The classrooms and the quad are empty.
The teachers' room is empty, except for the lone globe with pencil holes punched in it and the old clock on the wall that perpetually believes the time is 9:07.
Whatever could cause such a stir/lack of work ethic in a Tanzanian school (besides a regular workday morning)? The president of Tanzania! Jakaya Kikwete, Tanzania's democratic leader since 2005, was scheduled to visit our school at 11:00am. The "Rais," or president, is a member of Tanzania's most powerful party (by far), which is called CCM.
As happens with any national figurehead, his posse preceded him. Below, you can see Njombe district chiefs, Iringa regional representatives, and, of course, the headmaster of my school, mingling in and tingling with anticipation of the president.
Rais Kikwete's arrival brought sundry sorts of people from the school, the village, and the surrounding bush. They woke up early and walked, barefoot, for hours just to secure a good viewpoint from which to see their "Mheshimiwa" (respected) leader. They waved party flags and prepared native African chants or songs to welcome him.
The teachers at my school, including me, arrived from across the street hours after the villagers had already recovered from their miles-long pilgrimages on foot, but because of our status in the immediate area, we just took the front row standing room only stretch of school grounds that had been reserved for us.
The primary school students sat in front of us, at the edge of the school entrance.
Everyone worked hard to prepare for the mheshimiwa mgeni's (respected guest's) arrival, but, in a contest mediated by a totally unbiased judge, my students would take the cake for putting the most effort and time into creating a presidential atmosphere. They constructed two full-sized, Land Cruiser-accomodating arches from tree bark, banana leaves, and - well, tree bark and banana leaves, they lined the road with yellow flowers, and they painted a huge welcome sign that hung over the road, suspended from tree leaves. How do you suspend a heavy cloth sign from nothing but the leaves of trees? I don't know. Tanzanians have a mysterious, idiosyncratic brilliance for doing seemingly impossible things like hanging heavy cloth signs from tenuous twigs and leaves.
I haven't even mentioned the time my students spent digging out the old Tanzanian flag, washing it, and raising it on the usually-empty pole in front of our school.
They also whitewashed the brick-curbs of every path on the school grounds, trimmed all of the nearby hedges, and watered the road so that the dust wouldn't dirty their Rais' no-doubt immaculate suit. When I joked to my students that maybe Rais Kikwete has one relatively inexpensive suit to wear on his village visits so that his really dapper outfit doesn't get ruined, my students simply laughed. "Don't be silly, Miss Laura," one reprimanded, "the president can only wear his best clothes to our school." And another added, "He'll wear the same suit he wears to America." This started a discussion about how frequently Rais Kikwete visits the preeminent U.S. of A., and it was generally agreed that Kikwete must take at least a full-day trip to America once every week or so.
In anticipation of the president, there was a sort of party. I suppose it was a little like the cheering before a rock star takes the stage, but more organized, more practiced, and yet somehow also much more irregular. Students and villagers sang the songs they had prepared for his welcome, often with competing volumes, and an MC blasted bongo flava (that's the Tanzanian version of hip-hop) from a black Ford Explorer with speakers mounted on top. Below is a video of my students singing the songs that they composed and practiced (endlessly...several days until after midnight) to flatter the mheshimiwa upon his arrival.
Ok, in the interest of finally getting this post up, I'll add the video later, since this computer doesn't like moving images.
The Njombe district head, in the green skirt, encouraged the primary school students to "cheza ngoma," or dance to drumbeats. She wasn't bad, but the kids' rhythms left something to be desired. Their off-beat steps, uncomprehending frowns, and and hands-in-their-pants moves in no way, however, detracted from their irresistable cuteness.
Finally, after hours of waiting and hours of singing/dancing, the president's security guards finally walked through the arch that my students built. Anticipation skyrocketed, as the arrival of the president's secret security force should mean that the president is not so far away. Right? Right?
Not right. The arrival of the armed security guards preceded the arrival of the president by nearly an hour. So we continued to wait, watching empty space under the arch.
Finally, after keeping us waiting, Rais Kikwete rolled onto school grounds exactly on Tanzanian time: 90 minutes late.
Instead of getting out of his car and off his wheels, however, Kikwete preferred to avoid touching our bush-turf by climbing out of his sunroof and sitting on top of his car.
After embarrassing village leaders and telling the villagers that he was powerless to help them with their most pressing problems (i.e. water, electricity, roads), the president waved and smiled. To my surprise and disdain (as well as that of some of the more worldly teachers), the villagers actually cheered.
He did, however, do me the gallant favor of realizing that I had a camera and posing for a picture.
My Tanzanian "besti" (who, by the way, deserves a huge congratulations because she just got married - she hasn't had a wedding yet, but her fiance just bought her from her father for 1,300,000 Tanzanian shillings, or about $1,000) smiled in amused disbelief at his irreverence.
Even his body language was uninviting. Crossed arms, disapproving downward gaze.
But still, I couldn't resist the urge to take a self-portrait with the "elected" leader of any country, regardless of his attitude toward those who were forced to elect him or brainwashed into electing him.
Before he ducked back down into his Land Cruiser and was driven away, leaving only the chaos of unrealized expectation and some lingering body gaurds in his wake.
