Weddings

There were twenty-one of us squashed into perhaps the most dangerous daladala I’ve been in yet. The gears crunched and even the horn- usually the most effective device on these old vehicles – sounded in its death throes. Francis was next to me and taking calls constantly, sorting out problems for a wedding reception to be held in college that evening. There are many such events and students are deployed as free labour to clean and arrange. The noise keeps us awake at night and then the students have to tidy up the next day. Francis was fascinated by the guest list for the Royal Wedding, wanting to know why Catholics weren’t invited.

“There are many reasons why Tony Blair was not invited, Francis” I said. “But being Catholic wasn’t one of them.”

We were visiting Mikindani, the old slave port, a short drive up the coast. For many of the students, as they approach their final exams, this was their first visit to this historical site. Why? Because no student is allowed off campus without permission and no tutor had organised such a trip. This is not because it’s Tanzania. Philbert has told me of the many and various trips his school organises. And it’s not about money, as the return fare to Mikindani is little more than a bottle of soda. When I told Maskat about the trip, he said

“Ah. I wish I were a student again.”
“Well you had your chance, Maskat,” I replied. I felt angry.

I’ve been busy with meetings with the municipality over the past week or so, pitching a proposal for English language lessons for secondary school teachers, which, if the District Education Officer agrees to support it, will see the majority of Mtwara’s two hundred secondary school teachers attend an intensive English conversation class over the next two years, improve their spoken English, theoretically improve their confidence in teaching their lessons in English and improve learning across the curriculum.

The idea is mine, but arranging the support of the municipality is entirely down to Philbert. We chugged up the hill last week, in Philbert’s ancient and tiny Suzuki, to an eight o’clock meeting with the Municipal Academic Officer. Everywhere he goes, Philbert is greeted with “Shikamoo” from former colleagues, most of whom he seems to have taught. Certainly, the top man, the Municipal Director, is one of Philbert’s students and he chuckles to himself as he tells me. He didn’t say why and I was left wondering what memories Philbert had of his earlier teaching career.

We chat a lot about teaching and the differences between his school – a fee paying school, with the best results in the district - and mine, a normal state school serving a reasonably well-off suburb. I was complaining that schools couldn’t seem to supply desks and that there always seem to be one or two boys at the back of class sharing a desk. I invariably separate them and make the offenders sit close to the front. Philbert sighed, and said

“Ah no, Adrian. Have you noticed students’ names written on the desks?”
“Yes. I assumed this was graffiti.”
“No. That is the desk paid for by that student’s parents when he or she started school. The students sharing a desk have not bought their desk and will only get one if a school desk becomes free.”

So I had been singling out those students, whose parents could not buy a desk, for chastisement and humiliation. Wonderful! Why had I not been told? I have questioned myself often over the past few days about what I might have done, what questions I might have asked and how much more could I have learned if I only spoke more Kiswahili.

When I first informed Maskat, the Deputy Principal, of our decision to leave, his face fell. He and I seem to have built a good mutual understanding. I certainly have great respect for him as he cares genuinely about the welfare of the students and, although his methods are unnecessarily strict, I never doubt the integrity of his motives. / So when I told him we were leaving but would return in January to teach secondary school teachers, he showed me the resource centre, a purpose built classroom and office located at the rear of the campus. It has ceiling fans and the office has air conditioning, but it is filled with bin liners full of exam papers and has literally been gathering dust for over five years. I have written to all concerned suggesting I re-open it and start my teaching there. Maskat read the letter slowly and deliberately; no skimming or scanning, but reading and digesting every word. After a whole eight minutes, he looked up with a serious face, as though he had eaten a large meal, then smiled and said,

“The letter is delicious.”

Tonight is film night again. I’ve been trying to broaden their horizons, with offers of films other than James Bond, but to no avail. Arnold Swarzenegger, Rambo and Bruce Lee remain firm favourites. Until today that is. I am living in the poorest district of one of the poorest countries in the world and what did Caroline and a hundred or so Tanzanian students spend Friday afternoon doing? Watching the Royal Wedding! Having initially been pleased to escape this wasteful nonsense back home, I was shocked and hugely disappointed to see how popular it is here.

“Mr Adrian. If you can show the highlights of the Royal Wedding,” said Maso. “That will be better than James Bond.”

I give up.