Being Badoed

There's a word here, bado, it means not yet, or wait a bit. I'm being badoed, which is grammatically poor but does succinctly describe what Immigration has been doing to me since my first trip to Africa. I have always tried to do what they asked, when they asked, but only once have I gotten what I needed. Why do they do this? Same reason dogs pee on trees. Because they can. There's some territorial issues as well. These guys have way more power than they need, certainly more than they can handle without acting like  a pack of imbeciles.

When I got here in January of 2011, we applied for my work permit through our lawyers, to whom Brad pays a hefty retainer for just this type of thing. In his first trip innocence he assured me we would have it in no time because "we have lawyers". I said fine, ok, you bet, and three months later in April I made my first trip to Malawi to renew my visa. I made yet another border run in July, because there were some issues, but bado, it will come. Just about the time I was ready to make my third run, it arrived. O Happy Day. I was legal in Tanzania, which I hadn't been in Ghana and twice in Tanzania, despite my efforts. 

Earlier this year I mentioned to Brad that although it was about six months until my permit expired, we should probably get on it. Having lost his virginity on my first permit, he readily agreed. Well, my permit expired in August, and as of this day, October 13, I am without a permit. We almost had it but bado, there was no paper at Immigration. Only in Africa would this be offered as a legitimate excuse, and only here would it be accepted as one. I fell for it. I was laughing, but since nothing here can be headed off at the pass, we just wait till something happens then run around trying to fix it.

Apparently the paper shortage was severe, because two weeks after they ran out of paper, I still had no permit. I did have, however, a letter from the lawyer stating that I had paid my fee and turned in my paperwork. This was signed, and did have a stamp, just not they stamp I needed. I was planning a trip to Nairobi, so I called the lawyer, now and forever to be referred to as Otilia, that moron, and asked if I could take my valid passport along with this note, and cross into Kenya. She said of course, hamna shida (that should have been my first clue). Before I made my bus reservations, and before the Somalis attacked the mall near the place I was going, I called the other lawyer to double check. He laughed and advised me not to try it. He would call around and get to the bottom of the issue, so bado, he would call me the next day. That never happened, so we called the head guy of the firm and he said hamna shida, he would talk to the others and have an answer for me in a day or two. That was the last we heard from him.

I go on vacation in six weeks, so I'm a little nervous. What if they don't let me out of the country, and if I do get out, what if I can't get back in? We called Otilia, that moron, again, and got the number of someone actually at Immigration. Ruth called and hamna shida, I can use the note to get my permit endorsed. Apparently my permit is AT Immigration, but now I need to bring the note to them. Also I need to bring another letter asking if I can use the note to ask for my permit. Please, if any of this makes sense to any of you, let me know.

I have another mgeni (guest) arriving on Thursday, so will go in early in the am to Dar and sit at Immigration, with my valid passport, my letter, and my letter asking to use my letter, and await my fate. I try to be optimistic, and if I succeed you will hear the ASIFIWE BWANA JESU all the way to the US, but in my heart I know will leave Dar  dejected, shoulders slumped, letters in my backpack, with the promise that hamna shida, come back tomorrow or the next day. Bado kidogo, you will get your permit, Mungu akipenda na Inshallah (if God wishes and if Allah sees fit...I try to cover all the bases).

Just in case you were wondering, Curly, Larry and Moe are not dead, far from it. They are here in Tanzania, running the Department of Immigration. 

Update: well, it's Thursday night, I'm home and wonder of wonders, with a valid visa. Waited at Immigration for about an hour, and they gave it to me. Up until the last minute, I was sure they would refuse for some reason, no pens, no ink for the stamp… O me of little faith.

Just Trying to Get Home

     I've been feeling a little beat up by the village lately, it's not always easy living here. The food is monotonous and sometimes hard to get, there's no place to ride a bike, and just really nothing to do. Our two restaurants, The New Florida, and the Jesus Is Lord New Restaurant, are less than appealing and would be more aptly named Ptomaine Ptowers and The Dysentery Diner. There is no rain. The riverbed is sand. Kids die.

     My students are great, but the parents can make me want to poke my eyes out. It seems word has gotten around that if a parent doesn't feel like paying school fees, in spite of being offered work at the farm, that dumb mzungu will pay, that dumb mzungu being me. So I decided to get away from the village for the weekend and go to Dar for a little time to myself when nobody, and I mean nobody, would need a thing from me. This is not what happened. This is a sad story.

     I boarded the bus in Morogoro, wanting a seat on the shady side. There were none, but I noticed the last row had a window seat. The back row is the last picked, as the suspension on these buses lack any actual suspending properties and you can arrive quite bent and sore. I walked toward the rear seats and noticed what looked like a scarf or scrap of fabric on the seat, so I figured a woman had left her kanga. As I got closer, it looked as though something was under that bit of fabric. I got to the end of the bus and there was a man lying under the wrap, a young Massai man. At first glance I thought he was dead, but there was life in his skeletal face. Not much life, but life nonetheless. He looked straight at me with his sunken eyes and I was just stunned that someone should leave a man in such distress alone on the bus.

     Very soon a tall young man walked up behind me and said this was his cousin, who was very sick and wanting to go home to his parents. He had become sick a while back and had recently begun refusing treatment. It wasn't helping anyway. His cousin had no English, and my Kiswahili is poor, but there was a nice Rastaman sitting nearby to translate and we all began talking.

     Isaya, the dying man, was only 19 years old, from a village many hours from Dar es Salaam. He had left his village to see some of the country, as young men will do. This is not acceptable behavior among some Massai, and a family can disown a man for abandoning his family, his tribe, and not helping with the cows. He was, at this point, suffering from TB and typhoid. TB is very common in the end stages of AIDS, and many people here who die of TB are HIV positive. 

     His cousin said that in fact, his parents would welcome him home, they knew how sick he was.The brother, however, had been left with the care of the cows, and wanted nothing to do with him. So the young man, I think his name was Joshua, was charged with bringing him home. He thought he would be able to get Isaya home by nightfall, when in reality they would not reach his village until the next night. 

     Isaya was unable to sit or stand, so he was stretched out along the five back seats. Joshua had paid for three seats, one for himself and two for Isaya. But Isaya, being Masaai, was well over six feet tall, and using the entire last row by himself. 

     This left two unpurchased seats, and I will tell you that they would be filled before the bus departed. So I bought the two seats so Isaya could stretch out for the six hour trip to Dar. Massai are beautiful people, especially the men, tall and elegant, with stunning bone structure and a regal, dignified bearing. You cannot help but notice them. 

     This poor kid was a skeleton, weighing no more than his bones. There was nothing else to him. He had been having diarrhea and vomiting, and there was a blue bucket near his head should he need it. He was dehydrated. His lips were chapped and parched, he hadn't taken anything by mouth in quite some time. I bought some water, and helped lift him so his friend could slip in behind him for support. He drank the water, then started vomiting. I bought him some lollipops to take the taste away, and for a bit of sugar. 

     We got underway, and Isaya lay there sucking on his lollipop, and dozing. I asked Joshua where he planned to stay the night since there would be no bus until the next morning. He just looked at me, and it was obvious he hadn't even thought of this, and had no idea what to do. He wasn't much older than Isaya, and not city bred. So he said they would probably spend the night at the bus station. About this time I looked out the window and started to cry. I have three sons, and this was too much to bear. Mothers internalize, it's what we do.

     He had not planned for this, and was totally unprepared a trip of this kind.  He had no idea what it would take to get Isaya home. I told him I would set them up in a "guestie", a small inn with cheap rooms. They could sleep there and get the bus the next day.

     We got to Dar, but there was no guest house in the bus station, so we found a cab, and planned to find a room somewhere. His friend had a hard time picking him up, he was light, but very tall and it was awkward in the very narrow bus aisle. As he picked him up it was obvious Isaya was naked under the wrap. I pulled out my brilliant pink kanga, and we covered him. 

     We got him into the cab and the usual african discussion ensued. There were four of us actually involved, but somehow about ten people gathered to weigh in regarding where to go, how much to pay for the cab, and whether or not to buy tomorrow's tickets tonight. At one point I looked at one man and asked what the hell he had to do with this, how he was even involved, and why didn't he just go away. Then I pointed to a hotel across the street and told the cabbie to take us there. Enough already. 

     So we took a two minute taxi ride to Mic Hotel, and I booked a room. It's a very modern hotel, the room was beautiful, the bed soft and clean, and we got him comfortable. He gestured me closer to say asante and then asked for a pair of captula,(shorts). Poor kid, bad enough he's dying on a bus, but he's naked but for his Massai wrap and my fluorescent flowered kanga. 

     I asked  Joshua to show me his money, and there was not enough for Isaya to have the last row on the bus. So we got that squared away, I gave him some travel money and some extra for his shorts. In the old days, a Massai would wear nothing under his robes, but nowadays they wear shorts. I showed Joshua how to use the key card, and the toilet. It was very plush and I admit I spent a few minutes myself figuring out the shower. 

     So I left, and hopefully they had a comfortable night, got clean, and made it home so he could die with his family nearby. I told you this was a sad story. He may still be living, though I doubt it. Looked to me he was just holding on till he could see his Mom and Dad. 

     The rest of the weekend was fine. Had a few good meals, found a coffee bar with iced mochas and brownies to die for. Got some books for myself.

     I'm back in Berega, getting beat up by the village again. There's just no escape, other than escape out of here, which I'm not ready to do.  Still have not heard about Isaya. I hope he made it home. Hope his brother came around and was happy to see him. Hope he died comfortably, not laid out on the back of a bus in the hot african sun.

L

You Can't See Kansas from Here, Toto

I'm here to teach, not to tell folks how to live, so if the kids are well educated, it follows they will figure out the rest by themselves. As Maya Angelou says, folks who know better, do better. I am mindful of this as I go about my day, correcting pronunciation, introducing grammar concepts and generally failing to adequately explain our bizarre English spelling. I have yet to approach the six ways to pronounce ough, I just don't see it ending well.

Evening classes continue, folks coming and going as work and family life permit. Amon is one of my adult students, a sweet, gentle, hardworking guy who can't remember a pronoun to save his life. Our routine is to talk about our day, our families, just generally converse together, and here's what happened a few days ago.

Me: Hello Amon, how are you?
Amon: I'm fine teacher, and you?
Me: I'm fine. So, how was your day?
Amon: Ah, Teacher, today was bad.
Me: Why, what happened?
Amon: Today I beat my wife.
Me: Really? And why did you do that?
Amon: I came home and there was no food, so I beat she.
Me: You beat her. Was she sick?
Amon: No, she was not sick, so I must beat she.
Me: You must beat her. Did you beat her badly?
Amon: Teacher, I am making a story. I did not beat she.
Me: You did not beat her. So how was work?

Like I said, I'm just here to teach English. Other than the above, adult education moves along at a steady pace. The kids are a lot more exciting, and know their pronouns. 

What happened to the poor chicken who didn’t lay fast enough.

All of the kids are reading so well, easily above their grade levels, and they love picture books. The ones we get here are mainly of the Aesop's Fables genre, a story with a moral, and bright, pretty illustrations. We were reading about the chicken who laid golden eggs, geese not being common here. As the story unfolded, the farmer became greedy and decided that instead of waiting for the hen to lay, he would just cut the gold out of it's stomach. There followed a full page picture of the farmer and his wife, a boning knife dripping blood onto the floor, and one mortally wounded chicken on the kitchen table. I was taken aback, and even the kids went a little wide eyed.

Even more egregious than the pictures are the spelling and grammar errors. These books are published by Vika, a company out of India, and as I read to the kids I correct the spelling and grammar with my black pen. Every time. Without fail. 

And out comes my red pen, as well as my blue magic marker. Does anyone edit these things?

American books present their own problems, although not with grammar and spelling. They like the Sesame Street books, but Oscar lives in a garbage can and we are fresh out of them here. We actually never did have them, which accounts for the garbage strewn all over hell and half of Berega.

So nothing is perfect here, but we love our books, especially the ones about Africa. I found a bookshop in Dar specializing in English and Kiswahili versions of african themed stories, and I buy them up as fast as I can. They're all about village life, animals, and the kids' favorite, Kaka Sungura, which is Kiswahili  for Brother Rabbit. Kaka Sungura is a very bad rabbit, stealing maize and other crops from the hardworking zebras, monkeys, and lions. He gets into all kinds of trouble and is in constant conflict with the other wanyama. The kids read both the English and Kiswahili versions. I read only the Kiswahili, and I'm about at level 5 now. These are much loved books, and already re-stapled and now duct taped.

What can I say?

When a person grows up speaking a language it's easy not to see the gray areas. We know what to say, we know the right answers, we just don't think about it. The kids have made me aware of the many shades of gray in my mother tongue. We've been discussing opposites and I asked them the opposite of full. Dani said hungry. I was actually looking for empty, but here hungry works just as well. Dani is a very bright kid, but the opposite of buy is not don't buy, although it was a good try.

We were discussing rhyming words, and the word to rhyme was cat. Samweli said bat, Mbuli said fat, but Jenny was stumped. I tried to help her out so I said, "You put it on your head'" to which she said "a bucket". True, but not quite what I was looking for.

Two plus two is four, now and forever, the answer is the answer. Not so in cross cultural English. We were doing some fill in the blanks the other day and the sentence was "Amina has long black_____. " The correct answer, according to the book, is hair. Well here, nobody has hair and everyone is dark skinned except me so Susy got points for fingers. And she does have long black fingers. Long black legs and arms as well. She's a very tall girl. The answer to "We eat with____, " here in the village, is hands, or even fingers. Not one kid wrote fork or spoon. 

V is for Vika Publishing that can’t think of another word to use for V.

There has been good progress with r and l, although nobody except Std 2 can say ruler. Sometimes I ask Std 1 to say it, just for kicks. They think it's hilarious, and it's good to be able to laugh at ourselves. "Long Live Rock and Roll" is going to take some time, and if they concentrate, they can say sixty. I kind of miss the old sikisty though, but preschool is still mangling it pretty well for me. 

In the govt schools, kids who make a mistake can be beaten or humiliated by the teacher. We just laugh and correct. Nobody is safe, even the teachers. So the kids laugh at themselves and each other and the teachers (who can't say ruler either). I hope and pray that none of these kids ever transfers to a govt school, because we've ruined them for anything else.

What is strange about this picture is that most of our kids have never used a toilet with a seat.

There are still some uniform issues, mostly involving buttons and panties, or the lack thereof. Folks who wouldn't think of leaving their house without decent clothes will send their kid to school with a shirt that has one, and only one, button. Some of the girls come without underpants, which is a real problem in a country where girls wear dresses. We've collected a large bag full of chupi, (thanks Janet and Sarah), and have sold some, and will give away others. One of the teachers suggested we do like they did when she was in school, which is to line the girls up once a week and have them lift their skirts. I'm not easily shocked, and at first I thought it was a joke, but nope. All the teachers said this is just normal, and we need to check the boys as well. I had to laugh, just thinking about how fast an American teacher would be fired, or even jailed, for pulling a stunt like this. But then, here it's common for the headmaster of the upper grades to send the girls for pregnancy tests. This is done without consent from either the students or the parents.

This is where I live, where I chose to live. As I was correcting Amon's grammar it occurred to me that I was less concerned about him beating his wife than his total inability to to use the proper pronoun. Have I crossed over to some other universe? Probably not, but I guess it's like that AA prayer. Grant me the strength to change what I can…….And the brains to know the difference. Something like that. 

L