Forward Progess. . .and Loss of Yardage

The volunteering experience continued to be a bit of a roller coaster until the final day. There were days that we would walk home elated because the kids seemed to be making progress—recognizing letters and numbers in a context other than sequential order, identifying colors, singing the English songs we taught them and generally falling into a routine that had some resemblance to a proper preschool . I was also pleased that we managed to learn almost all the names (from the oddly normal—“George”, to the truly bizarre “Godbless”), and, from time to time, the kids would even call me “Melissa” or Mwalimu (“teacher”) instead of “mzungu” (which I actually found quite charming). And, I was proud and slightly bemused that I managed to learn most of the Lord’s Prayer in Kiswahili, a somewhat useless skill in the context of the rest of my life. Other days, it seemed like we were back to square one, with even the seemingly brightest kids struggling with the most basis application skills, and us struggling with keeping the kids from just running wild. Also, as the days went on, random new kids, some with severe disabilities, started showing up—perhaps because word got out that there was a mzungu teacher around—even though I was even less equipped to handle that. There were days that my mind was numb from the repetition and monotony of our routine (the same thing 4 times with different groups) that I would look at my watch expecting that an hour had passed when it had only been four minutes. One day, it was pouring rain so hard that we could barely hear each other speak and, since the school is essentially a roof, a few walls and dirt floor, it was all we could do to keep the kids from just rolling in the red clay mud all day. I suspect that all teachers have similar experiences of sensing accomplishment one day and defeat others (one reason I could never actually be a teacher), but in this context it is hard not to feel as though you blew one of the few chances that these kids will ever have.

On our last day, I left with very mixed emotions. I became so attached to these kids and I was genuinely thrilled each morning when the kids heard us coming up the path and ran out to grab us with so much enthusiasm, we had to brace ourselves to avoid falling over. I also felt some sense of accomplishment that we were able to inject some sense of order into an otherwise completely chaotic and ineffectual learning environment, and even observed the kids making some progress. On the other hand, I was shamefully grateful to be relieved of the responsibility for this challenging task of teaching, and engaging these kids without the language, the teaching skills or the resources to do so in any legitimate way. I was pleased that new volunteers showed up before we left so we could orient them to the job and they could continue where we left off instead of starting at square one as we did. Stephen and Farihani, our 17 year old local volunteers actually volunteered to continue until their school starts in a few weeks—so that also gave me some measure of comfort.

Overall, I am grateful for the experience of operating so far out of my comfort zone for a month and living to tell the tale. I also continue to believe I learned more from the experience than the kids did—but I am hopeful that I added some value to their lives and educations. At one point, I was so troubled over feeling useless that I spent a Saturday in the CCS office with Sarah, another volunteer, creating blogs and for all the placements to allow the volunteers to enter information about their experiences and help future volunteers prepare before they come. It was one of the rare days in Tanzania where I was feeling incredibly efficient and almost back to my old Melissa self (Emma was a bit scared). I hope it will be helpful, but perhaps I was just feeding my own selfish need to feel productive.

One aspect of this communal volunteering is hearing heart wrenching stories from other volunteers on an almost daily basis. One was a story about a women—a widow-- who is dying of AIDS. She is so convinced (probably rightfully so) that when she dies there will be no one to care for her kid, that she has started poisoning and burning her son so he will not be left alone. It’s hard to imagine anything more horrifying, particularly when it is likely not a unique story.