Global Classroom Creative Writing Anthology 2015
Maua Primary School, Arusha, Tanzania
Somewhere Unforgettable
Uneven gravel paved the steep road beneath the dusty wheels of the crowded minibus. Its young passengers stayed unusually quiet, listening only to the steady coughing
of the engine as the bus crawled towards the dusty grounds. This is it I thought to myself. All the long nights of redrafting applications, and lying awake with a strange
combination of anxiety and excitement were amounting to what lay mere meters in front of us. We were greeted first by sound before the tired wheels of the minibus had
even rolled onto the dusty grounds of Maua Primary school. A beautiful sound, a sound like no other I had ever experienced. Beyond the dirt stained windows of the minibus,
perfect lines of school children stood before us, outside the decrepit structure of their low laying school. Their voices seemed to act as one as a song began to erupt from
their young lungs. Though I could not understand the language they sang in, the feeling was universal: a sense of love and belonging rushed over the bus’ passengers, who
continued to stay quiet, mesmerized by the sheer power of love and acceptance spread by the school children.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
As the minibus came to a final stop, excitement pumped like blood through my veins. We had been told in the briefing before we left about how we might feel when we
finally saw the children we had traveled thousands of miles to help. No briefing could have prepared us for the way our hearts would pound, and our eyes would water
behind a wide smile, when we finally saw the eager faces of the children who stood before us, allowing us the privilege to hear their sweet song. Many of the children did not
have proper uniforms or shoes, and the few who did fit poorly or were damaged severely. It was something a child in the United States might have thrown a fit about being
forced to wear, but they wore the thin clothes they had with bright smiles and a glowing sense of pride. I realized in that moment how much the children of Maua Primary
School would make a lasting impact on my life. The children who stood before me had so little, yet they radiated a sense of happiness I could only dream to one day have.
It stunk of vomit and urine. I tried to mainly breathe through my mouth so the smell was less obvious, but at this point the smell barely disturbed me anymore. It was
small, yet to me it was gigantic, infinite. The vast void of obscurity which was painted in my brain was in fact no bigger than a couple paces with an uneven structure. It
was cold, yet I was sweating awfully.
Over the next few days these children would fill a space in our hearts that we never knew was missing. Through teaching them lessons outside on the dusty ground, and
spending hours painting and renovating the small classrooms and dormitories which they slept in, a greater appreciation for all that we have was solidified in our hearts. The
conditions the children lived in were gut-wrenching; they often slept up to four to a small bed in a cramped dormitory - its walls reeking with the stench of sweat and stale
urine - with no access to clean water and only small stew like meals to sustain their growing bodies. The experience we were able to gain in Tanzania was something that will
last a lifetime for everyone involved, but there is still more work to be done.
My sense of hearing was on hyper-alert. Maybe due to my lack of view, or maybe due to the tenebrous and nefarious surroundings which would automatically make
anyone suspicious. Either way, the constant dripping of my blood on the cold, rough tiles was the closest I had to an unchanging and immutable hourglass.
It was dark. Shadows surrounded me. My eyesight had gone, although how long ago, I had no clue. When I first came here, I could still see the uneven surface of the stone
around me, still discern the sparse, treasured rays of light which would rarely enter the place of my imprisonment.
A layer of grit and dirt covered the hard, stone floor, infecting my wounds, but I couldn’t feel that anymore. The itch was terrible, but the pain was worse. I felt every shiny
pearl of that crimson red blood as it dribbled off my knuckles, ironically almost tickling me. It was almost as though I could see that rich colour which my eyes were
unable to see, so long had I been in the same position, thrown across the hard floor and unable to move except for my ability to breathe and occasionally twitch my hand
as a spear of red hot Z[