FREEDOM December 20th 2009

On day 18 of our hospital vacation, the doctor and his entourage strutted into our ward and said the magic words we had been desperately waiting to hear: (the desperation increasing as the third gangrene patient was placed in Habiba’s room, making the smell and atmosphere unbearable) “plaster today”. Jumping for joy, I bounced in and out of the different hospital offices, getting police reports signed, getting medications filled, and saying goodbye to the various staff members and patients who we had befriended during our stay. Habiba’s cast was put just above her knee, supporting her broken tibia, and we were told that she would have it on for 1 week. After a quick lesson from the physical therapist, which included how to walk AND break-dance while using crutches, we rolled Habiba into the crowded waiting room and out into the fresh air she hadn’t seen in 19 days. The journey home was long and awful, the public transportation portion ended quickly in Masasi when Habiba’s pain was so intense we realized that getting into the lori (the open backed pick-up that makes up the only transportation to our village) was not going to be possible. Andrew, the student who stayed because of his broken clavicle, and I hustled a taxi into going to our village at half the speed for half the price. The man was amazing, lifting Habiba into his taxi and then adjusting his rear-view mirror onto her so that he could see if she was in pain throughout the ride. The taxi ride was better, and in 2 and a half hours we reached home sweet home.
22 days after the accident, we had a “hospital groupies reunion”, all of those who had already returned from the hospital coming to my house to see Habiba. All of the stiches were out, the cuts healed, and the bones healing. The kids were all happy and excited to continue on with the rest of their “summer” vacation. 2 of the kids braved the busses once again to head on to Dar es Salaam, where they were originally supposed to stay with relatives on the way home from Killy, and two continued on to a school in a near-by town, where it had been previously arranged for them to study during the holiday in order to be ahead in the upcoming school year. This left only me and Miss Habiba to wait out the long month for her cast to come off.
In Tanzania, when you have a relative or a friend who is ill, you have to go to visit them, sitting and staring for hours on end. Habiba and her family decided that it would be best for her to stay in my home, where there would always been a person available to help her, a good amount of room for her to manipulate her crutches, electricity, and of course, a large enough sitting room to accommodate the hoardes of fans and well-wishers. Though the house many days is like grand central station, Habiba is enjoying all of the friends, family, and mangos that come by the dozen.
Though we are still working out the little kinks in our living arrangement, (no matter how hard she tries, Habiba cannot convince me to eat minnows and corn porridge and I cannot convince her to like spaghetti, or consider eating just chocolate cake a meal) we are having a lot of fun together, and we are learning even more about one another each day. Habiba is a celebrity among other peace corps volunteers, being spoiled by gifts, visits, and huge “get well soon” messages all over her cast, (one volunteer, Luke Glaude, (who looks remarkably like a Calvin Klien model) wrote his name in huge letters, and another of my females students saw the name and sighed “I would break my leg if Brother Luka would sign my cast”…ha).
As we get well we are starting the plans for our up-coming projects, Habiba is the student leader of the Peer Educators, as well as the head librarian, so we are working our time-lines and plans for projects as we heal her leg, multi-tasking, one of the American concepts she has learned during her stay here. Soon Habiba and all of the kids will be healed and then nothing will stand in our way of HIV/AIDS education domination…the Mnaviera ward has no idea what its in for!

Bad Luck November 2009

I didn’t have a lot of time to think about the huge pit of fear in my stomach as the day for our Kilimanjaro trip approached, we were busy closing the school, grading final exams and writing report cards, trying to fit in that last run (despite the protests of the kids), getting everything packed and solar taken down, and buying socks (big woolen socks, INCREDIBLY hard to find here where it is a million degrees every day).When they each showed up to Newala, late, with hair freshly braided and in their best clothes, we ate and then headed towards our first destination: the bus stand floor.

It had been decided the week before that rather than stay with family (which makes the most sense) we would rather stay at the bus stand in Newala, sleeping on the floor of the bus office. When Andrew, the young man in charge of Newala sleeping arrangements, stood at our final Killy meeting, he clasped his hands, grinned broadly, and with a solemn face stated that he “gave thanks to the god that the Akida (bus) people are letting us sleep at their office”. His announcement was received by the cheers of the other kids, so I swallowed back my protests and allowed them to figure out for themselves that a night sleeping on the cold ground may not be as great as they thought. It WAS a great as THEY thought.

Our bus didn’t leave until 4 am the next day, so the ladies and I got an early start to the night, around 10pm. The boys were quick to join us, dancing into the room and pushing the girls off of the mats. Upon realizing that the girls were not about to move, they switched tactics and decided to turn the office into a disco, using one phone and its only song (a backstreet boys song) to dance around the nearly hysterical girls and the protesting school head boy and secretary, both of whom vowed to kill the dancing boys in between sleepily aiming kicks at their shins.

Around 1 in the morning I awoke to all 5 of the girls trying to hassle the bathroom key out of a sleepy office worker. When asked where they were going and why they were being so loud they replied that they had to finish putting on their makeup and “looking smart” for the bus ride. At this point the dancing boys rolled over and told the girls that they were going to lock them out of the office if they kept waking them up. In response the girls decided to steal the boys underwear as insurance to get back into the office. Caous, but not sleep, ensued.

We finally got onto the bus at 430 in the morning, the kids excited and literally leaping with joy when they realized that they had the very first seats in the bus, one of them all the way up front with the driver. The bus ride was uneventful until we arrived at Tandahiemba. There I got into a loud argument with three of the bus conductors on how I didn’t pay for the three ladies seats in the front for them to stick huge televisions and generators on their feet (or on their laps, as one had the gall to try). The men gave in (generally Tanzanian men realize that I never give up, or shut up, until I get my way) and we moved along on our way.

Outside of Tandahiemba I started to fall asleep on the shoulder of a taller student (whose seating arrangement was switched at the last minute to accommodate me as a pillow, and to accommodate his needs for my iPod), and I noticed that all of the other students were starting to nod off as well. This was why I was surprised when I heard my student start to yell…

I opened my eyes when I realized the bus had finally stopped. The entire crash lasted seconds, but the silence that followed seemed to last forever. Then the screaming started. Admittedly most of the screaming was mine, aimed at the two unconscious students who had been ejected out of the windows of the bus, now hanging by their limbs to the twisted metal that remained. When they both came to and started screaming themselves, I almost started laughing; I’ve never been so relieved.

I can’t put into words the full story of what happened that day, though I continue to revisit the scene in my dreams every night. The student who was sitting next to the driver (who was miraculously unhurt) told me about the tractor in the middle of the road, and how the driver didn’t see the farmer until it was too late, and when he swerved he missed the tractor and instead went right into the mango tree. This same student had run 2.5 kilometers until he could find cell phone service and contact help on the only phone in our group that was left intact (my phone and iPod were lost in the crash). The hospital cars arrived, and after the longest 15 minute ride of my life, we arrived at the hospital. The final damage after we arrived at the hospital was: a broken leg, a broken clavicle, a severed earlobe, lost teeth and a ripped lip, 1 concussion, several head wounds, 1 gash (where you could see the bone) and 2 sets of incredibly hurt (but otherwise intact) legs.

The accident was bad, the 19 day stay at the hospital was worse, but I can report now that we are starting to get back into a routine. When my legs stop swelling several of the kids and I will begin to run again, and Habiba, the student with the broken leg, will reside at my home to rest until her cast comes off. As is tradition in Tanzania, many people come into my home every day to greet Habiba and then sit for hours on end looking at her, repeating sorry over and over again, and we have received so many mangos I don’t know what we are going to do with all of them.

Repeatedly I’ve heard “sorry”, “bad luck” and that our accident was “Gods plan” or “a test from God”. Surely this has been a test, my most difficult in Tanzania and in life in general. Despite the pain endured, there is nothing that can stop me from seeing the proof that someone was watching over us that day. My kids are all alive, they still laugh and smile, they can still dream. Killomanjaro may not have been in God’s plan for my kids or myself, but even now we are planning our big “comeback tour”. If nothing else I am thankful that this experience has shown me how much the kids have been impacted by my time here, and the even larger impact that they have had on my life. Our adventures continue soon…stay tuned!

TOP TEN REASONS THESE BLOGS ARE SO LATE!

10. TRANSPORT ISSUES. The open-ended truck with a roll bar and barely functioning brakes, which serves as the only transportation to and from Makong’onda, keeps leaving the village at 4 in the morning, instead of 5 when they are supposed to, thus leaving me in the dust (or leaving me waiting until 6am when one of the Mamas finally wakes up, laughs at me, says the car passed, and goes back to sleep (usually to the sounds of me swearing, LOUDLY)).

9. CROC HUNTING. (channel the spirit of Crocodile Dundee for this reading). We start at Makong’onda village, where we bike almost 10 miles to the Ravuma River. There we encounter the half naked boat men who gladly give us rides in exchange for a percentage of whatever bounty we capture. We sneak up on the crocs, but they are tricky to see, trickier when no-one (even the crazy boat men) will go near places where they were sited. Thus, we leave empty handed, to limp the ten miles up hill back home in the heat, defeated once again by the grinning, green, great, gargantuan lizards!

SARCASM. I’M NOT HUNTING CROCS. CALM DOWN MOTHER. J

8. CHICKEN DEPOPULATION PROJECT: MAKONG’ONDA. Here in Makong’onda, we appear to have a chicken problem. They are everywhere…and they get into everything, the gardens, the house, the classroom…We’ve decided to get back at these pesky creatures once and for all…by eating them! Chickens are delicious, and the only source of meat that you can find in Makong’onda, or any village for 10K. Because of our extensive amount of guests, combined our own primal urges for meat, we have been working on thinning the population of chickens in Makong’onda. This is a personal small project, and I believe that the chicken depopulation project has ultimately been very successful.

7. OFFICAL POLICE BUSINESS. Before the final examinations at Makong’onda Day, one of the police men (who slept at the school until exams were over) asked me if I would do him the honor of frisking my female students in their paper thin pocketless green skirts, so that he didn’t have to embarrass the girls by doing it himself. Why am I frisking them you ask? Why, to confiscate all of those high-technology gadgets that all African village girls carry on them to use to cheat on their tests. As I made my way thorough the line of girls (who were howling with laughter, possibly because I did most of it with my eyes closed so that I didn’t have to look at them) I reached the end, and Danford, the first boy in the row jumped up, arms spread as wide as the grin covering his face, “My turn! MY TURN!”. My refusal was loud and apparently devastating, as all of the boys moaned and complained (to my retreating backside) about the girls getting “more thoroughly searched”.

6. BICEP BUILDING. This is actually a personal project, involving me carrying water from my home to my garden, and then back to my home, in 20L buckets. 4 repetitions. I also routinely carry around my students’ biology and English notebooks, (all 110 of them) to and from the school. 3 repetitions. Finally, I lift daily, 20 minutes with each arm, my 6 month old friend Brian, who is just starting to eat solid foots, and thus starting to get really heavy. Repetitions dependant upon diapers and access to milk. Though my favorite buff male students still laugh and my weak arms when I try to invite them “TO THE GUN SHOW”, they are starting to get better…

5. NAPS. We have once again entered that stage in our weather where it is too hot to go out after 12, so I take naps. Lots of them. Until the sun goes away.

4. BREWING BOOZE. My buddy JB (see excuse number 3) and I decided that we would not be outdone by Luke’s homemade coconut wine (indeed, it would be hard to be outdone by this particular wine because it was GROSS!), and thus we decided to make ourselves some ginger wine. I heroically drove JB’s evil bicycle, which left scratches all over my left calve, to Nakarara in order to make the wine. We cleaned a bucket, boiled the water (truthfully, she did that before I got there), put in the ginger, 4 kilos of sugar (to the shock of her neighbors), and yeast, then mixed. We waited 3 weeks to taste…pretty potent stuff!

3. NEWBIE. We have a new girl in the vill who hails from Washington DC named Jenny Beth. She’s awesome, likes to run (and is willing to run painfully slow in order to keep up with/encourage me), and is one heck of a knowledgeable gardener. She can be found on any given day roaming the fields of Nakarara looking for something to whack with her machete or a piece of ground where she can thrust her spade. The good people of Nakarara love her, and the here students behave better for her (which is amazing). I’m super excited about having an awesome person to buddy-up with on new projects….stay tuned for our next escapades.

2. AMERICA! One of my students (Mustafa) was very blessed and lucky to get the opportunity to get into the American Embassy Young Leaders program. When we got the phone call we both jumped up and down screaming. When our eardrums and sanity were regained we realized (and by we I really mean I) that we had a lot to do, such as getting passport papers, non-exsistant birth certificates, borrowing a coat that will defend his heat hardened Tanzanian shell from the Colorado cold...it is going to be a busy month before he leaves!

1. ZA MAISHA TANZANIA (Tanzanian Life). Life here goes by so quickly. I didn’t actually realize until a message from my father (something along the line of “we were wondering if you were still alive…”) that it had been so darn long since I had written a blog. With the garden, exercise, crocodile hunting, guests that come and go, seminars, classes, tests, the library, soccer finals, and peace corps reports, its been a busy 3 months. I promise with the help of my new tiny computer I will try to give you bigger, better updates.

As you know, all updates and stories are TOTALLY worth the wait!

Peace and Love from Tanzania!

Mirinda

The Great Garden Project! October 17th

Give a man a fish, he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish, he eats for a lifetime.

Since the creation of the garden outside my house I have received a lot of attention both from my students and villagers alike. Many people in passing were just plain shocked that the white girl was able to actually make her own garden and many others were inspired (probably something along the lines of “if she can do it, ANYONE can do it….which is true…really). Many people began to ask me when we were going to start to make their gardens…and when I thought about it, I realized that this was a project that would require very little money, which would make it a project that would be perfect for….SUSTAINABILITY!
With the help of Jenny Beth, local garden expert from the village next door, my sidekick Musty, camera man Luke, and some awesome flipcharts (which I drew with the help of my AWESOME new colored pencil set from my cousin Verla while eating the AMAZING pork bites (PORK BITES! DELICIOUS!) that my cousin Jan sent), we were able to create a really cool nutrition/permaculture seminar. We invited 10 mamas from the village, IMPLORING them to be on time so that JB (Jenny Beth) would be able to show them how to do the digging and different garden techniques without the sun being a huge nuisance.
We were prepared to start at 8am, which means we weren’t actually expecting anyone to show until 9am…but every Mama arrived at 7:59. This was a great start! JB started the seminar in the garden while I begged/prodded/cursed the DVD player to use my gardening DVD (it didn’t work….at all, BA!). When they returned from double digging, a technique that allows the roots to grow deeper, thus allowing plant spacing to be closer, thus allowing more plants on less space, thus saving water, they were ready to hear all I had to say about nutrition.
We felt that the most important thing to get out of the way was WHY we were building a garden, and WHY other people didn’t already have a garden. The biggest problem was seeds and water, where o where were we going to get water to put on the garden (seeds they were getting from me). This was one of the biggest problems that we addressed. JB took it from a gardening point of view, saying that the compost that we could make and the double digging that we would do in the garden would help contain the water so that less would be needed. I came back with the practical point of view, saying that water used to wash dishes (soap? Please, they never use soap and in the words of JB, “nonbacterial soap is not harmful, and actually adds phosphate (A MACRONUTRIENT) to the plant), water used to bathe children, and water that is used to mop can all be saved to put onto the garden. Not to mention the dirty water that is found around the pump (from the leaks). When all of the Mamas began to nod their heads we realized we had them hooked. So we hit them with a double barrel of nutrition information.
Make a garden, eat better. Short and simple.
By the end of the seminar, the Mamas were really excited, and so were we. One by one (without any encouragement what so ever from me) they stood and gave a little speech about how excited they were to build their gardens. One Mamas speech was especially touching “We’re gonna get out there and we’re gonna make those gardens! Then we’re gonna eat better! Our kids are gonna eat better! We’re gonna plant GREEN PEPPERS (I don’t actually know why she was that excited about green peppers, but that was totally the end of her pep talk…green peppers!)!” After this speech, all of the Mamas got up, filed out, and went back to their business. Us instructors took a nap.
Two days later, every single Mama had a fence built and their beds double dug (or at least dug really, really deep). Other Mamas, having heard of my awesomeness, asked when their seminar would start. In another village, where water is better available, several Mamas asked when we would be able to teach there. The project was indeed a success, and we hope to continue to make as many gardens as possible until we have to quit because of the rain. Out of all of my projects in Tanzania, this was definitely one of the most fulfilling. I can walk about my village having already planted three gardens and peek in to see huge amounts of seedlings popping up in every direction! It’s an exciting time to be living (and eating!) in Makong’onda!

Mazoezi (exercize) Late October

“Mirinda, we see you really like Makong’onda”
“Oh really? Why is that?”
“Because you have gotten so FAT!”
It wasn’t until I learned 5 new ways of how to say “Hey Mirinda, you’re fat”, that I decided that a little exercise may be needed to spice up my life. This isn’t to say that I have blimped out, on the contrary, I haven’t gained that much weight or changed a size since I came back from my mid service checkup, where I had been shown to have gained a little weight (thank YOU America!), but not enough to reap the judgment that I have been getting in my little vill. To be sure, telling someone they are fat is a huge complement in Tanzania, often used when you are wearing a new dress or just re-meeting a past acquaintance. However, to be told by the village nurse, in front of every mama at the dispensary, that you need to start exercising and eating less at meals because you are SO FAT, goes beyond the complement stage and suggests that maybe I should do something so that people will stop telling me I’m fat.
Luckily, we have the trip to Kilimanjaro coming up in a little less than a month, meaning that we all needing to get into shape anyway. This gave me the opportunity to coerce all 11 of my students to run, sweat, and curse at the concept of exercise together with me. At first, they were all incredibly excited by the concept, we run, we laugh, we get fit. After a week, reality set in for me….”why did I eat so much in America, running is not fun, owwwwwwwwwwww I’m in pain….etc”, however the kids didn’t have any complaints at all. In fact, when I told them the first day we were only running 20 minutes they laughed and started to sprint away, until I warned them they would all be sore in the morning (HAHAHAHA, I won that battle, they could barely walk the next morning) and that we really needed to walk back to stretch.
My favorite running experience was the first 30 minute run with two of my favorite students, Jaffery and Andrew. We left right at the beginning of a graduation ceremony, so there were a lot of people in the street, and a lot of small children, none of whom had ever seen the white girl run before. Before we were out of the village limits, we had an army of barefooted, torn-shirted, shrieking children following us. At first it wasn’t that bad, there were giggles, the flap-flap of flip-flops slapping down on the dirt road, we just figured they would eventually turn around.
Wrong.
“Jaffery, tell the children to stop following you.”
“Ha, Madame they are not to be following me, just, they following you”
“No they aren’t, they’re in awe of your biceps…ask them yourself”
“Children, who are you following?”
“WE ARE FOLLOWING MIRINDA! MIRINDA IS RUNNING AND WE ARE FOLLOWING HER!”
“See I was tolding you”
“Ba!”
The next trick up our sleeve was to pick up the pace, but the boys soon realized that they would sooner lose me than lose all of the children, and they were kind enough not to let me face the screaming horde alone. There were some bright spots to having the children along. Typically the boys would veer off of the road and into the cashew fields to grab cashew fruit themselves, but now they had a small army of slaves within whom they had seniority. Children scatted to find the best fruits for Jaffery while others ran loyally at my side. We also never had to worry about a bike sneaking up on us…
“MIRINDA! BICIKELI!”
“BICIKELI! BICIKELI! MIRINDA, SEE THE BICIKELI!”
The only thing we truly worried about was one of our little soldiers taking a bicycle in the back for me, as they seemed well able to scream when one was coming, but not so adept at getting out of the way when one wizzed by. After saving the third tiny collarbone that couldn’t make it out of the way fast enough, Andrew turned around and told the children that he was just going to let them get run over…we saw it as a tough love approach. Luckily for the kids, we turned around at Mnaviera (the next village, a little under 5 K away) and began walking home, thus giving them more opportunities to search for fruit in the fields that lined the road, and stare at the huge sores that had welted up all over their feet as the result of running the entire way to Mnaviera bare-footed. The boys finally ditched me about 1K away from Makong’onda, slowly jogging so that villagers would think they had been jogging the entire time (posers). At this point I didn’t mind the abandonment, the children and I walked back hand in hand, sucking on the fruits they had brought from the bush and singing silly songs the whole way home.

On Being a Village Mama October 17th

Without Mamas, I’m positive that village life would be utterly impossible. Mamas are the true backbone of Tanzania. They care for the children, walk to their fields to plant crops, carry the water (waiting at the pump in the blazing sun for hours) for the entire household, hand wash the clothing for the entire household (including the soiled clothes that are used as diapers), feed the mouths of those who reside in or within the vicinity of their household, and they make time to visit one another while plaiting each others hair. It tires me just to write all of these chores, and while I sometimes manage to do all of these tasks in one day, it exhausts me to the point of wanting to lie in my bed and sleep for the rest of the week. I feel like I accomplish so much by doing these household chores, but really, doing all of the washing, sweeping, cooking, and gardening doesn’t help me teach the students, it doesn’t get their papers graded, or the library cleaned out, and it doesn’t help me with the various health projects I have started in the community. When I stop to think about it, the household chores are just a burden that keeps me from my actual work: but these chores ARE the ACTUAL WORK for every Mama in the vill. For this, I admire the strength and humor that each Mama brings to these tasks. Sometimes when they are feeling charitable, they allow me to come and help them with some of the more “white-person attainable” tasks. On the 17th of October, this included the cutting of firewood with Mama Semi and Semi.
There are dead trees everywhere in Makong’onda. Many of them are the direct result from the burning that farmers use to clean the dead brush off of their fields. What they don’t see (in the long term, and we NEVER see the long term here) is that they are not only killing the trees that add important soil nutrients and help prevent soil erosion, but as they leave their fields with burning piles in their wake, they don’t watch the wind blow the fire into the rest of the brush, thus starting the rain-starved cashew nut trees on fire, and thus ruining the field all together. To cut firewood, we set off for one of these desecrated fields, 2 machetes and an army of small children in hand.
When we arrived at the field, I received my first lesson in cutting the trees. Mama Semi lifted her machete, struck the branch in the same place 4 times in a row, and then pulled the tree to the ground. Once down, she up-ended the tree and neatly sliced every single small branch, leaving a clean, smart, and straight piece of wood. The entire process took less than a minute. Taking my machete and strutting to another tree, I decided that I was going to make this look every bit as easy as Mama Semi, who if, at 5 foot nothing and weighing barely 120 pounds, could make this look easy, then so could I. I was barely through the second strut to the tree before Mama Semi removed my machete and ran her finger over the blade, then showed me the finger. I looked at her and shrugged. She replied that there was no blood on her finger. Puzzled as to why that was a bad thing, I asked her why that was a bad thing. She said that the blade was not sharp enough. I amusedly pointed out that in the case I missed, at least we knew I wouldn’t completely chop my hand off. Smirking, and surrounded by the giggles of the girls, Mama Semi moved aside and allowed me to proceed.
My first chop in the wood was good, only about 1 cm deep, but low on the tree, a good start. My second chop was good too, about 1.5cm deep, and about 3 inches above the first mark. Now my third chop had a higher probability of going into one of those holes, because I had just doubled my targets. No such luck. In fact, by the end of the 7th chop, the bottom of the tree was merely filled with 7 small and distinct pock marks, its small branches trembling slightly after receiving each one, as if the tree was laughing at me with each stroke of my blade. At this point, I decided to take a more American approach, I wrapped my hands around the top and proceeded to shake the life out of the dead tree, encouraging it with colorful American metaphors to come “out of the damn ground”. At this point, Mama Semi was on the ground with the 4 girls, and all of them were convulsing with laughter, Mama Semi shaking so hard I would have assumed she was having a seizure had she not punctuated each shake with an ear splitting snort. After composing herself, Mama Semi apologized to the tree (TO THE TREE! HMMMPH!) and then with one fatal swing (that only would have worked with the help of my strategically placed small dent (just saying)) she felled the tree. She said she thought I was getting the hang of it though, and turned me loose with the army of small children while she went off to cut more trees on her own.
Semi and I proved to be an excellent team, and in less that 45 minutes, we had 19 tall trees, one of which I was able to fall in less than a minute and 10 of which I needed Semi to help me fall, at 12 years old, she is already far more proficient with a machete than I. We returned with our booty to the clearing where Mama Semi was tying all of her trees together. All together, we made a decent team, in 45 minutes, we both cut more than 18 trees (I cut 19, she cut 52). As we carried the loot back through the village (each young lady with a huge bundle of at least 15-20 a top her head, me with 7 in a hand-held bundle) the villagers hooted congratulations to me for surviving my first wood-chopping experience, and congratulations to Mama Semi, for surviving putting up with me.
Being a Mama is HARD work, REALLY HARD work.

Form Four Finale October 14th

After a stressful week of national examinations, late night cramming sessions under dull-glowing solar lamps and mid-day bean and flour stomach cramming sessions before afternoon tests, the good form four students of Makong’onda Day were ready for a little break. Actually, they were ready for a long break, as the end of their national examinations marked the end of their ordinary level school careers. Due to lack of rainfall, thus causing the lack of a cashew crop, the students were unable to pay for their graduation outfits and celebration this year, and thus it was concluded that there would be no celebration at all. Feeling the need for closure, I proposed that we have one final soccer match: Form Four students vs. the world, 5 dollars to the winner. The students agreed readily and on October 14th, the action went down.
Because this was an event of infinite importance (the pride of the Form 4 boys on the line, the rest of the school wanting to take them down), nearly the entire village turned out for the match. Before the game the traditional camp emerged, the form 4 boys crowding around the hut of one of their supporters and trying on the schools frayed jerseys and soccer shoes (though we all knew the soccer shoes would come off their feet not even 20 minutes into playing), singing, desecrating their old school uniforms with borrowed American Sharpies, and finally, marching together to the field, to the hoots and cheers of most of the village (the other half was still deluded into thinking the rest of the school stood a chance).
The game began, and with it followed the ever traditional smack talk. It is unclear to me at this point whether I enjoy soccer games for the love of the sport, or for the creativity with which the fans of one team insult the fans of the other team. The form four fan base, made up primarily of the boys who were not playing, began by singing, chanting, and synchronized dancing around the field – dancing into or through or on-top-of the other students’ fans. The other students retaliated with several dances and songs of their own, though they were rewarded for their efforts by the sounds of screaming as the form four students scored their first and second goals during the first quarter.
The second quarter should have marked a turning point for the other students, who, with help of one embarrassed teacher (who later insisted he wasn’t trying to help them as a coach but more or less give them a few tips on how to lose more gracefully), and with the help of two fresh additions to the team, should have been able to make the two goals to put them back to a tie. They were able to score one goal, which sent the form three students screaming, cartwheeling, and backflipping across the field, terrified babies strapped to the backs of the female students. Alas the game was considered over when the form four students were able to score the last goal (even though the person who scored was being guarded by two other players, the goal keeper in the goal), then it became a battle of the last man standing. By the very end of the match, two injured form four students had to be helped off the field, a league of form 2 boys screaming and launching themselves onto the field like a herd of crazed antelope at every fallen man to carry/drag them from the pitch.
As the whistle shrilled the form four boys began singing a song, beseeching me to give them their 5$ (because they had beaten the crap out of form 3…or something along those lines). Once in possession of the money, the person who held the money was hoisted to the shoulders of the other students, and bumped along the field, their song loud and probably reaching every corner of Makong’onda. The rest of the students couldn’t stay angry at the rambunctious form fours, after all, this was their official last game. Everyone joined into their ridiculous song, and most ended up callopsed on the ground, in fits of giggles, or exhaustion.
It was a finale to be remembered, and their loud singing, obnoxious jeers, and determined playing are how I will always remember the Makong’onda Class of 2009.