The Blasphemous Festival
There are unspoken rules of any event here in rural Tanzania. There must be a special group of well-dressed invited guests who sit at a high table facing the audience and looking snooty, and any performance must be directed toward them, meaning the performer’s backs are to the audience. The most important person invited is the ‘special guest,’ and can talk at length about whatever he wants. The festival/party/graduation must be formally opened by a chairperson, and formally closed by the same person. If there is no chairperson available, one must be elected. If the event isn’t formally opened, it never officially happened. If you don’t officially open the meeting, people freak out. Or people will be called back with great urgency after dispersing so the meeting can be formally closed. Most importantly, all of the invited guests at a festival must be served rice, meat and soda, even if the masses leave with grumbly bellies and parched throats.
On Saturday, I held two AIDS awareness festivals, one in my village for the primary school kids, and one at the nearest secondary school, which broke all of these sacred rules.
First, I moved the high tables so they flanked the stage, meaning all performers could be seen by the audience. At the primary school, I invited the village nurse to be the special guest, as she is a strong female character who has overcome many challenges in her life, even though she was not the person with the highest status. The primary school festival was only a ghost, as it was never formally opened or closed. And at both festivals I insisted that everyone be fed the same food. On a low budget, this meant we could only afford to make ‘kande’— a mix of corn and beans. I
think this was my most blatant heresy. This is funeral food. When I told people of the plan, they usually laughed out loud that I would dare to do such a thing. But after a little thought they would agree that it was the right thing to do. We had to get a 50-gallon drum to boil the kande for 350 people. We used 4 buckets of fresh corn, and 1 of dry beans (from my farm! shown in the picture), and then added some peanuts, oil, salt, and onions. It had to be cooked overnight. In the end it was delicious, and for me it went down more smoothly than the customary lump of oily rice.
The goal of the festivals was for students to show off what they’ve learned in reproductive health and life skills classes I’ve been teaching. There was a mix of plays, songs, poetry, and raps about AIDS. One of my favorite teachers performed some really stunning gymnastics. I was particularly impressed with a poem sung by a large group which included a stanza about how teachers need to stop having sex with students. How brave! And necessary! It’s a huge problem in secondary schools, as at least 50% of male teachers I know are guilty of this. To hear it from the students’ mouths gave me chills. At the primary school, the confident little 5th grade kids rapping their hearts out really made me proud. When you are used to seeing kids at their least creative and most submissive, it’s uplifting to get a taste of what they’re capable of.
The special guest at the secondary school was the most important guest there, which was a mistake on my part. He was a dinosaur who spent most of his speech warning boys and girls not to walk alone together, as that is Satanism. He urged them to forget condoms, abstinence is the only answer.
The other major thorn in my shoe was a teacher from the primary school who showed up at 10:00 am drunk (not unusual) and started beating the kids when they were inching in on the stage. I called him over and took the stick from him and told him there would be no beatings today — this festival was for the kids, and if they wanted to crowd the stage they’d do so. Unfortunately, later, when I had left, he showed up on the netball court and threw rocks at the students until they had to stop their game. I expected to have to supervise the kids rather than the teachers!
There were so many things at the festivals that would have been alien in America — perfectly harmonized 4th graders, sixth-graders unabashedly doing plays about delaying sex, and last-minute firewood runs. I was also guilty of several Tanzanian faux pas, but at last after 2 years I am finally committing them on purpose.
Head Teacher and a Way to Help
Running a school with 650 students, 7 grades, and 6 teachers is not a job I’d wish on my worst enemy. I’m certain if I had to be the head teacher, I’d surrender to the never-ending work load and problems that just keep piling up. Our head teacher at the primary school is an amazing person. He’s helped with my projects, and is a wonderful guy to debate with — open and fair. It is very common to find male villagers who treat their wives like slaves, ordering them around and even beating them. Our head teacher is a terrific anomaly. His wife sings his praises about how he helps around the house and treats her like an equal. He was very receptive to a seminar I did on how to teach kids to love learning instead of fearing beatings. He recently told me how he is looking for a pen-pal in an English-speaking country. Many of you reading this have been so helpful by sending money here for projects, and I thank you for your generosity. Here is an opportunity to help just by sending some letters to a nice hard-working guy in a little village. It would make him so happy just to exchange ideas with someone overseas. His English is pretty good, and he can tell you all kinds of interesting stories about rural Tanzania. If you are interested in having an old-fashioned pen-friend, please post a comment on my blog, and I’ll pass his address along to you.
There are unspoken rules of any event here in rural Tanzania. There must be a special group of well-dressed invited guests who sit at a high table facing the audience and looking snooty, and any performance must be directed toward them, meaning the performer’s backs are to the audience. The most important person invited is the ‘special guest,’ and can talk at length about whatever he wants. The festival/party/graduation must be formally opened by a chairperson, and formally closed by the same person. If there is no chairperson available, one must be elected. If the event isn’t formally opened, it never officially happened. If you don’t officially open the meeting, people freak out. Or people will be called back with great urgency after dispersing so the meeting can be formally closed. Most importantly, all of the invited guests at a festival must be served rice, meat and soda, even if the masses leave with grumbly bellies and parched throats.
On Saturday, I held two AIDS awareness festivals, one in my village for the primary school kids, and one at the nearest secondary school, which broke all of these sacred rules.
First, I moved the high tables so they flanked the stage, meaning all performers could be seen by the audience. At the primary school, I invited the village nurse to be the special guest, as she is a strong female character who has overcome many challenges in her life, even though she was not the person with the highest status. The primary school festival was only a ghost, as it was never formally opened or closed. And at both festivals I insisted that everyone be fed the same food. On a low budget, this meant we could only afford to make ‘kande’— a mix of corn and beans. I
think this was my most blatant heresy. This is funeral food. When I told people of the plan, they usually laughed out loud that I would dare to do such a thing. But after a little thought they would agree that it was the right thing to do. We had to get a 50-gallon drum to boil the kande for 350 people. We used 4 buckets of fresh corn, and 1 of dry beans (from my farm! shown in the picture), and then added some peanuts, oil, salt, and onions. It had to be cooked overnight. In the end it was delicious, and for me it went down more smoothly than the customary lump of oily rice. The goal of the festivals was for students to show off what they’ve learned in reproductive health and life skills classes I’ve been teaching. There was a mix of plays, songs, poetry, and raps about AIDS. One of my favorite teachers performed some really stunning gymnastics. I was particularly impressed with a poem sung by a large group which included a stanza about how teachers need to stop having sex with students. How brave! And necessary! It’s a huge problem in secondary schools, as at least 50% of male teachers I know are guilty of this. To hear it from the students’ mouths gave me chills. At the primary school, the confident little 5th grade kids rapping their hearts out really made me proud. When you are used to seeing kids at their least creative and most submissive, it’s uplifting to get a taste of what they’re capable of.
The special guest at the secondary school was the most important guest there, which was a mistake on my part. He was a dinosaur who spent most of his speech warning boys and girls not to walk alone together, as that is Satanism. He urged them to forget condoms, abstinence is the only answer.
The other major thorn in my shoe was a teacher from the primary school who showed up at 10:00 am drunk (not unusual) and started beating the kids when they were inching in on the stage. I called him over and took the stick from him and told him there would be no beatings today — this festival was for the kids, and if they wanted to crowd the stage they’d do so. Unfortunately, later, when I had left, he showed up on the netball court and threw rocks at the students until they had to stop their game. I expected to have to supervise the kids rather than the teachers!
There were so many things at the festivals that would have been alien in America — perfectly harmonized 4th graders, sixth-graders unabashedly doing plays about delaying sex, and last-minute firewood runs. I was also guilty of several Tanzanian faux pas, but at last after 2 years I am finally committing them on purpose.
Head Teacher and a Way to Help
Running a school with 650 students, 7 grades, and 6 teachers is not a job I’d wish on my worst enemy. I’m certain if I had to be the head teacher, I’d surrender to the never-ending work load and problems that just keep piling up. Our head teacher at the primary school is an amazing person. He’s helped with my projects, and is a wonderful guy to debate with — open and fair. It is very common to find male villagers who treat their wives like slaves, ordering them around and even beating them. Our head teacher is a terrific anomaly. His wife sings his praises about how he helps around the house and treats her like an equal. He was very receptive to a seminar I did on how to teach kids to love learning instead of fearing beatings. He recently told me how he is looking for a pen-pal in an English-speaking country. Many of you reading this have been so helpful by sending money here for projects, and I thank you for your generosity. Here is an opportunity to help just by sending some letters to a nice hard-working guy in a little village. It would make him so happy just to exchange ideas with someone overseas. His English is pretty good, and he can tell you all kinds of interesting stories about rural Tanzania. If you are interested in having an old-fashioned pen-friend, please post a comment on my blog, and I’ll pass his address along to you.
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