For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to go back to Africa. My parents were both English teachers who met in Kenya and got married in Nairobi Cathedral. I spent my first few years there and, even after returning to England, grew up surrounded by all things African. I loved the occasional evenings that my dad would get his boxes of slides down from the attic and we’d all sit round as a family and reminisce.
So when I finally got round to contacting Mondo Challenge in early 2007, I had just assumed that I would go back to Kenya. But when I looked at the countries where their projects were based, for some reason Tanzania was the one that appealed to me.
On arrival, I was introduced to Kate, the country manager, who told me that my placement would be at Timbolo Primary School, situated in the foothills of Mount Meru, and my family for the next three months would be the Kinisis. I would be sharing them with another volunteer, Lindsay, who was American and who had already been living there for two weeks. Their home was in a village called Ngaramtoni where Mr David, the father, ran the New Sahara Café. Mama Baraka worked at the local hospital and they had three boys: Baraka (17), Lowassa (15), and Julius (7). They also took care of Mama Baraka’s nephew, Venance (5). I realised the first day I met Mr David that his was no ordinary family. He had a cheeky grin, an infectious laugh and a mischievous sense of humour. He told me his motto was ‘Be free’. I loved him immediately.
With Mr David under a Maasai shuka.
So when I finally got round to contacting Mondo Challenge in early 2007, I had just assumed that I would go back to Kenya. But when I looked at the countries where their projects were based, for some reason Tanzania was the one that appealed to me.
On arrival, I was introduced to Kate, the country manager, who told me that my placement would be at Timbolo Primary School, situated in the foothills of Mount Meru, and my family for the next three months would be the Kinisis. I would be sharing them with another volunteer, Lindsay, who was American and who had already been living there for two weeks. Their home was in a village called Ngaramtoni where Mr David, the father, ran the New Sahara Café. Mama Baraka worked at the local hospital and they had three boys: Baraka (17), Lowassa (15), and Julius (7). They also took care of Mama Baraka’s nephew, Venance (5). I realised the first day I met Mr David that his was no ordinary family. He had a cheeky grin, an infectious laugh and a mischievous sense of humour. He told me his motto was ‘Be free’. I loved him immediately.
With Mr David under a Maasai shuka.
My walk to school took about an hour. Most of it was uphill through thick dust and for the first two weeks I had painful blisters on the soles of my feet. It sounds like a nightmare but it was the highlight of my day. The scenery was stunning, the views across the plains were breathtaking and at every turn there were little groups of children just waiting to grab your hand and walk with you for as long as they could. Every single day I did that walk I noticed something different about the landscape.
Part of my walk to school.
My first few days at the school were challenging. I have been teaching English for almost seven years now and was used to a certain way of working. I soon realised that if I tried to apply my usual teaching methods to my classes of over 100 Tanzanian kids, I would get nowhere fast. You have to alter your expectations and focus on what you think is important for them. Songs were extremely popular and I used to love listening to the whole class launch into ‘If You’re Happy And You Know It’ with huge smiles on their faces and impromptu dance moves. They enjoyed coming up to write things on the board and anything visual (flashcards or pictures) was greeted with appreciative gasps and murmurs.
The other teachers were a joy to work with. They were all relatively young and not particularly experienced but they did the best they could with what was available and had a great rapport with the kids. Ten o’clock was ‘chai’ time when we would all sit around and chat over cups of hot, sweet tea. Within a couple of weeks everyone had nicknames and I felt like I’d been there for years. I remember sending a text message to one of my friends saying, “I can’t believe I’ve only got seven weeks left.”
My first few days at the school were challenging. I have been teaching English for almost seven years now and was used to a certain way of working. I soon realised that if I tried to apply my usual teaching methods to my classes of over 100 Tanzanian kids, I would get nowhere fast. You have to alter your expectations and focus on what you think is important for them. Songs were extremely popular and I used to love listening to the whole class launch into ‘If You’re Happy And You Know It’ with huge smiles on their faces and impromptu dance moves. They enjoyed coming up to write things on the board and anything visual (flashcards or pictures) was greeted with appreciative gasps and murmurs.
The other teachers were a joy to work with. They were all relatively young and not particularly experienced but they did the best they could with what was available and had a great rapport with the kids. Ten o’clock was ‘chai’ time when we would all sit around and chat over cups of hot, sweet tea. Within a couple of weeks everyone had nicknames and I felt like I’d been there for years. I remember sending a text message to one of my friends saying, “I can’t believe I’ve only got seven weeks left.”
In the staff room with some of the teachers on my birthday.
There was a student who stood out from day one. His name was Ndobiri Sambeke and he was in my Standard 3 class. It’s not easy getting noticed in a class of 120 but he had no such problem. He always had his hand up, was desperate to answer my questions and his huge grin lit up the classroom.
Meanwhile, my walk to school became more interesting as I got to know some of the villagers and some faces became more familiar. One day a girl came out of one of the Maasai huts and greeted me by name. I asked her what she was called and how she knew me, and she said that her name was Naramatisho and that her little brother was in one of my classes. She was kind and friendly and although her English wasn’t great and my Swahili was almost non-existent we liked each other immediately and I used to look forward to seeing her on my walk home.
Ndobiri continued to work hard and began to come and chat to me at break times and loved taking photos with my digital camera. One day we walked home together and he insisted on carrying my bag. We stopped outside the hut where Naramatisho lived and he took my hand to lead me in. I realised that she was his elder sister and this was his home. I was invited in and given a banana, which I ate slowly as everyone sat round and watched.
There was a student who stood out from day one. His name was Ndobiri Sambeke and he was in my Standard 3 class. It’s not easy getting noticed in a class of 120 but he had no such problem. He always had his hand up, was desperate to answer my questions and his huge grin lit up the classroom.
Meanwhile, my walk to school became more interesting as I got to know some of the villagers and some faces became more familiar. One day a girl came out of one of the Maasai huts and greeted me by name. I asked her what she was called and how she knew me, and she said that her name was Naramatisho and that her little brother was in one of my classes. She was kind and friendly and although her English wasn’t great and my Swahili was almost non-existent we liked each other immediately and I used to look forward to seeing her on my walk home.
Ndobiri continued to work hard and began to come and chat to me at break times and loved taking photos with my digital camera. One day we walked home together and he insisted on carrying my bag. We stopped outside the hut where Naramatisho lived and he took my hand to lead me in. I realised that she was his elder sister and this was his home. I was invited in and given a banana, which I ate slowly as everyone sat round and watched.
With Ndobiri at school.
Within a month Ngaramtoni felt like home. Lindsay and I had become great friends and we were enjoying our time with the family more and more every day. We would go to Arusha at the weekends just to have a hot shower and get together with the other volunteers but we were never as happy as when we were watching badly dubbed soap operas with the kids on our laps surrounded by our family.
Sometimes I would lie down on my bed in the afternoon just listening to the laughter coming from outside and a big smile would spread across my face.
Amina took care of the house and did most of the cooking and cleaning. We would sit outside in the evenings under a blanket of stars and watch her roll out the dough for chapattis or chop up the vegetables for her special salad that Lindsay and I loved so much. Everything was uncluttered and simple and it all made perfect sense.
Within a month Ngaramtoni felt like home. Lindsay and I had become great friends and we were enjoying our time with the family more and more every day. We would go to Arusha at the weekends just to have a hot shower and get together with the other volunteers but we were never as happy as when we were watching badly dubbed soap operas with the kids on our laps surrounded by our family.
Sometimes I would lie down on my bed in the afternoon just listening to the laughter coming from outside and a big smile would spread across my face.
Amina took care of the house and did most of the cooking and cleaning. We would sit outside in the evenings under a blanket of stars and watch her roll out the dough for chapattis or chop up the vegetables for her special salad that Lindsay and I loved so much. Everything was uncluttered and simple and it all made perfect sense.
Lindsay and Amina making chapattis, with Juli in the background.
The weeks flew by and before we knew it we had to start thinking about saying goodbye. The kids at school had end of term exams and Ndobiri came top in all his subjects, including English. I started to think about his future and what options he had. He was obviously a very bright little boy and had the potential to go far but had none of the advantages or opportunities that the kids back in England had. I decided to ask Kate if I could sponsor him. One of the teachers, Masue, took me to Ndobiri’s home to meet his father. His name was Sambeke and he was a farmer with no wife and seven children to feed. Ndobiri was his youngest. Masue explained in Swahili that I wanted to help with Ndobiri’s education and contribute towards things like school uniform, pencils and textbooks. Sambeke just looked at me and grinned. He grabbed my hands tightly and said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Then continued in Swahili. Masue laughed and I asked her to translate what he’d said. She told me that he had only ever dreamed that something like this would happen and that tonight, when he slept, he would feel fat and warm and contented as though he had a full stomach and not a care in the world.
My last day of school was awful. I knew I was going to miss the teachers terribly and saying goodbye to the kids was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. They couldn’t understand why I was crying and kept saying, “See you in January!” It didn’t occur to them that I wasn’t coming back. Ndobiri walked home with me carrying my bag and understood perfectly why I was so upset. He and his father came down to the village a few days later to say goodbye. I gave Sambeke some money to buy Ndobiri a new school uniform and promised that I would stay in touch. Mr David told me he would look out for them.
The weeks flew by and before we knew it we had to start thinking about saying goodbye. The kids at school had end of term exams and Ndobiri came top in all his subjects, including English. I started to think about his future and what options he had. He was obviously a very bright little boy and had the potential to go far but had none of the advantages or opportunities that the kids back in England had. I decided to ask Kate if I could sponsor him. One of the teachers, Masue, took me to Ndobiri’s home to meet his father. His name was Sambeke and he was a farmer with no wife and seven children to feed. Ndobiri was his youngest. Masue explained in Swahili that I wanted to help with Ndobiri’s education and contribute towards things like school uniform, pencils and textbooks. Sambeke just looked at me and grinned. He grabbed my hands tightly and said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Then continued in Swahili. Masue laughed and I asked her to translate what he’d said. She told me that he had only ever dreamed that something like this would happen and that tonight, when he slept, he would feel fat and warm and contented as though he had a full stomach and not a care in the world.
My last day of school was awful. I knew I was going to miss the teachers terribly and saying goodbye to the kids was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. They couldn’t understand why I was crying and kept saying, “See you in January!” It didn’t occur to them that I wasn’t coming back. Ndobiri walked home with me carrying my bag and understood perfectly why I was so upset. He and his father came down to the village a few days later to say goodbye. I gave Sambeke some money to buy Ndobiri a new school uniform and promised that I would stay in touch. Mr David told me he would look out for them.
Saying goodbye to Ndobiri (with his dad and brother).
Lindsay and I threw a ‘Goodbye and Thank You’ party for our family. We bought a big chocolate cake, gave Baraka some money to buy Cokes and Fantas and blew up loads of balloons. I drew the face of a family member on each one and they all had their own catch phrases. Mr David’s said ‘Be free’. We presented them with a photo collage we’d made of all the great times we’d had and they surprised us with traditional kangas. Along the bottom the Swahili saying read, “Receive this gift and our hearts will be happy.” We ate, laughed and danced to our favourite Tanzanian tunes and it was exactly what we had wanted it to be – a night that none of us would forget.
Wearing our kangas with the family at our farewell party.
Saying goodbye the next morning was a lot more difficult than either of us had anticipated. Everyone was in floods of tears and I felt physically sick at the thought of having to drive away from them. Mr David came with us in the taxi to Arusha and all the way there Lindsay and I just sat on the back seat and sobbed.
Before you do something like volunteering for three months in a third world country, you sit and think about it. A lot. You try to run through every possible scenario and prepare yourself for every possible disappointment or disaster. You worry that you’re not going to be able to cope with what might be thrown at you, that you’ll be the first volunteer to give up on the first day, that you’re going to say or do something to offend the people who have so kindly welcomed you into their home. You don’t dare to hope that this might become the experience you’d always dreamed about, the one you’ve been waiting to have since you were ten years old. But that’s what it was: everything I’d hoped for and much, much more.
Saying goodbye the next morning was a lot more difficult than either of us had anticipated. Everyone was in floods of tears and I felt physically sick at the thought of having to drive away from them. Mr David came with us in the taxi to Arusha and all the way there Lindsay and I just sat on the back seat and sobbed.
Before you do something like volunteering for three months in a third world country, you sit and think about it. A lot. You try to run through every possible scenario and prepare yourself for every possible disappointment or disaster. You worry that you’re not going to be able to cope with what might be thrown at you, that you’ll be the first volunteer to give up on the first day, that you’re going to say or do something to offend the people who have so kindly welcomed you into their home. You don’t dare to hope that this might become the experience you’d always dreamed about, the one you’ve been waiting to have since you were ten years old. But that’s what it was: everything I’d hoped for and much, much more.
With my Standard 3 class.
