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.

Unexpected Challenge

The other weekend while celebrating the coming of a New Year with fellow volunteers I danced, laughed and enjoyed the company of wonderful people. The next morning I woke up with twenty-six bug bites on my right hand! World record? Probably not, but still quite the feet! My hand a was an itchy, swollen mess of raised, round, red bumps. I found humor in it, however... I mean, leave it to me to get that many bites in one night.

After saying goodbye to the other volunteers and as we set out on long, long bus rides home, something in me changed. There was something new. A new year's change, you might say....

Malaria.

After a day of feeling off and then a sleepless night with a fever and cuddle-party with the toilet, my community mate, Gretchen, took me to the hospital. It was am experience in health care that I had not expected and was not ready for in my sick/delirious state.

The crowded lobby had dozens of people scattered about with symptoms and issues ranging from missing limbs to screaming children. After trying to give my information, the man at the front desk handed my my file (a piece of cardboard with the name Patrik M. Shey) and ushered me to a seat. Looking around there was a pharmacy, a labratory, an empty swimming pool blocked off, two bathrooms and about six doors with a row of chairs outside each of them (I came to realize that each door was an office of a doctor and the chairs outside were the 'waiting rooms'). After about 10 minutes of nurses and patients coming in and out with no system or order or succession of patient, Gretchen thrusted me into the room just as an old man was rushing out encouraging me to ask for both a malaria and typhoid test! My relief and excitement to finally see a doctor was short lived. He was about 25 and knew very little english (strange because english is the langueage used in education from high school and on). After listening to his desire to move to America and an awkward conversation about 'why would you live in Dar es Salaam and teach in Mabibo' I finally said: "MALARIA and TYPHOID TEST"

He laughed at me and then we started playing a game of charades to try and describe my symptoms. It also became a Kiswahili lesson as he figured out what I was saying and then taugh me (in a call and response form on teaching-game) the words in Kiswahili. One word that he did not translate (and I appologize and slightly regret writing this already) was diarhea which he began to chant loudly, I would even venture to say that he was yelling it at me with a large smile on his face. Maybe he found it ammusing? I do not know. I was exhausted and annoyed at this point. He then scribbled down a few words and said: "you. go to pharmacy. go to lab. go to here."

So, I took the scribbled on piece of paper, faught my way to the pharmacy, elbowed my way into the pharmacy, bought the items needed to preform the tests, traveled to the labratory, gave blood, was sent to the bathroom for a urine sample, back to the lab, waited for my results and then went back to the row of chairs to wait in line to go over my tests. (I sat next to a beutiful Massi woman in her 70s or 80s and her husband.) People kept cutting the line and we just kept waiting. Finally the man at the front desk came, spoke a lot of Kiswahili and got me into the doctor who said.. "two parasites. Malaria. Take this to the phramacy, take pills and drink water, bye".

About $15 and a few busses later, I was home, in bed and being taken care of by my two wonderful community mates.

The days that followed were boring. Me on the couch, drinking water and trying to read a book. We had no electricity and it was hot, per usual BUT I made it through.

Days later I am feeling as good as new! My tolerance to malaria is stronger and while I do not feel ready to start teaching in two days, I am happy to say that my spirits are high and I am excited to truely begin both living AND working as a JV!

Overwhelmed by Karibu Culture

Welcome. Welcome to Tanzania. Come in. Come into my home. Feel at home. Find comfort here. Sit. Enjoy. What I have is yours. Share this with me. Eat. Eat more. Here is a Coke for you. A beer for you. A cake for you. A mango for you. A gift for you. Welcome. Karibu Tanzania.

This is what I am feeling one month in. Tanzanian “Karibu Culture” has provided an overwhelming sense of welcome over the past few weeks. That welcome has come in the form of home stays, meals sharing, greetings on the street and even the purchase, slaughter and cooking of a celebratory goat! Longstanding friendships with Jesuit Volunteers have established a name for the program and those who have served making this transition a bit easier and significantly smoother.

My days in Tanzania are not void of challenge, frustration, fear or discomfort, however. I have officially been immersed in a place that does not look or feel or smell or sound anything like the first twenty three years of my life has been overwhelming to say the least. That sense of immersion is kind of like the feeling of cannon-balling into an ice cold pool on the hottest day of summer… in that you feel everything, your body is in shock, your senses are confused and all you want to do is adjust, adjust, adjust so that you can enjoy the swim, have fun and move on with your day basking in the sun and sharing laughs. Immersion in this Tanzanian pool party of sorts has been interesting.

I feel as though I have jumped into this pool, I am still waiting to find my place in the pool party, the sting of the water is cold enough that I want out but at the same time refreshing enough to keep me in. This the party may feel awkward for a while but as I adjust to the language, the gender roles, the foods, the goat eating, the cockroaches and buffalo spiders, the drop toilets and bucket showers, the instant coffee and all that is new, I will slowly shift from being overwhelmed to being overly-enthused, overly-embraced and overly-excited!

Since jumping into the pool party that is my life here, I have seen a lot and felt a lot. Many of the emotions were expected (I miss check-ins with family and friends… and Panda Express orange chicken) while other experiences have shed light onto new realizations, new understandings and new definitions of life, love and literally everything. For example, I have realized that children are the same where ever you go in the sense that they are goofy, loving, excited, interested and ADORABLE. The children here, however, have one other quality: adaptable. These kids make soccer balls out of used socks and race cars out of cookie boxes and bottle caps. They spend hours playing and fighting, talking and running with seemingly few cares about their conditions in the heat, the dirt and the poverty BUT then there is a total switch and all of the sudden they are running fruit stands, carrying jugs of water twice their size and all of this with a greater understanding of community and what it takes to be a child, be a member of a family and be a part of the Tanzanian people. Children are just one example of this redefinition and re-appreciation.

Throughout the past four weeks I have been very fortunate seeing and experiencing new people, foods, places and aspects of Tanzanian life. As the second year volunteers prepared to head home to the states, I was able to experience goodbyes that outlined just how impactful and meaningful their roles in this community are. Relationships with students, coworkers, families throughout our neighborhood, Jesuits, parishioners and even random strangers on the street displayed how integral and meaningful those two have become. I then went on a home stay, met an amazing family, cooked some Tanzanian dishes, attended a surprise birthday party and started to see how those JVs were invited to and were able to form such genuine and beautiful relationships with those around them.

Two weeks in, we said goodbye to Dar es Salaam and the neighborhood that we live in, Mabibo, and traveled to Tanga for a retreat with the greater JVC-TZA community. There volunteers from Dodoma, Moshi and my community shared in stories, meals and reflections that outlined ways to support and grow together as one larger community spread out all over Tanzania. As a large group we also spent Christmas in Mabibo and New Years in Dodoma with adventures in between including movie watching, beach chilling, botanical garden picnicking, cultural museum visiting, ice cream eating and so much more. It was also with this group that I partook in eating a goat that was given to us in thanks for our work and commitment of two years. While overwhelming at times to be surrounded by, reflecting with and discovering our places within Tanzania, we grew a lot as a large group and even more in the one-on-one friendships. I love these volunteers.

Returning home to Mabibo, charged with a new energy, excited to start a life here and feeling held by my community and the network of JVs that I just left, Cat and I embarked on our first real adventure using Kiswahili to purchase food and materials to then make a whole dinner from scratch. It was the first time that I truly felt like a Jesuit Volunteer in a different country. Amidst handfuls of people simultaneously laughing at my Kiswahili and helping me along, I felt like I was a part of something greater, something growing, something that is both mine and theirs, something that is what it is and will become something that I will love simply because it is. This is it, a communion, a process and the start of Tanzania and me growing one step closer.

Looking forward:

Possibly my greatest challenge and ultimately greatest purpose here begins in one week. I start work. My first time to be up  in front of students, to be in charge of students, to discipline, to lead, to be inspire learning. Next week I will begin working at Loyola High School teaching in pre-form one Oral English, pre-form one Values and form one Religion. What does that mean? I am not sure. I have several outlines of past JV curriculums, a very helpful network of teachers and administrators and A LOT of excitement. All in all, I am sure it will be great but the task of teaching English to children who only know Kiswahili is daunting. Schooling in this country mandates that high school and beyond be taught in English while primary secular schools teach in Kiswahili. These children are being pushed into a new school, a new degree of schooling and a new language. As one who has experienced the reverse (Kiswahili immersion as an English speaker) I feel for these students. It is scary. While I am working to achieve a level of competency that will allow me to communicate my basic needs, they are working to further their education, their possibilities and their potentials in an academic arena. Both of these are daunting, both will require a lot of patience!