what we carry both physically and emotionally. The Maasai carry walking sticks, daggers and a forceful strength. In their plaid clothes called ‘shukas’, these men and women walk through city streets bridging a span of time and tradition. Then there is me, living my days teaching and growing with a small part of this huge city. Each time I see one of these elegant yet rugged warriors, I am shocked back into realizing the gift that is my life here.

Back to carrying and the reason for this post: where we go and how we go there can look or feel different depending on what we carry. While I like the image of one of these Maasai men with an iPod clipped to his delicately beaded belt, the two feel worlds apart. The unfamiliar and the familiar, however, are shifting as the hours, days, weeks and months define my perceptions, understandings and, simply put, me.

As I walk through the streets and walkways between houses of Mabibo, I do not carry the same things that I did in Seattle. Five months ago, walking to work with an iPod in one pocket and a wallet with an ID, atm card, credit card and so on, was somewhat of a security blanket. These items seemed essential and made me feel normal. There I was, securely stable and successfully striding toward my next destination with my things, my comforts.

Here, I rarely carry money, I haven’t an iPod and security is not the feeling that guides my path. What do I carry here? I currently carry thoughts of exams, exercise books and enthusiastic students; to-do lists, to-email lists and to-pray for lists. I carry friendships new and old. I carry uncertainty. Above all, however, I carry hope. Hope for my children. Hope for this new life. Hope for those I love back home.

I guess if I can conclude with my first statement that what we carry is that which defines us, I am defined by my thoughts, my to-do lists and my hope.

Lastly, to anyone who is reading this, I hope you are well. I miss home and I miss you. There is not a day that goes by that I am not overwhelmed with thanksgiving and gratitude for the people who have inspired and supported me. So, I thank you, I love you and I hope you feel a bit closer to me and my life here in Tanzania after reading this!

Coexistance

An ant crawls across the wall, interrupting my gaze as I attempt to focus of correcting tests. I have two options, squash or look away and continuing marking exams. To squash every bug that interrupts my life here in Tanzania would be exhausting to say the least. What do I do then? I co-exist. This idea of co-existing has infiltrated my thoughts over the last several days.

I currently co-exist with many things: people, insects, sounds, smells, sights, emotions, and so on. I have come to realize, however, that I co-exist in one of two ways. I live in an existence that is either ‘next to’ or ‘with’ these individuals, bugs, etc. What is the difference? Well, I am not quite sure but there is a feeling, an emotion and/or a connection that separates the two forms of existence.

For example, I live surrounded by ants, cockroaches, rats, mosquitoes, spiders, centipedes, millipedes, praying mantises, bees, flies, chickens, roosters, fire-flies, crows, stray cats and other living things that I do not even know the names for. I pick ants out of my coffee cup and fend off roosters on my walk to school but shy away from a real interaction with or appreciation of these ‘creatures’.

I then think about Dar es Salaam, this city that I now call home. This half-Christian and half-Muslim metropolis is a fine example of this first definition of co-existence. These two faiths live next to one another, in peace BUT just that, next to the other. Muslims sell rice and beans to Christians who feed their children who then play soccer next to a mosque that sounds the call to prayer. People just exist next to one another in most respects. The Catholic lives next to the Muslim. The Muslim student goes to Loyola High School (a Catholic, Jesuit institution). The follower of Jesus sells vegetables to a restaurant owned by a follower of Muhammad. Utilizing goods, appreciating the other’s presence and seeing the ‘other’ is a form of existence. A co-existence of sorts. Allah or God, they/we/humanity co-exists.

As these five months have slowly welcomed me into this new life in East Africa, my understanding of what, who, how and why I exist here has been shaped. I struggle defining what I live next to and what I live with in terms of existence. I can say definitely that I live next to insects or bugs and that I do not live in depth or intentionally or ‘with’ them. I live in a strong, powerful and meaningful co-existence with the natural surroundings; appreciating, respecting and loving the beauty of the natural world. People, however, are much more of a challenge to figure out. Community mates, co-workers, neighbors and strangers alike, challenge me to question this dichotomy and dynamic. Do I live next to you or with you? With whom do I affect, reach, connect, join, walk with, understand and/or exist WITH?

I am a very small part of this community while this community is a very large part of me.

In my heart, I exist in this place wholly but in terms of space, I occupy such a small fraction of this community. Everyday is a lesson and each lesson draws me one step closer to understanding this question of: With what, where, with whom and how do I exist in my new life here?

Look

Look left, look right.
I look upon, I am looked at.
Eyes wander, gaze, stare and glance.
Eyes look at me, my clothes, my skin, my everything.
My students see me, my community mates see into me but how do people shift to seeing me as me.
life in this new place is full. Full of sights to see, people to meet and experiences to live.
Life in this new place is different. Foods, clothes, smells, manners and mannerisms.
Life in this new place is a challenge. A challenge to experience poverty, a struggle to wittiness death, a pain to see hunger.
Life in this new place is beautiful. A simple hello, the honest wonder of a student, the small triumphs that inspire me, enliven me, strengthen me.
I look left and I look right.
I do not fit in but I still belong.

Can I fit in? Will I fit in? Should I fit it?

I look upon, I am looked at. As looking becomes seeing, I am becoming a new me, a new teacher, a new American, a new volunteer, a new person of this ever exciting, intensely fascinating world.

To what, to where do I look next?

Really Long March Blog Entry!

Part I ~ Busy, why so busy?

If you have been a follower of my thoughts and my blogs then you are aware of the fact that it has been over a month since my last blog update. For a while I thought that I just didn’t have much to say and that my life just consisted of teaching, grading, writing/creating lesson plans, cooking, reading, washing laundry, blah, blah blah and blah. In the past week, however, I have realized that maybe I do have something to write home about!

I have been busy, very busy. When I first learned about JVC as junior at Seattle University on my first trip to Belize City and even through the application process, I imagined my time as a JV to be relaxing and full of time to reflect and kick back and meet people and just live a calm life. BUT it turns out that teaching actually allows for little to no free time!

Then I got to thinking about what it means to be busy and what it means to be totally immersed in a new life. I realized that I really am living and working in Africa. Yes, it took me this long to actually feel like I was fully immersed into my placement. I guess it just did not feel real for a long time. I mean, I spent nine months applying, accepting and preparing to move to Africa only to get here and spend two months in shock over that same fact! I LIVE AND WORK IN AFRICA. Wait, what?! Um, yes. Yes, Shea Patrick Meehan, welcome to a new chapter in your life and welcome to Africa. Man oh man.

All of this really came to a head this last week. After months of slowly getting used to teaching, a new professional space, new coworkers, foods, a language, a community, washing clothes by hand, cooking from scratch, sweating in the sun (and shade and, well, sweating everywhere) and so on, I entered into the last week of Loyola High School’s first quarter of 2011. The end of the quarter was crazy!

Being the only JV at Loyola after a long succession of wonderful volunteers working in pairs (one first year volunteer and one second year volunteer) has had its struggles to say the least. Most years there has been one JV explaining and supporting the new JV through the intricacies or ins and outs of the site. This year, however, I have been alone which has presented problems for both coworkers and myself alike. My fellow teachers and staff members have been confused and caught off guard at my questions about where things are, why we do this, what that is like and so on. In the English Department where I work I have coined the term, “I am ALWAYS the last to know”. The staff thinks it is funny, I think it is frustrating. Whether it is having to work on a Saturday or turning in grades or how to manage a classroom, “I am always the last to know”. For example, I didn’t even know how to organize, mark and then turn in grades until the day before they were due.

Part II ~ Community in Unexpected Circumstances

When I got to work on Monday morning I went to a staff meeting about disciplining and running a class and went about my day. At break time (around 10am) I received the news that one of the students in my homeroom class mom’s died. That explained his absence from school that day but at the same time it brought attention to the fact that I was unaware of any rituals, traditions and thoughts on death in this new culture. So, I found myself with feelings of sadness and hopelessness as an outsider from another country and as a new teacher in this country.

Monday flew by and I finished up Oral English exams (I tested 120 students with a 30 question test). The next few days I finished marking exams and submitting grades and preparing for the parent-teacher conferences.

On Wednesday while trying to restore order in my homeroom class after a morning of rambunctious insanity, the Assistant Dean of Students came into my class room and asked to see one of my students. She took him outside the class and he immediately came back in to tell me that his guardian had come to pick him up and that he was leaving. As soon as he walked away the Assistant dean of Students closed my classroom door and announced that another student’s mother had died.

In shock and confusion, I discussed with my class what we should do and what was expected in the larger Tanzanian community. Here it is common to go directly to the house to sit with the family and it is expected to make monetary donations. Love through presence and support through solidarity is the most important thing it seems.

So, soon after school, I took four students (talkative, crazy boys) and we went together to our classmate’s home. There were about fifty people just sitting around showing strength and love through their simple presence. My student whose family had just experienced this sad, sudden death came to sit with us. My entourage, his classmates, started out very reverent and respectful and then soon there after, as expected, the boys began to cheer their mourning classmate up with jokes, banter and stories. (This being another example of how boys will be boys no matter where they are of what they are doing). After about an hour we said goodnight to our friend and classmate and headed home.

The next day as a class we made cards and took donations for our fellow Loyolaites (Loyola High Schoolers). This particular Thursday school ended about an hour early in preparation for ‘Mid-Term Break’ and several of my students asked to go visit their classmate again so I promised to take them. To my surprise almost half the class came with me to go visit the family.

There I was, walking through the streets of Dar es Salaam, boarding city busses and leading students to a part of town that was about forty minutes away. Seventeen students and myself made the journey. When we arrived at the house, I gave my students a quick lecture on being respectful and quiet and then we entered the house. The home was not as we left it the day before. There was a loud speaker system with a man speaking, a coffin decorated with purple bows and a mass of over a hundred people mourning the death of a loving mother and caring community member.

Standing there surrounded by my students and full of awe over the scene before me, I looked around and felt once again immersed into this place. It was a moment that surprised me in the sense that something so sad could make me feel so honored and connected. The ceremony went on with songs and speeches and tears with me standing toward the back with my class, my new community, my new strangely fascinating life here in Tanzania.

Hoping to remain an onlooker and respectful participant (as still very new to this place and this way of life), I had hoped to show my respects merely by observing. When it came time to viewing the body, I had hoped to bypass this uncomfortable (personally) part of the gathering. One of my students, however, asked me to walk with her up to see the body because she was too scared to go alone. “But I’m scared too!” I thought. Trying to be strong for her, my class and the student that we were all there for, I decided to go. After passing the body, I saw my student surrounded by loved ones and sitting in a haze of shock and passed on a hug. Walking away I was intercepted by another family member and asked to speak on behalf of Loyola High School. Speaking a few words in Kiswahili and then in English with a translator, I wished peace and offered my respects.

We left soon after and headed back to Loyola.

This was all on Thursday, March 17^th.  The whole day was a lesson on feeling completely close to the people and lives I have become a part of here and at the same time thinking of home. As you may or may not know, this day is St. Patrick’s Day, one of my favorite days of the year. I look forward to it, dress up on it and try my best to spread a little luck and love of the Irish. I had planned a meal of mashed potatoes and Guinness with my community but I instead found myself speaking at the funeral of one of my student’s mother. Surprisingly comfortable with and even comforted by my place, my purpose and my presence that day has made me realize that while life can change rapidly in a matter of months, I have learned a lesson in adapting to and embracing that which is in front of and important to me. At this time in my life I find myself thinking of and loving my students, my days here, my family and friends at home and the daily discoveries that make me more human, more connected and more me.

Part III ~ Meeting the Parents

Awkward, tiring and intense. I spent two days, ten hours each day, struggling through and barely managing to discuss my students with their parents. A list of essential words and phrases in Kiswahili got me through the longs days. Most meetings consisted of me attempting to speak with the parents as the students sat in the middle, heads down, scared of what I would say and hoping for a quick and painless scolding from their parent or parents. Some parents took the meeting times to thank me for my work while others used the time to show their authority and strength in their families by yelling at their student. Some call it ‘tough love’, I call it awkward (for me) and boarder line verbal abuse (for students). After hours and hours of talking at parents and parents talking at students, I tried to remain genuine and clear with parents as mush as I could. Unfortunately, instead of feeling productive or supportive at the end of each day, I felt helpless and empathetic for my students as my lack of Kiswahili and inexperience in the Tanzanian school system made it nearly impossible to foster fruitful conversations. I did realize, however, that I was able to show parents, though briefly, how much I love their students, enjoy their desires to learn and my own desire to support them in and out of the classroom.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel! Finishing parent-teacher conferences means a nine day break and some much needed time for rest and relaxation. Two days into my break, however, I am already planning a little adventure. Tomorrow, Wednesday the 24^th, I am boarding an eight hour long bus ride and heading north. North to Moshi, Tanzania I go! I look forward to a reunion with other Jesuit Volunteers working there, seeing Mt. Kilimanjaro, a new town and a colder climate. (By cold I mean about 70 degrees which is freezing to me and I plan on bringing sweats and a sweatshirt! So exciting!)

An outsider welcomed

Today, a longtime friend of JVs stopped by the house and invited us over to his house. His older sister was getting married and he and his family invited us for the celebration. Our friend is Catholic and comes from a very large Catholic family but his sister was marrying a Muslim man which makes for a controversial yet exciting time for both families. While the city is about half-Christian and half-Muslim, interfaith marriages are not common. Each respective tradition lives side by side one another but does not usually marry into another faith, so this experience was out of the ordinary and wonderful at the same time.

As we walked up to the house and into the celebration we were overwhelmed with love. in upwards of one hundred people were crammed into a small space outside of the bride's parent's home. We were immediately the center of attention as three white people, wearing African-made clothes entered the scene and were funneled into a line for food. as we waited in line, I looked around only to make eye contact with every guest (as they were staring at me). An outsider.

I got my huge place of rice, meat, banana and vegetables and was escorted away from my community mates and over the the 'men's section' of the party. Men and women eat and celebrate in different locations. So, I sat down on a mat under the warm sun and began to eat as a men from both sides of the wedding party looked at me with excitement and confusion. As I looked in the direction of the 'woman's section;, I saw my community mates sandwiched between mothers and babies and grandmas and sisters dancing, eating and chanting in a fit of pride!

As I sat there, eating, I realized how unique this experience was. At that time, the bride's father asked the groom's father to share in a dance, a custom that was both shocking and beautiful at the same time. this wedding had not father daughter dance, no cake or champagne, no classic oldies songs with children and elders sharing in a dance, no white dresses or black tuxes.

Instead, I looked onto a crowd of smiling faces wearing brightly colored clothes, sharing in dances, feeding one another and celebrating the joining of two young people. There was no specific 'faith or religion' present but rather just a party. A party with friends and family. A party to show love, join in love and continue in love. I then realized that no one was staring at me anymore. The scene was not about me. it was about love and in some strange way, some foreign way, some unexpected way, I was welcomed into that love.

The gathering escalated as the bride exited her parent's home wearing a beautiful golden gown, veiled and glowing under the warm sun. She was surrounded by her family, her parent's family. They were crying with her, pulling her and begging her to stay. To stay with them. On the other end of the yard, the new family, her husband's family was chanting, smiling and inviting her to join them. This tug-of-bride when on for about a half hour. Music blaring, tears flowing, smiles flashing. It was emotional, even as an 'outsider'.

The bride finally said goodbye to her family and started on a slow procession to a car that would take the bride and her groom away.

The music was so loud. The colors were so intense. The tears were real. The laughs were genuine. The people were present. The love was apparent. The wedding was there, real, honest and pure.

As the car drove away, the husband's family disbursed and the bride's family remained. As we got ready to leave, the bride's father pointed at me and encouraged me to dance with him. Of course I started dancing. I danced and my community joined. Then the whole family join. The dancing was incredible. The music was catchy and we, the Dares Salaam Community, looked GOOD. Really good.

We stayed for a while, mingled with the extended family, played with kids, shared in a few drinks and shared in the after-party. I felt truly welcomed. We were appreciated. We were a part of the whole celebration. We were no longer 'stared at' but instead 'looked on upon' with acceptance, pride and friendship.

Today was a day of love. It was about sharing in the love between two young people, between two traditions and between many friends.

We, the outsiders, were welcomed in. Welcome, Karibu. Karibu Tanzania. Karibu, upendo. Welcome, love.

Time for love or love IS time?

In reflecting on how I spend time, embrace time and live into the moments of my day, I am realized that my perception of time is changing here in Tanzania.

I have been in Tanzania for two and a half months, the longest I have ever been away form home. Time. 

In thinking about the ways in which I spend my days, it sounds simple. I wake up at 6:30am. I got to school. I teach 4-6 lessons a day. I go home and maybe cook a meal from scratch, do my laundry by hand or go for a jog. I work on a lesson plan or two. Then I go to bed and do the same the next day. Time.

Weekends may include a trip into town, a meal with a neighbor or planning out lessons for school. Then on Sundays, we go to a two hour mass in Kiswahili and the hot African heat. Time.

It sounds simple and it is. It is also draining, overwhelming and daunting at times.

Days, weeks and now months have gone by and I already find myself relying less on schedules, goal oriented tasks and checklists. This is not to say that I do not still have goals or dreams for myself and this experience. In fact, my dreams grow and challenge me in good ways everyday. I dream about knowing Kiswahili, about my student’s success, about life at home, about life changing me here, about seeing God in new places, about establishing a new network of friends, Tanzanian and volunteer alike, about seeing love in a new way, about everything and nothing. I dream about time changing me and encouraging me to grow.

I have also found myself thinking about time and my use of it in relation to others. Time, and thinking of it as ‘mine’ has been a topic of internal discussion over the past week. Saying things like: “a waste of time”, “your use of my class time”, “time is of the essence”, “it is time to focus”, “how long will it take”, has made me realize that I do not respect of give enough credit to time and presence and the experience in front of me.

Time is so much more than a schedule, checklist or string of events that fulfill goals.

Right now, time is all about the process. The time it takes to make tortillas from scratch. The time it takes to listen to a student complaining about another student stealing his or her pen. The time it takes to plan a lesson on how to explain values such as: respect, diligence, relationship and charity to students who know very little English. The time it takes to learn simple Kiswahili sayings. The time it is taking to write this reflection ON time. The times I have wanted to write but have been unable to because of blackouts. The time, the time, the time. Time is such a mysterious construct and part of life!

Can I control any of this time business? Can time be tamed? Is my time being spent worthwhile? What would my life look like if I took an inventory of the time I used or spent doing something new, unexpected or out of my control?

Today I taught a class called Current News. It is one period a week for each of the sections of pre-form one (HDP) that I teach. We basically do mock news broadcasts with stories that change each week. This week’s topics were Sports and Entertainment. The students loved it. I heard stories ranging from Manchester United football (soccer) to the musical genius that is Celine Deon. (Also, several students prepared songs that they sang to the class. They honored the music of boybands, High School Musical, early 90’s hip/hop and other classics). So many students wanted to share that there was a long waiting list of students sitting (impatiently) for the chance to present. With about eight students still to go, the bell rang and class was over. I asked the class if they enjoyed the lesson and with an overwhelming response they yelled: Yeeessss Mr Paaaatttrrriiiiccckkkk. And then a student from the back of class asked if we could stay and do more! It was time for Tea Break (my favorite time of day consisting of tea, coffee and a snack at 10am). Stay during ‘my time’? Miss tea break? Despite the intense internal struggle and love for tea break, I decided to stay and we finished the rest of the presentations. Their smiles and cheers instantly validated my decision. Time well spent. Time that made a difference. Time that meant a lot to me and those students of HDP C.

Later that day, this reflection on time was continued. I received a slip from one of the Jesuits instructing me to go to the post office because a package had arrived. When you receive a package of a certain size or weight (four or more pounds), you must go to customs and collect the package. Now, the office is only open during weekdays until five and it is in the heart of the city center. So, on Friday, I left school early, grabbed my passport, my wallet and a water bottle and then headed into the city. We live in Mabibo, a neighborhood about ten kilometers outside of the downtown area. I hopped on a dalla dalla (city bus) and headed into town. I waited in a few lines, paid the customs fees, claimed my package and then hoped on another bus headed home. All in all, two busses, two long walks and three and a half hours later, I walked into our house and opened a package from my family full of candy, peanut butter, macaroni and cheese and some other treats. My exhausted, excited smiles was that of accomplishment for having made it to and from town and that of receiving a package of love from home. But the time. Thinking about time it took to prepare the package, the month that it took to travel here and the three and a half hours it took me to retrieve it.

Time is about the process as much as it is about the result. 

I am learning this more and more each day. I am learning to be more patient with myself, my students and my new life here. I am learning to appreciate how long that which seems simple really takes to effect or affect us. I am learning to look at time more carefully, to think about time more respectfully and to appreciate time more genuinely.

How are YOU spending or using your time today?

More insight into life here!

Visit my community mate Cat's blog: http://www.catkeating.blogspot.com/

She has pictures and many wonderful things to say!

Learing from a Sister

The other day I saw teaching my students the difference between singular and plural. How can you make this interesting? Answer: a song. What song: “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes”. If you point to one shoulder, singular, two, plural. One knee, two knees. Okay, you get it. To make sure that my students understood the parts of the body, I also gave them the homework assignments of drawing the body and then labeling the different parts. This all sounds pretty easy, interactive and simple yes? Well, things got a little interesting. You see, in my classes there are a few nuns. Yes, sisters. Women of God. Nuns. They are between the ages on 20 and thirty five and act very different from the rest of the students who are as young at twelve.

So we sing. We label. We learn. The I ask if any students have any questions. One sister raises her hand, stands up and asks her question. Standings about eight inches taller, thirty pounds heavier and fifteen years older than the others sitting around her, she has a presence to say the least.

“yes, sister” I ask.

Eyes locked with mine and in all seriousness, she grabs her breasts and says “what is this?”

I freeze. She was right, this was not covered in the song or my lesson.

“Um… your shirt” is all I could manage.

“no” she responds quickly.

I begin to sweat. Fear and awkwardness take over. The rest of the class is laughing.

Silence… silence… sweaty silence…

“your chest, your chest. This is your chest” I say this and immediately turn around and begin to write the word on the board and to compose myself. At this time, she finally removes her hands from the front of her blouse and sits back down.

Saved. Survived. So awkward.

Flash forward a few days:

It is Sunday. Kiswahili mass. I am sitting in between Cat and Gretchen at St. John the Baptist struggling to follow along. By the time the Liturgy of the Eucharist comes around I am exhausted and wishing that the norm was a one hour mass and not a two hour  mass. BUT, I look up at the alter only to see that same sister from my class helping the priest prepare communion. At least I think it is her? Of course she is now in full habit and nun-wear! Yes that is her. Wow. As I walk up to take communion all I can think is: two days prior she was standing in the middle of the classroom touching herself! Sorry, God, I know that I should see the Divine in all things but this is weird. So weird. I take communion from her, shocked, and a little uncomfortable.

Yes. That really happened. From a lesson on the human body to a whole new meaning of taking communion!

Classes: Creatively Controlling Chaos

Main points of this blog update:

• I survived my first week of teaching at Loyola High School
• My first English lesson:

Hello, my name is Mr. Patrick. I am from America. I am 23 years old. I stay in Mabibo, Dar es Salaam. I go to Loyola High School and I am in HDP.

• I am teaching 25ish lessons a week with about 40 students in each.
• Student profile
• 12-15 years old (except for 4 nuns in their mid-twenties)
• Three sections or classes of Pre-Form One (middle school age) and one section of Form One (like freshman year of HS).
• Pre-Form One is called “The Human Development Program” (HDP). This is a year to prepare students for High School. Mainly to learning English because government run primary schools are taught in Kiswahili and all Secondary/High Schools are English speaking.
• Differences between Loyola HS and my HS experience:
• Good differences: mandatory tea and snack break at 10am, AWESOME outdoor assemblies twice a week, free lunch and much more.
• Challenging differences: corporal punishment, learning/teaching students in their second or third language, exam based evaluation over performance/competence, knowing no one, being an OBVIOUS minority and SO much more.

Rather than boring both you and me with a class by class, day by day reflection, here are a few insights into this week that will hopefully paint a picture of what I saw, heard, felt and attempted to teach:

1. Babysitting or Classroom Support? I am a class teacher for HDP “C” which is the equivalent to being a homeroom teacher where I take attendance, check uniforms, answer questions and support the class in whatever they need. On Tuesday I was teaching English to HDP “A” when two girls from my HDP “C’ walked right in and stated explaining how someone had stolen money out of one girl’s back pack totally interrupting my class and fully expecting me to drop everything and conduct a thorough investigation to find the thief. Barely able to hide my laughter at the ‘seriousness’ that was in front of me, I asked them to come to my office at break time to figure it out. When they came to speak to me later that day, we were unable to find the culprit and unfortunately he or she is still at large.
2. Game Face. Wednesdays the students have two periods where they split up into Catholics, Muslims or Protestants and go to Religion Classes. I was told to teach Form One Catholic Religion. On Wednesday at 9am I was given a syllabus with five bullet points and then at 10am I went to teach the first lesson. I walked into the classroom (which seats 45 students) as it began to fill up. About fifteen minutes later, there were almost 90 students in this classroom. At this time the head of the department walked in and said, “you may need a bigger classroom… or another teacher to help you…” I thought: REALLY!?! Someone is playing a trick on me. This is my first week. I have no idea what I am doing AND there are 90 students staring at me. Thanks.
3. Let’s Make a Deal. On Thursday a student walked up to me and said:

“I heard a rumor that people from your country only stay for two years”

“Well, the people that come with my program stay for two years, that is true”

“This is not fair” She responded, looking angry and very offended.

“Why not?” I said.

“Because, I will be at Loyola High School for the next 6 years and you have to stay” She was getting rather heated at this point.

I then tried to explain that I would want to see my family and friends after two years and she gave me a very frustrated look then said:

“Let’s make a deal, you can go see your family in two years BUT then you have to come right back and stay until I graduate!”

Feeling trapped, I told her: “I will think about it”.

Of course I could continue on with stories from the week about mispronouncing names, students staring blankly at me, my inability to understand the student’s accents and their inability to understand mine, administrators/fellow teachers informing me or introducing me to ANY Caucasian visitor to Loyola (and referring to or asking if we are related, colleagues or from the same place), sexism in the work place, homophobia in the classroom, an amazing sense of school pride, an inspiring tradition of work by Jesuits and Jesuit Volunteers, the start of new friendship with staff and students alike and on and on and on…

In the classes, amongst the chaos and with a little bit of creativity on my end, Loyola High School has welcomed, shocked, challenged, shaken and inspired, yours truly, Mr. Patrick.