Wash Out

I told Zenan that I wanted to visit a secondary school, one comparable to our high school level. I wanted to observe the classrooms, the students that were being sponsored by FOTO and the type of styles employed by teachers in the classrooms of Tanzania. Zenan heartily agreed and asked if I wanted to spend the entire day with the students, starting early in the morning and accompany them to the school.

“That would be great,” I replied.

A satisfied smiled spread on Zenan’s face as he nodded, “Wednesday?”

“Perfect.”

Tuesday, 10:30pm…Rain Storm

Wednesday, 18 Nov 09
6 am…Cool, refreshing breeze from my window. Yard looks refreshed and clean from the rain.
6:30.…Took a lovely warm wash/shower
7 am… Rain returns…heavy
7:15... No Zenan…would he cancel due to rain? No, he would probably be happy it is raining so that I get an uncompressed experience.
7:20... Zenan arrives…. “Do you have a rain coat?”
I showed him what I had. “A longer one?” I shook my head in the negative. “Rain pants?” I held up my umbrella in triumph.
7:30... Chai in thermal travel mug and umbrella open, we begin down the mud and water swelled road.
Road: Large bugs fill the road, air, and my umbrella. Termites. Edible when roasted, or raw-just twist the head off as demonstrated by a plucky five year old later in the afternoon.
Chapatis: We stop at a roadside café and I watch the woman pound out the dough (looks and tastes like a flour tortilla, bit more greasy) and cook over her indoor woodfire.
Vegetables: Woman with basket on head ½ her size takes it off -it is filled with an entire farmer’s market stand. Zenan chooses bananas, avocado, and carrots to go with our chapattis.

7:45...on side of street in pouring rain with about five students, waiting for bus- although Zenan keeps saying truck. I think he is confusing the words, until a large semi construction truck drives by and he point to it, and says, “One like that. The drivers are heading out to collect rocks and dirt for construction and return empty, so the kids can get in. Only their large tires and engines will be able to handle the road.” My first thought, why is a school built where only large trucks can go? My second, TRUCK.

8:??… I am not clear how long we have been waiting, yet I decide to attempt to keep track. Joints ache, and I am determined not to utter compliant or show weakness. Rain has soaked through my pants, shoulders, and the camera case it squishy. I have on a rain coat and hood, I’ve passed off my umbrella to some students. Zenan is completely dressed in rain gear, and is explaining to me that some students might wait up to 2 hours for a ride to school. He then mentions that perhaps we should take a Dala Dala (minivan shuttle) to a spot where trucks pass by more frequently.

8:??+20 minutes…I inquire about whether we are taking a Dala Dala to the more frequented place. Zenan shakes his head and quietly responds that he does not want students to rely on him when things get difficult.
8:??+30 minutes…Large construction truck approaches on road, female students are strategically placed in front of male students to flag down truck. I let out a little sigh at the prospect of getting a ride, and then an even larger one as it continues down the road. Zenan explains that sometimes the police ticket the drivers of the trucks for picking up students and passengers. I am annoyed that the police are interfering with students getting to school. Is it for safety? Or for monetary gain? Zenan concedes both, yet more for the money. I curse the police.
8:??+40...Rain god realizes the cars can produces larger splashes to roadside standers if clouds release greater amounts of water with greater force.
8:??+45...Zenan leads us lambs down the road a bit to a glorious tin roof covered area. I soon find a mug of hot chai in my hand.
8:??+60...Zenan hails a Dala Dala, we are packed in with Zenan standing on the outside rail, reaching a hand thru an open window to hold on.
8:??+70...we arrive at ‘transit’ area, and within 5 minutes students have secured transport on the other side of a newly formed creek. I successfully leaped across, yet land in mud passed my ankles. I look for the truck, and take my first belly laugh as I see the students climbing into the bed of a trailer containing three sheep pulled by a red tracker.

8:??++…The side of the trailer reaches my knee, so I must bend over sideways to grasp the rail. I am not the tallest present, yet after a bit my side and shoulder ache. I try sitting on the gate, and soon learn why it was empty of passengers as we go over a bump. I fly up and land back on the gate, stamping my behind with a multi-colored tennis ball size bruise. Students are joking around with each other, all somehow intertwined by hands, arms, and feet to lend security. I wonder if the tractor is really moving faster than we could have walked it. My mind wanders to the steady ground as I try to keep my knees bent, and relax my grip on the rail as we continue to lurch and bounce down the mud road. About ten minutes later, a Dala Dala passes with students in headed in the opposite direction. They shout, “Flood” and Zenan explains that they have turned back because the road has flooded and they cannot pass. I wonder why we are not turning around ourselves, yet somehow lose the thought before it can be uttered.
After about forty minutes, one boy jumps out and starts to jog along the tractor. He walks, he stops, then bursts into a fast run to catch up again. He is acting the clown and the students are loving it. Laughing, pointing, and teasing him along. Soon, another boy joins, and still another. I am hoping we are closer to the school. That the willingness to jog alongside, means we can’t be too far off.
We pass over an area where the rain has caused part of the road to collapse into the river. I close my eyes as we pass over the bridge, hoping that nothing will go wrong. We pass a large semi that seems stranded on the side of the road. The load was too heavy and the wheels got stuck in the mud. Then the students are all a flutter and I see them become more animated with there hands, with some intensity that raises a red flag in my mind. Zenan relates a story of a truck that turned over this past year trying to make it up the hill we are going down; its ‘passengers’ were killed- including 12 students. Right now, the students are telling the same story and explaining how to jump out to safety to avoid being crushed to death. Not five minutes later a one of the construction trucks whizzes past full of students. The tractor kids shout to the others to take them. I think back to the cursed police, and silently thank them.

10:ish…We arrive about an hour later. I see about 30 students standing alongside a muddy stream, some chatting, others washing the shoes the mud. As I walk towards them my feet become heavier and heavier as the mud collects like garbage at a dump. I try to maneuver to a drier looking patch and my foot begins to sink, yet this time I am able to yank it out before it reaches my ankle. I now see where the road is washed out, unable to pass. There are about five students standing at the edge, just watching it. I ask where the school is, and they point to some bright pink bougainvillea about one kilometer away on the other side.
Zenan is talking to some students. I go over the stream and try to wash off some of the mud. A girl next to me is doing the same with greater success, and reaches over with her handkerchief and wipes the tip of my shoes clean. I wave her away good naturedly, and the other kids giggle and laugh. Seconds later, she tries again with a shy kind smile and I have to look down in haste so she won’t see the tears that have leapt to my eyes.
I wondered aloud to Zenan if we are now just waiting for another truck to take us back to town. No, he returns in his typical calm and informative way, they are waiting for the water to die down so that they can cross. I realize we are here for the long haul , and resolve to engage the students in conversation. Not long after, Zenan asks if I am ready to go. I look around for a truck, see none, and ask if we are walking back. No, he continues in his usual manner, I mean for us to cross the river.
I knew this was coming, I just thought we, like the students ,were waiting for it to die down. Now?- I question him. He nods. How deep is it? He gestures to mid calf. I raise my eyebrows to signal my doubt, and hope he picks up on my lack of desire. My resolve to make no compliant falters as I think about all the fields that rain has washed over to make this river. Walking in muddy animal feces in shoes is one thing, but barefoot? I balk.
I had already tried to convince myself earlier, that this would be no big deal. The kids do it regularly. I would not pick up any diseases or, or..yuck. I turned to Zenan, and told him I did not want to do it. I pointed out that the river was full of animal feces from all the surrounding farms and homes. I reminded him of the student with the swollen and pussing finger due to digging in the earth. Remember the worm?, I implored. Zenan nodded and humbly explained that it was because the child was digging, that the worms don’t enter at the feet. I could tell he was disappointed, and that annoyed me and concreted that I was not going to be guilted into crossing.
Shortly thereafter, a student attempted the first crossing. He was successful, and I triumphantly pointed out to Zenan that it came up over his knees-and the student was on the tall side. Again, Zenan politely nods.
I see a man with a bicycle approach. I get my camera out again. He places a stick in to measure the depth. He takes three or four steps in to measure the force of the current. He returns for the bike, carries it on his head across the river. He gives it to another man waiting, then wades back across.
Zenan!, I call. Let’s go. Home?, he questions. Across the river, and I began to untie me shoes and roll up my pants.
As this has been long, I will try to wrap it up from here more quickly.

Once crossing, it was impossible to wash my feet off and remained balance on the side of the hill, as I kept sinking ankle deep in mud. So, I continued the 1 kilometer trek to the school barefoot, as did most of the students. Once arriving there with my newly caked feet, I, along with other students began to wash and scrape the mud off my feet and shoes. Again, students were kind, and went to the rainwater container and drew water for me by climbing up stones, and one bowl full at a time, filled a bucket for me. It was brought to me, so that I did not have to pick my way through the chips and splinters of wood leftover from one of the many chores students do daily to support the school (chopping fire wood to help keep the classrooms warm during the cold months). After 10 minutes of attempting to get my shoes clean enough for the classroom, I was informed (though I had been warned at the river that this might be the case) that the school would not open. Only one teacher was there -one of two that lived on the premises- and that would not be sufficient to hold school.
But the students (eh, em) have come all this way, I whined! So, there is no point in me cleaning my feet or shoes, cause we are just going to turn around and head back? Again, the Zenan nod.
I asked a nearby student for the time, 11:30. FOUR HOURS of traveling, for nothing. No teacher. No head master. Some students…50 or so, yet NO SCHOOL. And, I still have to make my way back.
The one teacher comes over to speak with us, and I try not to show any anger or frustration. He seems reasonable, it makes sense that he can’t hold one class of students, as they are at all different levels. At least he came, and on this day (Wednesday), his teaching is usually over, and given to preparation time. He says he will take a roll call, and bids us farewell.
I am steamed. Literally, the sun has come out, the rain is gone, and my clothes are steaming dry. I headed back barefoot, knowing this time, what lay ahead.

Looking back, I think I somehow thought I would garner respect from the students, the teachers, and Zenan for coming to their country and trying to assist. Cerebrally, my plan was to go to new places, learn new things, and gain in my understanding of others. Yet, after just one week of walking around the town with my celebrity white status - cheerful children intertwining their hands in mine, every passerby wishing me a good day with their “good-bye!” calls, and assistance given without question…I think I got a big head.

Yet, for these students, this was such another typical day. I was nothing special, and neither were they.
Yet they are where the real story begins. Day after day, these students go against enormous challenges, just to get to school. Weather. No transportation. Distance (this school is about 20 kilometers away, by unfinished and difficult roads). And once the arrive? No adequate teachers, supervision, or materials. The school itself, looks like abandoned warehouses of some sort.

How so we even begin to measure education in this condition? How are these students supposed to compete in a global market? Competition? Must we not first, level the playing field? Yet, how do we begin?

Well, the students have begun.

I believe I got the experience that Zenan hoped I would. Now, the challenge is what I do with this story, this experience. Will this experience too, be a wash out?

This is IT

I owe MJ an apology.

For the last decade I have overused the phrase, “ Michael Jackson? I liked him when he was a black man, as a white woman- it doesn’t work for me.”

This coming for the same girl, who at the age of 10 during the fourth grade, at the height of Thriller, asked her teacher to call her Mrs. Jackson. I got a paused, look down the nose, emphatic NO.

The popular girls in my class had formed a club, as part of which each girl was to pick a famous movie star, ie: Tom Cruise, Matt Damon, C. Thomas Howell, etc. I, of course, having taste beyond my years, considered who was the most amazingly talented star out there, and wisely chose Michael Jackson. I don’t remember my choice meeting with criticism, although I do remember this sort of surprise or shock at not picking some hunky babe. Thinking back on it, it was one of those opportunities that the popular where laughing at the not so popular, and perhaps had even put me up to the task of asking Mrs. Uluman if she would address me as Mrs. Michael Jackson for the remainder of the year.

I didn’t turn my back on him then. In fact, I started looking back to the Jackson Five era for music with which to choreograph. Again, wisely, I chose ABC and once found that groove just made me, plus the young kids I was teaching, bust it out!! I couldn’t stop there, I added, Dancing Machine, I Want You Back, and The Love You Save. It was like crack. I used his music throughout my young adult years. Especially the music from the Thriller album.

Unconsciously or not, as long I as I used the music when I could still identify with him as a black male, I was jamming and busting and shakin’ ‘til my lungs were burning.

“ Sit down girl! I think I love you! No, get up girl, show me what you can do! Shake it , Shake it baby! Oh oh! ABC! Do Re Mi! Baby! That’s how easy love can be.”

Then he died, and I didn’t mourn. Instead, I got really annoyed at the media. REALLY annoyed. I was upset that his death was taking up of the airtime, focusing on all the accusations, drug-use, and oddities that he employed. That because he was the “king of pop” was should honor him. Um, honor the guy who doesn’t even like himself? Who, in my eyes, has devoted himself to changing his looks as to erase his race? And really, hanging your baby from a balcony for the whole world to watch how out of touch with reality you really are?

I was angry at him. Why couldn’t he just let things be? Why all the plastic surgeries, oxygen beds, skin lightening? Why the accusations of child molestations? How do you spend that much on pharmaceuticals? Why couldn’t he love himself? I loved him? Lots of people of difficult childhoods. Look at Drew Barrymore. She came out okay.

And then last night, I had my just desserts.

I saw the This Is It film. I kept telling myself not to add to the cooperate greed of profiting from his death, yet I felt compelled. I wanted to see him, just one more time.

I clapped, tapped, and shook my booty in my subwoofing movie chair (I was in Spain. I kid you not, the chairs vibrated from the base, a subwoofer in the chair…there was a lot of base). I was taken back to my youth. I sang along. I was amazed and wow’d by the dancers. I cried.

Actually, I bawled.

I fell back in love with Michael Jackson. The white, misshapen almost unrecognizable entertainer who has a pile of allegations, mishap after mishap , and yet still LOVES to dance, sing, and do the things that no one else ever has. I was amazed. I kept wishing he was alive, as I pledged I would pay whatever amount was demand to see him live. I would go to his concert so that I could feel inspired, awed, and thrilled like I did in that moment. Instead, I was mourning his death- and all that could have been with him still in the world.

I know, SUPER cheesy.
Maybe it is because I love to dance. Maybe it is because I wish I could sing. Maybe, I just want to be like him on stage. Creative, energetic, humble, kind, and …his own person.

He is who he made himself to be. He had a ton of problems, yet despite all of that- he awed us. He created songs, dance moves, and changed the way we thought we should be entertained. In the spotlight of the world he fought to find himself, making mistakes along the way, yet choosing and ultimately accepting those consequences. It is these qualities that I admire most in my friends and family. That they are who he or she has chosen to be.

Thank Michael for reminding me of that. Please accept my apology for not accepting all of you. If I cannot accept the sweet with the sour- then how can I hope that others will accept the semi-sweet that is me.