Spring

It’s been so long since I’ve written. The past few months have seemed more hectic and I have a feeling it’ll just continue that way until Scott and I leave in December. Early on in the year, Scott and I had more down time, nights when we’d have nothing to do for school, but now I go to bed with a list of things that need to be done for school and wake up with those same things on the forefront of my mind. Am I complaining? Perhaps I am. Perhaps I know for sure that, in the future, I want a job I can leave at the end of the workday. Or perhaps I should relish this time, knowing that what I’m doing right now is way more than just a job, and how often will I have that in my life.

The seasons have started to change. It’s rained a couple of times signaling the beginning of the small rainy season. Last weekend, Scott and I got caught in a small squall. We took shelter under some trees before realizing it would only get worse before it got better so we just headed home in the rain. The big drops of rain turned the dust and dirt into clumps that stuck to our sandals and it reminded us of our early walks through the hills of Monduli when we’d come home on stilts of mud inches high. We had to employ the use of sticks and tree trunks to get the clay mud off our shoes. Another method is to wait until they dry off and then bang them together.

And the temperatures have gone up. With Monduli at over 4,000 feet elevation, we had months in the fall and winter of brisk coldness when I’d need heavy blankets at night and layers at the school. I called it cold; Scott called it nice. But that has passed, I think. We’re now returning back to the hotness that welcomed us back in January, a heavy warmth that our minds had forgotten.

There’s also another change. Scott’s mom has generously decided to sponsor an Orkeeswa student. We originally had in mind a member of the new class, a pre-form one student. But with Peter and Rapha on a fundraising/sponsorship tour in the states for most of October, almost all of the pre-forms had already been chosen for sponsorship, so Scott inquired if any of the form one or form two students – the students we’ve been teaching for the past ten months – still needed sponsors. Seuri Denis, one of the brightest and promising form two students at the school, needed a sponsor as his new one had decided to sponsor a pre-form instead. So Scott and I chose Seuri for his mother to sponsor, and our hope is to pick up the sponsorship ourselves in a year or two when we are more financially stable. Just like that, we’ve linked our lives to Seuri’s life for the next four years and hopefully beyond, which when I think about, always somehow manages to bring tears to my eyes.

After we made the decision for Scott’s mom, Scott and I wanted to tell Seuri, so we sat next to him at lunch the next day hoping we’d find the right time. He was with a few other students so we didn’t say anything right away. But then I got pulled away by another matter and Scott did find the right time on his own to tell Seuri the news. I was a bit sad to not be there but the way that Scott recounted Seuri’s reaction was good enough. He said, “If a black person can blush, Seuri did.”

On the Third Day at Selous...

the Rufiji gave to us:

Three tigerfish,



Two catfish,


And a crocodile on a fly rod.

Our guide Baraka, Scott, and the young croc.

Kevin and I with our morning catches.

Those dark dots in the water are hippos.

Lendikenya

After walking for perhaps four hours from Monduli town, we finally reached Lota’s boma in Lendikenya. It was a longer journey than I had anticipated although I was fairly warned that Lendikenya was far away. Earlier in our day’s journey, when we were still in Mondulli town and into Ngarash, we had run into three students who, when they heard we were walking to Lendikenya, gasped, looked down at our Chaco-laden feet, and said, “That is too far away.” But we had planned a visit with Lota and there was no stopping us, which is good because Lota ended up walking hours himself to meet up with us for fear we’d get lost without any assistance. He would’ve been right.

Orkeeswa students come from three villages – Lashaine (where the school is located), Ngarash, and Lendikenya – and some students live around Monduli town. Most of the ones who’ve grown up in Lendikenya currently live with other students so they don’t have to wake up at 4 or 5 am in the morning to get to school by 8. I recall during my first couple weeks of teaching, when I had Form One English first period, I’d just be starting my lesson when Lota would enter the classroom late, tie loose, sweating. He’d slink into his chair and attempt to get settled in unnoticed but I’d call attention to him. I had no clue that he had just been walking for two and half hours and probably ran the last mile of it because he knew he’d be late.

Lota – who’s full name is Lotang’amwaki – is without a doubt one of my and Scott’s favorite students. Lota’s probably been the favorite of a whole slew of teachers throughout his life. He exudes positive energy and good will. Each and everyday, every time you see Lota, he will, without fail, give you a huge smile and the most sincere greeting. He is one of those people that wakes up and is happy to be alive, even at the prospect of having to walk/run for hours before reaching school. He looks forward to agriculture tests and will say to me on a Wednesday, “I am so excited for newspaper club.” He’ll come in dead last in a 1500 track race, but will run with determination all the way through and will just be happy he got to race. Scott and I like to joke that if Scott were to tell Lota that he was going to slam his face in the wall, Lota would run up to me overjoyed and said, “Guess what? Scott is going to slam my face in the wall!” He’s just that kind of kid. And by being that kind of kid, he’s been a saving grace for me. No matter what kind of day I’m having, Lota, just by being Lota, will always make me happy. Scott and I had to see where he lived.

As we were walking, Lota kept pointing to landmarks in the far off distance to let us know where his home was in relation to the expansive, flat landscape – the big tree, a white roof – markers I couldn’t see myself, even as we were getting closer and closer. Somewhere along the way, we passed the border into Lendikenya. Lota said zebras were often spotted in his area during the rainy season. Ostriches, also, find themselves meandering into people’s bomas (‘boma’ can mean both one dwelling and a collection of dwellings). As his boma finally came into view, we met up with Lota’s brother Barnaba. He had been getting worried about Lota, who had left so many hours earlier. He warmly welcomed us to his home.

As you approach any boma, one thing that is usually a constant is that you’ll find a gaggle of children, a random collection that you can never quite make up the composition of – some are siblings, some are cousins, some are just there. At Lota’s, the number of children were small, due to the fact that no other bomas were that close by. And all of them were identified. One of them was Lota’s uncle who was at least seven years younger than Lota himself. I kept asking, “Are you sure he’s not your nephew?” figuring that his English vocabulary on family was a bit rusty, but he insisted he was his uncle and a few minutes later, introduced us to his two nephews – sons of his sister.

We sat on a bench beside the house in the sun. It felt good to sit down. We knew we couldn’t stay long – an hour at most – before having to head back home. It was already late afternoon and the sun would set between 6:30 and 7. The four of us sat and chatted. We met Lota’s mother, an old, sweet looking woman. Encounters that Scott and I have with our students’ parents tend to be limited due to our lack of speaking Maa. As the four of us talked though, a neighbor came for a visit and this woman and Lota’s mother ended up sitting outside by us, clearly talking about Scott and I. We were told later that one of their topics of conversation surrounded Scott’s arm hair – why on earth he had so much of it, like an animal.

We drank tea. Lota’s mother offered to slaughter a goat for us, and we, as politely as we could, declined. We were offered one of their many wandering chickens to take home. Again, we gently said no. Then Barnaba brought out something we couldn’t decline – fresh honey. We took home a container of honey which, when we eat it now, we have to be careful not to get any bee parts. Although, as Scott reminds us, we creatures are all made from the same stuff so a bee part here or there on a piece of toast will not harm us. We talked about Barnaba’s schooling – he’s just finished form 6. We watched Lota’s nephews run around barefoot and kick around a small homemade soccer ball made of balled up old socks. Lota introduced us to his dog, Charles, who Lota had found and brought home when Charles was a tiny puppy, probably one week old. Charles, who’s nine and is more affectionate than other dogs we’ve encountered in Maasai land, had seen better days Lota said. He used to walk with Lota and hunt antelope and rabbit.

The latter part of our visit was spent taking pictures which is typical of the end of boma visits. The students are used to getting photographed at school, but a camera is still a novel thing in the villages. It’s rare for them to get a picture with their mother at home or with their cherished dog. And the small kids at bomas, after taking their picture, will shriek with delight when they get to see the image immediately after.

Barnaba, Lota, his young uncle, and two nephews.

When the time arrived for Scott and I to start the epic journey home, Barnaba, Lota, and Lota’s young uncle joined us. Lota told me his uncle, who walking shyly beside me, was a cheetah killer, that he’s probably killed two of them. I was a bit shocked at this news but I suppos when something is threatening your livestock there isn’t much room for negotiation. I asked Lota if he’d ever killed a cheetah and, true to Lota’s character, he replied, “I don’t like killing things.”

After a little while, Lota and his uncle turned around to head home. Barnaba continued with us all the way to Monduli, where he stays during the school year. We took a more direct route between Lota’s boma and Monduli town than we had getting there, but it was still very, very long. We passed bomas of students and people we knew from the school. We passed corrango after corrango – big ditches and small canyons where the earth had cracked long ago. Barnaba kept saying, “Madame (yes, he called me ‘Madame’), I think you are going to sleep all day tomorrow after this walk.” The sun was gradually setting until we were walking in seemingly total darkness. We marched and we marched until we reached Monduli town where we said goodbye and thank you to Barnaba, until we reached our house.

Even sitting here now typing about it, Lota’s boma feels as if it’s in a far away land.

Lota's mother and her grandson.

Everything

I tend to write about things days or weeks after they occur. I don’t mean to; it just happens with the way time is moving these days. But I must write something about yesterday, about the Saturday I found myself on a crowded bus with around a third of the Orkeeswa student body on our way to the International School of Moshi for a track and field meet.

The whole day was spectacular. The bright sun. The energy of everyone there. Watching our students come in first, second, third place in long distance races, sprints, long jump, high jump, javelin throw, relay races, discus, and shotput. Even when they came in last place, it was magnificent. It was great to just see them try. The way Lucas became the leader he should always be, guiding his fellow students, encouraging them, making sure that when they did place, they knew where to go.

And when Orkeeswa won the biggest trophy for sportsmanship, our students erupted with utter glee and excitement. They sprang up from their sitting positions, arms thrown up, cheering like they’ve never cheered before. They hugged each other and kept cheering. They did victory laps and kept cheering. At one point, even Mama Paulo held the trophy in a tight grasp, pumped up her arm, and everyone kept cheering. When the victory laps ended and Petro held the trophy high with both arms, everyone encircled him under a tree and they kept cheering. It was virgin territory for all of us – our young school winning a shiny, gold trophy – and we embraced it with everything we had. With speeches, endless posed pictures, pats on the back, even some tears.

But what I want to remember about that day is the bus ride that morning. My original plan was to ride in the Suzuki with Quinn, but just as the Suzuki was leaving, Michael insisted I ride on one of the buses. At first I was a bit irritated for being on the slow, bumpy bus that was going toward school from Monduli town to pick up more students instead of toward Arusha. But after some time, maybe half an hour or an hour, I had one of those rare moments when there was no place on the earth I’d rather be.

I was in the last row in the back, wedged between Judith and pre-form student Babu, Lazaro next to him, Einote by the window. The Maasai and Swahili gospel singing was on and off. Ndito was sitting in front of me, my knees digging into the back of her seat. Lazaro would from time to time ask me a silly question which I found both endearing and irritating. I managed to make Judith smile. Before me were the profiles and backs of all these students that, in the past eight months, I’ve gotten to really know and feel close to. In the very front of the bus, I could see Victor and Thomas and, just behind them, Michael. The dust had settled and it was only the breeze that passed through the windows. I was almost dozing. But at some point, in the midst of all of that, I felt pure joy, as if I was one of the luckiest people on this earth for getting to ride on a bus full of Maasai students who have almost nothing but their voices and each other and a common goal of education, and somehow my path had – by choice as well as by accident – intertwined with theirs, and we were all together, on a bus going toward a track and field meet, and everything seemed worth it.