AMDG                                          

To believe, to think, to love, to give, to need, to want, to know, to have; some verbs seem to resonate within us. Which is the most important for you? I've discovered here that, for me, it is simply to be.

Short Story

 I am still happy and healthy (you can stop reading now, mum).

 Medium Story

             Life continues apace. As is to be expected, I'm settling in and getting used to things. I'm teaching English to a year 6 class (ages span a couple of years), and sports and games to years 2 and 3. I'm also teaching evening classes for boarding pupils in English and a singing lesson once a week (don't laugh). I have a reasonable amount of free time and I'm mixing with the boarding pupils, teaching (or more realistically being taught) football in the playground. I'm also supposedly coaching the school football teams in their quest for local bragging rights. I spend some Fridays with other teachers at the local bars, and also pop over to see the next-door Jesuits a couple of times a week. As my rooms are in the school compound, I have a gentle stream of visitors; the nuns, other teachers and kids demanding that Mr Beckham come to play (to be explained later).

Long, Long Story

            To be honest, it's hard to know where to begin. A normal day here is sufficiently different from a normal day at home that one could spend a great deal of time explaining it; I suppose the parameters of what is newsworthy is partly determined by the context. But I guess the most important thing is the people, so that's what I'll tell you about. But first, just to stave off boredom for a few lines, I'll report some things that might seem odd, but by now I take for granted. These generally fall into two categories.

            There are material differences; things like that fact that there is no dustbin collection - one drops one's rubbish off at a 'tip', which is a designated roadside (though there are no signs). Many people on the roads here are pulling or pushing carts on two wheels; very few people other than taxi drivers have cars. Those that can buy 4x4s, not because they are a status symbol, or because they have a lovely driving position, but because most of the roads are not tarmaced, even in the middle of town. Food is bought unpackaged at markets. Eating, washing, cleaning are all done with the hands. Kids sharpen their pencils deftly with razor blades. Things are dirtier, signs and adverts are generally painted rather than printed (and with a great deal of skill). There are animals and insects, and everything seems to smell stronger. All this makes the world seem much nearer. Even the stars seem close enough to reach up and touch (they aren't, though. I tried after a particularly good night with some fellow teachers). It seems that home is sanitised, as if we are trying to distance ourselves from the world, remove ourselves from it as much as possible. I noted in my journal, 'I'd take the world that exists beneath my feet rather than the one we've created for ourselves in our minds.'

            Sorry if that all seems a bit heavy, it's not meant to be. And I'm not having a go at Western (Northern, really) culture, just that peculiar slice of it that was in me as I left England. The second type of obvious difference is cultural. Shaking hands takes a long time, physical touch is important (e.g. male friends hold hands while walking down the street), one washes one's hands frequently. Also, particular things, like the fact that the hand gesture for 'come' is the same as the English one, but with the palm facing downwards. And one proffers one's wrist with hand closed in a fist if one cannot shake hands for whatever reason. It is a sign of respect to touch one's elbow or chest with the left hand while the right shakes. Also, people walk much more slowly here. In the heat you might think it best to walk quickly to get out of the sun faster. But actually it is much more comfortable to walk slowly and avoid overheating at all. The body adapts to these things in roughly four stages (copyright pending). At first, one doesn't understand, then one understands but doesn't mimic, after that one mimics slowly and consciously. The final stage is when the movements and actions have slipped below the conscious line. I'm currently struggling with stage 3.

            Turning back to the people - thinking about it, I reckon this could get rather long and dull, so don't feel guilty about leaving off. Two of the key people here are the parish priest, a Jesuit called Fr. Ray, and the school headmistress, Sr. Beata. I'll do quick outlines of them both.        

            When I met Fr. Ray, immediately I was drawn to him - his twinkling eyes in an expansive, friendly round face. He is quite short by U.K. standards, maybe 5.8, and is still a young man. He has a broad, natural smile and an easy and oft-used laugh. He moves his hands frequently when he talks, and sags comfortably into chairs and sofas, sometimes approaching horizontal. He is a gentle man, and before I met him I didn't know what a compliment that could be. He is very intelligent, though wears it lightly, and is easily moved by the sadness he frequently encounters in his parish. He is a man of considerable influence, and by his role as priest is the unquestioned authority among a large tract of people. He has had some extraordinary experiences - he was in the Congo's capital when it was invaded and the whole Jesuit community there, who elected to stay, were in serious danger of losing their lives. Bullets and bombs were flying in the streets outside. He has a compassion that must leave deep tracks in him, and his cherubic face takes on a distorted aspect when he describes the plight of some he visits; the old woman who insists on  trying to kneel for confession, attempting it for the fourth time, the young HIV-widowed mother who walks with a basket of 30 bananas on her head trying to sell enough to feed one or two of her 10 children, all the time being sick herself. He is a storyteller and he jokes, and most of all he loves his people, all people.

            Sr. Beata is cut from the same cloth. She is a powerful woman, not that you would know. She is maternal looking, maybe in her 50s, and she bears herself very upright. But she walks like a little girl, softly and swinging her hands. I glanced once at her feet, and was surprised by how thin and graceful they were. She has a stern face but a ready smile that almost forces her to shut her eyes. She is universally regarded as a good headmistress. She is tolerant yet principled, and it is immediately apparent that her constant concern is for the children in her care. And I think she really does think of them as her children, and cares for them like a mother. In fact when we met to briefly discuss my role, she said that I should consider her as my mum - it is African culture that the young are cared for by the community. Under her, the school has flourished, though money is always tight. Everyone accepts her word as final, though happily debates it anyway. I feel this authority comes from love - her obvious love for the children and the school, and everyone else's love for her.

            I'll put the next bit in brackets, as those of you who are not religious may not be interested. [Both of these two are religious figures, and there's two things concerning religion here in Mwanza that stand out. One is the vibrancy of the Church. My experience is of the Catholic Church, but I imagine it is the same for other denominations and faiths too. Just to give you an example, on Ash Wednesday there were too many people to fit in the (large) church at each of the three masses; a total of over 5,000 people, I'd guess. And every Friday during Lent, again there are at least 1,500 people at the Stations of the Cross and evening mass. Numbers don't really tell the story, though. There are young people present, and it really is a cross-section of society that attends. There are numerous weekly events, well attended and enjoyed, and the role of the church in daily life is clear. There are far more vocations, too, and the nuns and priests-in-training are young. All this leads to a youthful, happy religious community. I was very happy in somewhat different Western atmosphere, and am very happy here. One thing that is a little more relaxing is there isn't the stigma here of being religious as being unintelligent, or a little odd, that I (perhaps erroneously) perceived back home. So, my first surprise was the importance and vigour of the Church. The second was how much was being done by the churches. Most projects here with the poor are run by the faith-communities, be they local or international. Next door here, we have a Hindu hospital, and on the on other side is a dispensary run by the parish. Vehicles driving past may be Catholic Relief Services, or Islamic aid agencies, or heading to one of the Anglican projects in the suburbs. I found this in Nairobi, too, and it does provoke a somewhat inappropriate emotion; pride. Of course there are secular charities too, but I just haven't seen them.] Anyway, enough of that.

            The children. My word, they are enchanting. I am captivated by them, and they by me. Lots of silly stuff is said about children ('the children are our future'- No they aren't, they are their own future) and I'll proceed to add to it. Children seem to me like the juice of humanity - if you make orange juice you get the most concentrated form of an orange. Children, likewise, display all the attributes of adults, but in sharper relief, as if you squished them down into a child-sized body. They are capable of serious cruelty, with full understanding. They fight, they complain, they cry, they deceive if they see advantage, they carry tales and whine. But they are also capable of breathtaking acts of love and generosity. They give, they share, they laugh, they help those in need, they forgive easily and forget quicker, they are honest with no hope of reward. These characteristics, often all shown by one child in one day, are simple, basic human attitudes writ large on the tiny faces of growing beings. I would have initially described these children as gullible or trusting. In one of my first weeks, I managed to convince a number of them I was David Beckham. This despite the obvious dissimilarity between the grainy newspaper photo they got hold of and myself. My (lack of) skill on the pitch might have given them a hint. Also, though this is prevalent among many kids everywhere, most believe wrestling is real. It was when they were quizzing me about the special effects in films not taking place and whether actors actually die that I realized that they just do not have the tools to distinguish fiction from reality in western media. We kind of take for granted a fine-grained ability to know when what we see is made-up or true, but for whatever reason, these children don't have it. But they found out I am not Mr Beckham, and I never nutmegged Ronaldinho.

            Quite coincidentally, that leads to what I was going to say next. It's not really a person I'm talking about, but to keep going with the theme, let's say I learnt it from a guy. Called Bob. Bob said, 'I think all of us, if asked, would realise that the word 'normal' depends on where and when it's said. Just as an example, people here see European, Asian and Oriental skin as differing types of white skin, whereas I think we tend to see all other skin tones as different shades of black (un-P.C.?). If you look at the world as a whole, I always knew my England lifestyle was not normal, but I never really believed it (philosophers discuss.). It is easy to feel that clean, running or hot water, electricity, paved roads washing machines and the luxuries of 'modern' life are simply normal. But we are in such a minority. And it's possible that our 'normal' life might not be sustainable. When you leave a bubble, you can see from the outside how small and delicate it is. The sensation of the image of that bubble in you being pricked is rather odd, but not unpleasant.' We can leave Bob now, as the following genuinely did arise from a conversation.        

            I was at a beautiful, outside bar chatting with a couple of fellow teachers and a parent of one of the students. We got onto talking about England, and I struggled to explain the materialist culture. They were absolutely flabbergasted by the idea of a family having 5 cars, or a house with 7 rooms, or a second home. It was not an expression of condemnation, but surprise. This level of consuming is just alien to them, and they do not understand full-blown materialism. Far from a reasoned rejection, it is simply that the thought never crosses their minds. 'Who can live in two houses at once?' the parent asked. Why aspire to have 5 cars; 'who can drive 5 cars at once?' Part of this may be down to Tanzanian culture, where if I am free and you are not free, we are not free. Likewise, if I am full but you are hungry, we are not satisfied. What is mine is yours, and somewhat more disconcertingly what is yours is mine. In Kiswahili, there is no direst equivalent for the English verb 'to have' (if I'm understanding correctly). The closest phrase is 'to be with'. This is not so say there is no desire to acquire, but it is more rational. Tanzania as a country has acted and does act in symphony with its people's sharing attitudes; it hosted independence fighters from other countries and now hosts refugees and round-table talks with the people causing these refugees. The country seems to display the mantra of its inhabitants; I am poor, but what I have I share with you. The parent said, 'if I have two cars and you have no car, why don't I give you a car?'

            I'll leave you (as you sigh in exhausted relief) by mentioning Aristotle, whom I haven't met here. He said that happiness should be the aim and end of all human life. Or something like that, I wasn't really paying attention in the lecture. As I drink in the smiles and laughter around me, I can't help wondering who's doing a better job

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