Bumpy Roads and Unexpected Blessings

From his abundance we have all received one gracious blessing after another.

John 1:16

This weekend we received a welcome break from the heavy rains that have been blessing us nearly every day since March.  Waking up to the sun pouring through the windows, warming the gardens and drying the hundreds of school uniforms draped across the clothes lines – it was a boost of energy and joy that we didn’t know we needed so badly.  While we are thankful for the cool weather and irrigation that the rains bring, it also makes life more difficult.  The power cuts much more frequently during storms.  Many people walk to and from school or work, so they are forced to either get soaked, or pay for transportation, which is greatly slowed or sometimes even impossible due to flooded roads.  Which reminds me…

Earlier in the school year the head teacher told me about a meeting between some of the church leaders and the administrators of the Lutheran schools in Bukoba.  During the meeting they discussed the church’s music college, which was struggling due to lack of students.  The once thriving campus was now mostly empty aside from a few teachers and a dozen or so pupils.  In order to make enough money to pay the teachers and keep the lights on, the church decided to send the music teachers to each of the different Lutheran schools once a week to teach music classes to certain grade levels.  In return for their teaching, each school would make a monthly donation to the music college.  When the head teacher informed those gathered that KEMPS already had a trained music teacher (me), the response was something like, “Great! She can join the program, too!”

I’ll admit, I was not thrilled when I got the news.  Yes, I’m technically a volunteer teacher for the Lutheran church, but no one likes being volun-told they’re going to do something.  I met with the teacher assigned to KEMPS, Madam Bridgette, and we decided which day and which class she would teach each week.  She told me about her background- she received her music education training in the Philippians and had attended several conferences in Europe.  She was a singer and could play keyboard and some guitar, but her specialty was brass instruments.  She told me that she usually taught at the secondary or collegiate level, so she wasn’t sure where to begin with elementary students.  She was pleasantly surprised when I told her all that my sixth graders knew from our classes and we came up with a game plan for how we would spend our hour and twenty minutes together each week.  

Then she told me about Bukoba Hope Secondary School.  She told me that if I was willing, they would love to have me teach there on a day that works for me.  Initially it sounded like I would go for a few hours one weekend and do a seminar about a specific topic, but as time went on and I asked more questions, it became clear that this was not a one-time thing, but a weekly teaching commitment.  We decided that I would go on Fridays, when I had the afternoon free, and I would be teaching guitar to Form III students.  She asked if I had my own transportation, and, thinking that the school was close to town like KEMPS, I told her that my husband had a motorcycle, and he could take me.  

The week we were scheduled to start our classes I talked with teacher Bridgette about the details.  

“So where exactly is the school?” I asked.
“Do you know Ruhija village?” she replied.
“No.”
“On the road to Mwanza?”
I shook my head.
“Ok, well it’s about 38 kilometers outside of town.  Are you sure you can manage with pikipiki (motorcycle)?”
I began to imagine riding 38 kilometers into the “village” there and back every week.  I could already feel the dust and grime that would surely cover my face.  Seeing my shock and then hesitation she said,
“You can also take public transportation, but you will have to leave very early because it can take a long time.”

I must have said something agreeable because all of a sudden, she was leaving, telling me she would see me on Friday.  Immediately I started to panic.  I couldn’t take public transportation there and back every week, by myself, with a guitar.  No way.  But what was the other option? Motorcycle? What about when it starts raining every day?  And why was I even doing this in the first place? Was this really my job?  
I decided to talk with the head teacher Kalokola about it.  When I explained my predicament, he was immediately supportive, even echoing my thoughts that this wasn’t in my job description.  
“If they want you to go there, they have to provide transportation for you.  It’s the least they can do.”
He made a call to teacher Bridgette to explain, who then made a call to the head teacher of Bukoba Hope, who agreed to would pay the 50,000 shillings ($22) for a taxi to bring me and take me home each week.  So it was happening. 

 
The taxi arrived right on time that first Friday with Madam Bridgette in the back seat.  It took us around an hour to get to Bukoba Hope, most of the journey on dirt roads in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere.  We passed fields of pineapples and drove through gorgeous pine forests, across a one lane wooden bridge and along a rushing stream, flanked with what looked like giant, white, puffy dandelions.  Finally I spotted the “Bukoba Hope, 3 KM” sign and we drove down into a quiet valley and onto the school compound. 

After introducing me to some of the teachers, Madam Bridgette took me to the music classroom.  The octagonal building was built on the far edge of the campus, off by itself.  The room was set up for examinations with desks and chairs equally spaced and the exam schedule from December written on the chalkboard.  On one side of the room were around a dozen guitars in plastic cases.  I started to tune them as Bridgette grabbed a broom and started sweeping.  Flustered by how out of tune the guitars were and how many I had to tune before the students arrived, I hadn’t even noticed the bees.  The room was swarming with them, and the floor was covered with them.  “If they bother you too much, you can always go outside.” Bridgette advised. 
 
After she finished sweeping, she told me good luck and started out the door.  “Oh, you’re not staying?” I asked.  “Oh no, I’m teaching another class with the Form I students.” She said before waving goodbye.  I took a deep breath and continued tuning.  There were eleven large guitars and two mini guitars, plus the one I had brought with me.  Several of them had broken strings or wouldn’t stay in tune due to being left in the open music room for who knows how long.  But that was what we had to work with.  I heard a bell ring on the other side of the campus and within minutes the room started to fill with the teenage students, wearing their mustard yellow collared shirts and hot pink sweaters.  I pulled one girl aside as she entered and asked how many students would be in the class.  “Forty four.” She said, smiling.  I quickly tried to figure out the best way to execute my lesson plan for 44 students with only 11 functioning guitars.  

It’s times like this when I like to think my music education professors would be proud.  After a brief introduction of the instrument and explanation of how to read a chord chart, I wanted to get them playing.  We set 11 chairs in a semi-circle in the center of the class and the first group of students came forward to learn how to play the D chord.  While they figured out where to put their fingers and excitedly strum their first chord, the other students watched on, ready for their chance to play.  After the first group had all successfully played the D chord, they handed off their guitar to another student, and then stayed to help them put their fingers in the right place.  We did this rotation for times, until every student had played the D chord, and the class period was over.  The students helped me pack up the guitars and then all stood to say goodbye.  “Thank you, we love you, welcome again.” They said in unison. 
On my walk back to the center of campus, I met Madam Bridgette.  She asked how I managed with so few guitars and I briefly explained the rotation system we used.  She walked me to the car, and I waited for her to get in.  
“Oh no, I’m staying here.  I teach a class on Saturdays and I have land and a small house in this village.”

We said our goodbyes and I settled in for the hour drive back to KEMPS.  As ridiculous as it seemed to make a two hour round trip for an hour and twenty minute class, I had to admit, I really enjoyed it.  
I’ve been to Bukoba Hope half a dozen times now, and the students are really progressing with their playing.  It’s obvious to see how much they enjoy it, and having to share guitars allows for them to teach and learn from one another.  I’ve also been able to learn from teaching with Madam Bridgette here at KEMPS.  She has taught my sixth graders several Swahili songs that I’ll be able to take back home with me.  Two weeks ago she brought with her a class set of recorders which they were THRILLED to learn.  Every week she comments on how much they surprise her, either with their previous knowledge or how quick they are able to pick up new songs or skills.  I’m really proud of them.  

Not every trip to Bukoba Hope has been smooth.  One week the dirt roads were so full of holes and bumps from the rains that the taxi got a flat tire and he continued to drive on it until we got close enough to where we could take motorcycles the rest of the way.  And some weeks when Friday rolls around I still dread that 2 hour, bumpy car ride.  But as much as I’m teaching at Bukoba Hope because it’s what was asked of me and it’s a help to the music college, it’s a help to me, too.  Every week I get an hour and twenty minutes to do what I spent four years of college, and three years of my life after that completely devoted to.  It was my calling before Tanzania and it was what brought me to Tanzania.  But somewhere between moving to another continent and learning a new language and teaching ESL students, I lost that passion.  And this crazy, unexpected, inconvenient situation has given me a piece of that passion back.  That seems to be how God likes to work.  Just as we’re in the thick of our ‘cons’ list, He stops us in our tracks with a blessing that puts everything into perspective.  Sometimes we don’t want to see the blessing, we’d rather consume ourselves with all that’s wrong, but the good is always there.  Have you been looking for it? 

Mungu akubariki,
Allee

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Alison Gomulka

15601 Shady Brook Lane

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Scenes from the ride to Bukoba Hope