Omnipresent. Ubiquitous. Always arrives; always on time. It gets under your skin; believe me it gets under your skin. Under you nails, in your hair, embedded in your clothes. It gets in and under everything. UPS should be so lucky to get this sort of blanket coverage. Brown enjoys complete and total domination. It has the monopoly over, well, everything. You don't appreciate the full capability of its power until you have stayed here for a while. The reddish-brown dirt that you initially see on the roads, in people's yards, as a part of the bricks that constitute the walls of homes becomes an anavoidable plague from which you cannot hide nor escape. You may attempt to eliminate it or even eradicate it from your system, but you simply can't. It's incurable once you have acquired it. Once you accept this reality, the more pleasant your experience is going to be. Some people don't accept it as well as others. That is natural. Some don't accept it at all. It is what is is, and that's all.
It's like meeting a long lost acquaintance. You share some pleasantries, then you just can't seem to get away from that person or intimate politely that his/her time has expired. You resign yourself to the fact that the person may never, or at least for a longer while than you would like, leave. In this scenario; however, eventually you will end your visit regardless of how inconvenient the length may end up being. Not with brown. The plain reality is that brown is never going to leave.
What makes brown so mysterious and humourous all at once it that it possesses the power of the element of surprise. Just when you think that you couldn't possibly find it somewhere; surprise, it's there. You'd expect to find it on shoes, sandals, and on your feet, in between your toes, and under your nails. What you don't expect, after a morning of placement or a brief walk, say back to homebase from the tarmac when you get into the shower, is to find brown mixed with rinse water flowing from your face, neck, ears, arms, and just about every other body part. Brown is like a special agent who infiltrates anywhere without being detected. As if that wasn't enough, just when you've scrubbed every conceivable part of your anatomy thoroughly, and you've been refreshed with a cool shower, you step out into the cool air of your room to towel off. What you don't realize is that you are actually a human version of those instant scratch and win lottery tickets, except in this case by the time you're done wiping down all of your surfaces your towel looks as if it belongs to a nine year old boy who's spent a little to much time running and playing in a dusty open field all day. You're beautiful white initially clean towel looks as if it's been splattered with a brown paint. It astonishes me that I could still achieve this level of dirtiness. You don't even particularly feel it except on our feet because you're usually too grimy from the heat of the day, so when you see it flowing into the shower drain you're still surprised. When you see it on your towel, you just have to laugh and smile it off. Brown.
There are also the cherished moments of doing your laundry by hand; either in a large plastic basin or the ceramic tiled wash tub. You soak your clothes in soap and water. The duration of the soaking does not matter. The number of rinses matters not to Brown. Much to your horror the water is a deep rich brownish-grey tone which you didn't think was possible to achieve as an adult. Brown is quite literally woven not only into the very fabric of your clothes, but into your being as well. Brown is here to stay. Enjoy his company because as soon as you put on your fresh clean clothes, brown...
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
mercury rising in zanzibar
We sat in the cramped cabin of the twin turbo prop airplane prior to our delayed departure with subdued enthusiasm. Everyone was eager for a weekend of relaxation in a tropical paradise. Our collective mood was disrupted as we seemed to sit for an inordinate period of time at the terminal. As we sat captive, the cabin withheld its desperately needed supply of refreshing ventilation. The captain was unwittingly playing with our emotions. Not even a view of the majestic Mount Kilimanjaro hidden behind the late afternoon cloud cover could alleviate our rising level of discomfort. Though it was just a few minutes, the warm air coursing through the cabin was quickly becoming unbearable. Just as quickly we were taxiing down the runway bound for our weekend getaway. Lift off. We rose steadily, if not comfortably, as cool air slowly blanketed us. Gentle tufts of pulled cotton floated aimlessly along beneath us. They contrasted vividly with parched earth tones and vegetation yearning for hydration farther below. Their relief was not forthcoming; however, ours was rapidly approaching.
Monday, October 1, 2007
dalla dalla
We'd seen them everywhere. Crammed commuter caravans filled beyond capacity carrying their cargoes back and forth via the tarmac leading to and from Moshi. They are almost comical to look upon as fifteen or more passengers occupy a space designed for ten at the most. Not a single fillable space of air is left unoccupied. Include on this city bus additional riders hanging out of the open door side. This scene repeats itself endlessly. Each dalla dalla has its own title not like the ones we see at home which name the route, but a title such as Jesus Saves, Jesus Hates Corruption, or Mafia Tours. To top it all off you can ride in this sarcophagus of suffocation and sweat for 300Tsh (Tanzanian Shillings) or approximately a quarter in Canadian funds.
You can go almost anywhere for almost nothing; however, be careful. The dalla dalla or bus system here, for all intents and purposes, is a random collection of these over-stuffed mini-vans which do not have any sort of identification such as numbers, colours, or route labels. You can be assured of getting to Moshi, but if you're not paying attention you may be transported beyond your intended destination. Exacerbating this chaotic picture is the fact that there are few distinguishing landmarks and even fewer street signs which indicate your exact location. You must keep vigilant to make sure you don't end up lost and quickly. You do become accustomed to local features, so there is some measure of comfort that you are either short or well beyond where you wanted to go. Apparently, there is a colour code to them too, but this has yet to be proven concretely.
My friend had been anxious to ride the dalla dalla into town. Her husband was not as eager to share this particular experience with her, and he did not want her to attempt this feat solely by herself. He insisted that I accompany her on this excursion. I have planned to be here longer anyway, so I will need to acclimate myself to this routine Tanzanian endeavour.
The pleasure of engaging in organized chaos. It's simple enough really as you walk out to the main road where there is a turn out. People wait, and the dalla dalla arrives. I don't believe there is even a schedule to co-ordinate the system. One just shows up and the dalla dalla will arrive in a short space of time. Presumably.
We had waited for just a few minutes. The humidity and heat had already made their impact. Perspiration dripped down my neck and sideburns. My hair moistened. The moment had arrived. Our ride was already filled to capacity. The passengers hanging out of the door stepped off, and two got out. We were exhorted to jump in, but where? My friend entered first and shimmied herself into a seated position on top of one woman. I can-openered myself in front of her in perpendicular fashion; my back parallel with the roof. I had a spectacular view of the floor. My legs were twisted like pretzels, while my right arm was extended behind me at a 180 degree angle so I could hold on to the handle bar above the window. This meant that my already awkward position endangered those in my immediate vicinity should we stop suddenly or come upon the ubiquitous speed bumps.
I began to cramp almost immediately. It was only a matter of time before I unintentionally assaulted one of my fellow passengers. I laughed to myself at how comical it must have appeared to somebody looking in on it. I had no way to ascertain our location as I only had a view of my feet. I adjusted my left hand to the headrest of the drivers' seat in front of me. The steering wheel is on the right side of the carriage in Tanzanian vehicles. My discomfort level rose. My only real concern was the security of my wallet. With my friend literally watching my back my concerns were allayed. At that moment we must have reached the first roundabout. Almost immediately my friend spoke. We hopped out awkwardly. I'm not even sure how we caught the driver's attention to stop. The passengers and doormen smiled while some laughed mildly at the mizungus who were now leaving their group. Relief.
We found our 300Tsh, paid one of the doormen, shook out our legs, and began our walk to meet the others for breakfast at the Coffee Lounge. It had been a brief encounter, but we had conquered the dalla dalla. I had suddenly developed a new appreciation for the organization and true sense of order which comes with public transportation in North America. It would have been difficult to envision anything quite like it at home.
You can go almost anywhere for almost nothing; however, be careful. The dalla dalla or bus system here, for all intents and purposes, is a random collection of these over-stuffed mini-vans which do not have any sort of identification such as numbers, colours, or route labels. You can be assured of getting to Moshi, but if you're not paying attention you may be transported beyond your intended destination. Exacerbating this chaotic picture is the fact that there are few distinguishing landmarks and even fewer street signs which indicate your exact location. You must keep vigilant to make sure you don't end up lost and quickly. You do become accustomed to local features, so there is some measure of comfort that you are either short or well beyond where you wanted to go. Apparently, there is a colour code to them too, but this has yet to be proven concretely.
My friend had been anxious to ride the dalla dalla into town. Her husband was not as eager to share this particular experience with her, and he did not want her to attempt this feat solely by herself. He insisted that I accompany her on this excursion. I have planned to be here longer anyway, so I will need to acclimate myself to this routine Tanzanian endeavour.
The pleasure of engaging in organized chaos. It's simple enough really as you walk out to the main road where there is a turn out. People wait, and the dalla dalla arrives. I don't believe there is even a schedule to co-ordinate the system. One just shows up and the dalla dalla will arrive in a short space of time. Presumably.
We had waited for just a few minutes. The humidity and heat had already made their impact. Perspiration dripped down my neck and sideburns. My hair moistened. The moment had arrived. Our ride was already filled to capacity. The passengers hanging out of the door stepped off, and two got out. We were exhorted to jump in, but where? My friend entered first and shimmied herself into a seated position on top of one woman. I can-openered myself in front of her in perpendicular fashion; my back parallel with the roof. I had a spectacular view of the floor. My legs were twisted like pretzels, while my right arm was extended behind me at a 180 degree angle so I could hold on to the handle bar above the window. This meant that my already awkward position endangered those in my immediate vicinity should we stop suddenly or come upon the ubiquitous speed bumps.
I began to cramp almost immediately. It was only a matter of time before I unintentionally assaulted one of my fellow passengers. I laughed to myself at how comical it must have appeared to somebody looking in on it. I had no way to ascertain our location as I only had a view of my feet. I adjusted my left hand to the headrest of the drivers' seat in front of me. The steering wheel is on the right side of the carriage in Tanzanian vehicles. My discomfort level rose. My only real concern was the security of my wallet. With my friend literally watching my back my concerns were allayed. At that moment we must have reached the first roundabout. Almost immediately my friend spoke. We hopped out awkwardly. I'm not even sure how we caught the driver's attention to stop. The passengers and doormen smiled while some laughed mildly at the mizungus who were now leaving their group. Relief.
We found our 300Tsh, paid one of the doormen, shook out our legs, and began our walk to meet the others for breakfast at the Coffee Lounge. It had been a brief encounter, but we had conquered the dalla dalla. I had suddenly developed a new appreciation for the organization and true sense of order which comes with public transportation in North America. It would have been difficult to envision anything quite like it at home.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
graduation
Habari za leo? Tunapenda kutua salamu zetu za thati kwa mkurugenzi bwana Silaa, mkuu wa shule bwana Mbwambo, matron dada Cicilia waalimu, wafanyakazi, wegine, wazazi, wanafunzi, marafiki, na wahitimu. Tunawashukuru san kwa kutukaribisha kuwa miongini mwa waalikwa kwenye siku hii muhimu.
Jina langu ni Nick Kudreiko. Ninatoka Canada na mimi ni mwalimu wa Kingereza. Nitakuwa hapa mpaka mwisho wa mwezi wa kumi na moja.
Sisi ni walimu wa kujitolea kutoka. Shirika la (CCS) Cross-Cultural Solutions Karango. Tunawashukuru kwa kutufanya kujisikie kuwa tuko nyumbani. Ni heshima sana kwetu kushiriki nany kwenye sherehe hii.
Hongezi na kila laheri kwa wahitimu wote. Asenteni sana.
Address to the guests and graduating class at the first graduation ceremony in the history of St. Theresia Secondary School made by the author.
Jina langu ni Nick Kudreiko. Ninatoka Canada na mimi ni mwalimu wa Kingereza. Nitakuwa hapa mpaka mwisho wa mwezi wa kumi na moja.
Sisi ni walimu wa kujitolea kutoka. Shirika la (CCS) Cross-Cultural Solutions Karango. Tunawashukuru kwa kutufanya kujisikie kuwa tuko nyumbani. Ni heshima sana kwetu kushiriki nany kwenye sherehe hii.
Hongezi na kila laheri kwa wahitimu wote. Asenteni sana.
Address to the guests and graduating class at the first graduation ceremony in the history of St. Theresia Secondary School made by the author.
Friday, September 21, 2007
the tarmac
Picture if you will a narrow two-laned road called the tarmac. It has no shoulders to speak of. The pavement is barely wide enough for the vessels it was intended to carry from one place to another. Now, visualize this throughway as the primary vital artery connecting village to town, town to city, and city to country from end to end. What are adjoined to this thin strip of blacktop carpeting are a jumble of country roads, much like the old dirt mining roads in a place I used to know, which are meant to bind the poeple to the market and each other.
This menagerie of barely more than single lane passages is littered with rocks and ruts, fissures, washed out grooves, and sudden dips and drops which would test the measure of any seasoned motorist. Residents routinely navigate through these mazes with aplomb and dexterity. Furthermore, they are courteous and accomodating to pedestrians and other motorists. The motorists may be more polite out of necessity rather than anything else; however, it seems quite genuine. Nobody getting too overwrought with road rage here. Friends and colleagues travelling by foot are routinely gathered up and taken happily towards their destination sharing greetings and information about family and such along the way.
Now, add to this scene on the tarmac, motorists in heavy trucks, motorcycles, scooters, cars, and other vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Woven through the diesel exhaust are bicyclists often carrying a passenger awkwardly on the support or handlebars. Add in endless pockets, pairs, and groups of pedestrians walking not more than a few centimetres from traffic whizzing by. Many people here walk between their destinations including the majority of school children. One school bus in one month has been spotted. If you'd like to eliminate childhood obesity and a myriad of other diseases plaguing North American youth just put an abrupt end to school buses. Lengthen lunch periods and school days to accomodate walking and one would I dare say drastically reduce these ever increasing concerns. The domino effect of such a radical shift would be far reaching.
Back to the open road. Now add to the image, individuals walking or running comfortably behind a cart pulled by a cow hauling a load of bricks or perhaps the runner is pulling the cart himself with the help of two wodden handles.
Ahh yes, the road; narrow, crowded, conjested, yet leading to anywhere. It certainly awakens one's senses as I try to impose its rhythms here in Tanzania to my Canadian home whether its Timmins or somewhere else. The diversity on the highways would be unimaginable to somebody accustomed to the consistency of vehicles participating in motorized travel in Ontario. Commuters would be struck with acute fear and panic at having to navigate through and pass pedestrians while travelling even at modest speeds let along ninety kilometres per hour. Slowing for the never ending chain of speed bumps would be totally beyond the realm of belief. Imagine a set of speed bumps appearing out of nowhere at regular intervals on the 401 or the TransCanada Highway. It's all part of the routine here. It's refreshing in its chaos.
Now, try walking on the shoulder with the rest of the residents amidst this chaos.
Now, picture three vehicles side by side two of which are attempting to pass the first slower vehicle as they ascend a hill with oncoming traffic approaching...ahh, the open road.
This menagerie of barely more than single lane passages is littered with rocks and ruts, fissures, washed out grooves, and sudden dips and drops which would test the measure of any seasoned motorist. Residents routinely navigate through these mazes with aplomb and dexterity. Furthermore, they are courteous and accomodating to pedestrians and other motorists. The motorists may be more polite out of necessity rather than anything else; however, it seems quite genuine. Nobody getting too overwrought with road rage here. Friends and colleagues travelling by foot are routinely gathered up and taken happily towards their destination sharing greetings and information about family and such along the way.
Now, add to this scene on the tarmac, motorists in heavy trucks, motorcycles, scooters, cars, and other vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Woven through the diesel exhaust are bicyclists often carrying a passenger awkwardly on the support or handlebars. Add in endless pockets, pairs, and groups of pedestrians walking not more than a few centimetres from traffic whizzing by. Many people here walk between their destinations including the majority of school children. One school bus in one month has been spotted. If you'd like to eliminate childhood obesity and a myriad of other diseases plaguing North American youth just put an abrupt end to school buses. Lengthen lunch periods and school days to accomodate walking and one would I dare say drastically reduce these ever increasing concerns. The domino effect of such a radical shift would be far reaching.
Back to the open road. Now add to the image, individuals walking or running comfortably behind a cart pulled by a cow hauling a load of bricks or perhaps the runner is pulling the cart himself with the help of two wodden handles.
Ahh yes, the road; narrow, crowded, conjested, yet leading to anywhere. It certainly awakens one's senses as I try to impose its rhythms here in Tanzania to my Canadian home whether its Timmins or somewhere else. The diversity on the highways would be unimaginable to somebody accustomed to the consistency of vehicles participating in motorized travel in Ontario. Commuters would be struck with acute fear and panic at having to navigate through and pass pedestrians while travelling even at modest speeds let along ninety kilometres per hour. Slowing for the never ending chain of speed bumps would be totally beyond the realm of belief. Imagine a set of speed bumps appearing out of nowhere at regular intervals on the 401 or the TransCanada Highway. It's all part of the routine here. It's refreshing in its chaos.
Now, try walking on the shoulder with the rest of the residents amidst this chaos.
Now, picture three vehicles side by side two of which are attempting to pass the first slower vehicle as they ascend a hill with oncoming traffic approaching...ahh, the open road.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
PIC LOGISTICS
I am still working out all of the logistics between putting up a blog and putting pics on the web. Yes, I am moving into the new century, just seven years after it started. I've got the link now, so all of you should be able to view the photos without any more delay. I hope you enjoy them, and I welcome your comments.
Here it is: http://www.flickr.com/photos/theroadnottaken2007/
Here it is: http://www.flickr.com/photos/theroadnottaken2007/
Cultivating Confidence
I have shared these few tidbits with a couple of people already, but I'd like to share them with you now. This journey is evolving for me on a daily basis. Every adult at some point develops a sense of self-awareness and confidence. Growing up will do that to everyone. Everything about the process of this safari has been about growth and education beginning late last December. I have realized in the few short weeks some elements of self-awareness which I really hadn't contemplated in the past or thought could be a part of my personality. Firstly, every time you step into a cab in Moshi you must first negotiate the price of the fare or risk most assuredly of the cabbie taking advantage of you. Secondly, there are street vendors, shop owners, and expedition/tourist operators who are constantly seeking you out to convince you to go to his shop or office. Consider this scenario the literally IN YOUR FACE telemarketer. They are persistent if not annoying in their supplications. You must be firm with them or you will find yourself buying everything. You quickly become adept with some local terms in order to keep them out of your face. Thirdly, in learning the language, no matter how many mistakes I've made, I have found that people will almost immediately without fail become much more welcoming and brighter. Barriers come down, and common ground is reached. It's sounds simple; however, not everybody is as confident trying the language. I found that it literally has made a world of difference.
Monday, September 17, 2007
The First Staff Meeting
There are certainly many peculiarities which catch me off guard as I continue my placement at St. Theresia Secondary. Typically, Mondays mornings are reserved for Subject Testing Days. Test subjects rotate week to week and cover all the material from a particular class regardless of when it was done in class. Students are expected to be preparing independently for each of these examinations, so they are ready for any concept or topic.
I discovered Sunday evening that there would be no testing Monday, so there could be regular classes held. I further discovered Monday morning without warning that I could go to my Form I class and have the first period which occurs from 8:00 a.m. to 9:20 a.m.. I didn't even know I would have a class. You might imagine that I was quite worried; however, we teachers must think on our feet, so disaster was averted. As 9:20 rolled by I noticed that another teacher had not arrived to take over the class. I briefly checked the staffroom where the only other teacher was my associate Denise. Apparently, the other staff members were in a meeting with the headmaster, and they were preparing for this Saturday's Form 4 (Grade 12) graduation. We only saw one staff member briefly for the rest of the morning. We were not even informed of the meeting let alone invited. Odd. The students were on their own to study, finish homework, and behave themselves without any supervision whatsoever. How about that?
In the end it turned into a very pleasant morning as I taught my Form I class, then I got invited by the Form 4 students to their class where we shared cultural learnings for an hour. The highlight occurred when the class sang, en masse, boys and girls, their graduation song saying goodbye to the staff and school which they would be presenting on Saturday. It was composed and arranged by the students. It was a beautiful song which really moved me. Thankfully, one of the students will be able to record it, so that I may have a momento of my time with the graduates. Lessons in education.
I discovered Sunday evening that there would be no testing Monday, so there could be regular classes held. I further discovered Monday morning without warning that I could go to my Form I class and have the first period which occurs from 8:00 a.m. to 9:20 a.m.. I didn't even know I would have a class. You might imagine that I was quite worried; however, we teachers must think on our feet, so disaster was averted. As 9:20 rolled by I noticed that another teacher had not arrived to take over the class. I briefly checked the staffroom where the only other teacher was my associate Denise. Apparently, the other staff members were in a meeting with the headmaster, and they were preparing for this Saturday's Form 4 (Grade 12) graduation. We only saw one staff member briefly for the rest of the morning. We were not even informed of the meeting let alone invited. Odd. The students were on their own to study, finish homework, and behave themselves without any supervision whatsoever. How about that?
In the end it turned into a very pleasant morning as I taught my Form I class, then I got invited by the Form 4 students to their class where we shared cultural learnings for an hour. The highlight occurred when the class sang, en masse, boys and girls, their graduation song saying goodbye to the staff and school which they would be presenting on Saturday. It was composed and arranged by the students. It was a beautiful song which really moved me. Thankfully, one of the students will be able to record it, so that I may have a momento of my time with the graduates. Lessons in education.
Successful Launch
Good evening everyone. I've finally gotten this BLOG set up with the help of my fellow volunteer Rick. I just want to let everyone know that I'll be using this spot for updating everyone about my travels and experiences. You'll be able to ask questions, and I'll get the pictures up and running soon too. I'll still be using my email account, but this will make it much simpler for those of you who wish to know where I'm at and what I'm up to. Lastly, thanks again to all of you for your support and affection, so good night, and I'll be in touch shortly.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Lessons in Education
My first three weeks are complete, and I've settled into my teaching assignment. I now have a regular schedule. I have gotten to know my students much better. I am accustomed to the teaching conditions and resources, so I am ready to proceed more confidently. This being said, I was not prepared for what took place on Tuesday this week past. My teaching partner, Denise, and I arrived to an unexpected turn of events at the school. Upon our arrival at the main gate we immediately recognized that there was something different occurring at our placement. The students were not attired in their regular school uniforms. The were wearing more casual clothing and standing in rows according to their class outside of their classroom. We both wondered what was happening. We filed over to the staffroom to find out what was happening without interrupting the proceedings.
In the staffroom we enquired about what was taking place after we shared morning greetings with the other staff members. We were informed that the day's classes were cancelled and that the students would be travelling to the school shamba or farm in order to harvest the crop of maize. We proceeded to follow the students for a short walk down the dirt road to the fields where students had been organized to begin the process of harvesting the crop by hand. Students were aligned in rows which followed the pattern of the planting, so each one could collect one row of maize at a time. As each stalk is pulled from the ground, and it is piled standing up in the shape of a tee pee. The more stalks which are pulled the greater the size of this tee pee. The students move on to a new section once a set of rows has been completely stacked.
The students spent the entire morning moving down row upon row, section through section, until the entire shamba had been harvested and prepared for the next stage.
They began at 8:15 a.m. and finished at approximately 5:00 p.m.. Denise and I participated in this process until shortly after 11:00 p.m. when we returned to the school for tea. The students had a tea break which is like recess, and a period for lunch. Actually, the teachers take tea, and the students can take a rest or get a drink. We hadn't been prepared for a morning of harvesting, but the students appreciated our participation in the process. I must admit it is tiring work.
The students and I talked throughout the entire time. They wanted to know if students did this at home. I informed them that farmers used combine harvesters to do this work. I explained that high school students complete a period of hours dedicated to community type service projects in order to graduate from high school, but that they didn't work on their own farms.
The students enjoyed the work. Some more than others. They enjoyed being away from their classrooms. They are very co-operative and helpful towards each other. I appreciated my time with them in this setting. What an experience. Tiring work, but filled with valuable lessons about life.
We returned the next two mornings in order to pick the maize off of the stalks, and then to peel the husks off each cob. The cobs were then placed in piles in order to be placed in bags ready for storage. Stalks and husks were discarded in piles some of which was to be used for feed for other livestock. The maize would then be treated and stored, so it would be ready at a later time to be used to make chipati which is a form of tortilla. The students would eat the chipati and other recipes as part of their diet.
We learned that students are responsible for preparing the field, planting the seeds, and cultivating the crop to ensure its readiness for harvest. The process starts in March or April and is completed during this time of year. What a lesson in education!
In the staffroom we enquired about what was taking place after we shared morning greetings with the other staff members. We were informed that the day's classes were cancelled and that the students would be travelling to the school shamba or farm in order to harvest the crop of maize. We proceeded to follow the students for a short walk down the dirt road to the fields where students had been organized to begin the process of harvesting the crop by hand. Students were aligned in rows which followed the pattern of the planting, so each one could collect one row of maize at a time. As each stalk is pulled from the ground, and it is piled standing up in the shape of a tee pee. The more stalks which are pulled the greater the size of this tee pee. The students move on to a new section once a set of rows has been completely stacked.
The students spent the entire morning moving down row upon row, section through section, until the entire shamba had been harvested and prepared for the next stage.
They began at 8:15 a.m. and finished at approximately 5:00 p.m.. Denise and I participated in this process until shortly after 11:00 p.m. when we returned to the school for tea. The students had a tea break which is like recess, and a period for lunch. Actually, the teachers take tea, and the students can take a rest or get a drink. We hadn't been prepared for a morning of harvesting, but the students appreciated our participation in the process. I must admit it is tiring work.
The students and I talked throughout the entire time. They wanted to know if students did this at home. I informed them that farmers used combine harvesters to do this work. I explained that high school students complete a period of hours dedicated to community type service projects in order to graduate from high school, but that they didn't work on their own farms.
The students enjoyed the work. Some more than others. They enjoyed being away from their classrooms. They are very co-operative and helpful towards each other. I appreciated my time with them in this setting. What an experience. Tiring work, but filled with valuable lessons about life.
We returned the next two mornings in order to pick the maize off of the stalks, and then to peel the husks off each cob. The cobs were then placed in piles in order to be placed in bags ready for storage. Stalks and husks were discarded in piles some of which was to be used for feed for other livestock. The maize would then be treated and stored, so it would be ready at a later time to be used to make chipati which is a form of tortilla. The students would eat the chipati and other recipes as part of their diet.
We learned that students are responsible for preparing the field, planting the seeds, and cultivating the crop to ensure its readiness for harvest. The process starts in March or April and is completed during this time of year. What a lesson in education!
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