Let there Be Light

It's 7:00 in the evening. Ten of my most dedicated adult students sit at tiny wooden desks at a local primary school, clustered around dimming candle light in a vain attempt to see their test papers.

Though this single room at the primary school has florescent lights installed, electricity is unreliable at best. It makes the simplest task a difficult undertaking. Simply printing their tests was a five hour undertaking and took visits to three printing dukas. The effort feels largely in vain as my students struggle to read their papers.

People here desire to live in a modern world. Many of my students are business men and women. Many are travelled, multilingual, and well educated. But modernizing a country that can't keep the lights on is difficult. When my students return home from our evening English class they will cook dinner over gas stoves or charcoal grills. They will check their children's homework over candle light and play dominos by starlight.

Life here is accustomed to going on in the absence of electricity. But everyone here is very aware that where I come from power is continuously available. That where I grew up electricity washed my clothes, cooked my food, heated my water, and light my house at the touch of a button. They say I am very brave to live here, where there is so little... well, everything really. I don't feel brave though. I feel like throwing things when the lights don't come on, when my phone doesn't charge, when the fan doesn't blow and I sweat miserably all night. I feel embarrassed by my own frustration.

Cheers echo through the neighborhood when the power turns on. They quickly turn to groans as it shuts off minutes later. But candles are lit and life goes on. My students finish their tests and walk home by moonlight. They say "Inchallah, tomorrow there will be light."

Winter Kept Us Warm

It's December now. Even in Florida December brought a break from the heat. Not so here. We have entered the hot rainy season. "Seasons" don't so much exist in this tropical climate. The year is divided into dry and hot and rainy-sauna-from-hell. The heat is relentless. You would think, coming from Florida, that I would be better equipped to deal with the heat and humidity, but it is my daily struggle. I strongly believe Florida would be less inhabited if it lacked electricity and AC.

It's difficult to sleep through the night. Heat rash breaks down my skin. Everything is sweat soaked and slow to dry in the humidity. The rain doesn't bring much relief from the heat- it just prevents sweat from evaporating. I am grateful for the free water though. Buckets go on the roof to collect rain for my constantly dwindling supply of water. I've been told I am very clever by Comorians for collecting rain water. I can't for the life of me figure out why this isn't common practice.

Soon torrential rain will come daily to disrupt life in Anjouan. Students don't like to attend school in the rain, taxi drivers don't like to pick up passengers, and the market sellers don't like to set up shop. The already slowly paced life here in Comoros grinds to a halt during the rain.

Schooled

It's 7am and the students are pouring into Mustamudu Lycée. They wear the "uniform" of high school students: a red T-shirt and black pants or skirt. In spite of the heat the girls wear extra layers in the name of modesty and cultural tradition. They would never leave the house without their shiromani (a long sari-like cloth wrapped around the body) and a large scarf that covers their hair, neck, and shoulders. I get heat stroke just looking at them.

A guard is posted at the entrance to the campus (which looks like something out of a post apocalyptic teen movie) to catch students out of "uniform" or those who are tardy. No such rule exists for teachers. Tardiness is something of an epidemic here. "Island time" they call it. Locals laugh at foreigners' obsession with time. Being late is partly a result of cultural relations to time but it is also a result of practical delays. Many of my students walk miles over rough terrain or take a crowded taxi-bus from outlying villages.

Many students board together in the city in less than desirable conditions for the opportunity to attend high school. Their class size will drop as they lose the funds to pay school fees, are forced by necessity to find employment, or (for the girls) end up married. With all they face I can't find it within myself to be overly critical when a student is a few minutes late. I'm just glad they showed up at all.

Teachers are just as likely to be tardy or absent. On first discovering this I was horrified. A classroom full of students and no one to instruct them. Shame! It's hard to stay on my high horse when I remember that these teachers haven't been paid in months. They might as well be volunteers at this point. Teachers here receive a lot of criticism, but they do what they can under the circumstances. The classes here have upwards of 40 students, no text books or materials, no electricity or resources. Still, many of the students are better educated in math than I am.

One of my biggest surprises when entering a Comorian classroom was how unexpectedly old my students are. Though they are the equivalent of US 10th graders, many of my students are in their 20s. Some were delayed entering Quranic school as children, some had to wait for funds to travel to Mustamudu for high school, and others had to drop out for a time. For all their struggles they are remarkably like teens and young adults from anywhere in the world. Some struggles they face are ubiquitous to high school students everywhere and some are unique to their circumstances. I'm just honored to have the opportunity to improve their outcome.

When I enter the classroom the students stand and yell "Good morning teacher!" For some of them this is pushing the limits of their English ability. They smile just the same. They have faith that everyday brings the possibility of improvement.

Water

Water security is often a problem for Comoros. During my stay on Grand Comore water outages or shortages were common. Few people in Comoros have the luxury of turning on a tap and being presented with water. The fortunate and wealthy purchase water to fill cisterns or large water drums. The less fortunate beg for water from neighbors, wash in the ocean, siphon water from businesses, or generally scrape by. Grand Comore has no natural ground water. No lakes or rivers, or aqueducts. Water is imported in the dry season and collected in the rainy season.

I was told that Anjouan was different. An island of rivers and waterfalls. A waterworld. In Anjouan, I was told, water flowed free (literally, there isn't a charge). My (limited) experience hasn't supported that.

In my town, for many residents, water doesn't flow from anywhere. Not from the dry riverbed, or the unless pipes, or from the cloudless sky. It is dragged, unwillingly, from a rocky well at the edge of town. If you arrive at the blessed time. I have lived a privileged life. "Water conservation" was simply a buzzword. A favor I might do the planet to feel good about my karma. I might turn the gushing faucet off while I brushed my teeth in the name of environmentalism or global warming or, you know, one if those causes. Sorry California. Sucks to be you. Sucks even more to be an impoverished developing nation with limited resources and little infrastructure.

My life is radically different now. My hair hasn't been washed in days. I can bathe from a cup and feel grateful. That shirt can definitely go another two weeks without a cursory washing. When my water supply runs out I trek over the dried riverbed full of trash, across to the dusty edge of town, and down into the pit where sometimes water briefly resides. Dozens of women are there hauling water, washing clothes, and generally living their normal lives. For me it is a misery to drag my 20 liters of typhoid infested water home. Life shouldn't be this hard. This is how much of the world lives, but in this aspect I can't cut it. I'm waiting for a delivery of water, which I will measure cup by cup, no drop wasted, because every drop reminds me that many people in my town can't afford this luxury. They can't quit when the labor gets too hard. They'll balance their buckets and jugs on their heads and trek to the well because if they don't their families won't eat, bathe, or drink. Every drop counts.

Medina Life

My new home is in a medina, a maze of tight, narrow streets, shops, and homes that surrounds the mosque. The streets are wide enough for one person to walk down, which doesn't stop packs of wild children from barreling through the maze at full speed. This medina and the crumbling walls around it were built to slow and confuse raiding pirates. I imagine that it was effective. I still struggle to find my way home. Lucky for me the wild children of the medina can always lead me to my house. In fact, any white person who stumbles into the medina will likely be brought to my place. I'm thinking about naming it Wazungu House.

For me the medina is characterized first and foremost by sound. There is no quiet in a place where one can step from roof to roof. Children laugh and scream, women chat and bargain, men listen sports and play games. But here the dominating sound, the sound that rules over daily life, is the call to prayer. It comes from the iconic turret rising from the mosque. An eerie singsong chant calling "Allahu Akbar": God is great. Reminding the medina's inhabitants five times a day of the force that governs their lives. As the call sounds the male residents will make their way to one of the half dozen smaller masques packed tighly into the one kilometer maze. When the call to prayer falls silent the beating of drums  rises to take its place. Women practicing for the all important weddings that are bound to take place that night. Rhythm is life in the medina. Silence rarely comes, even in the deepest night. Music plays at all hours, until the 4am call to prayer signifies the start of a new day.

Journeys

Today is Eid, the long awaited end to Ramadan. I find myself stuffed into a traditional Comorian dress, jammed into a crowded mini-bus, and set off down the road to Fumboni. Today is my host mom's wedding. The distance to Fumboni is short, but the journey is a long one. The roads here were once paved, but that is no longer the case in many parts of the county. Great swaths of the little road to the southern tip of the island have been worn away by time and rain. Now all that remains are narrow strips of asphalt that a bus might set two wheels upon.

I think I first imagined that people in Comoros, being so low down on the development index, would have little idea of what they are missing. But people here remember when the roads were drivable and when the power and water flowed. Those things left with the French Colonial power. The price of freedom I guess.

What all of this means for me is that I  experiencing the second worst bus ride of my life. It's rather like a rollercoaster without the fun. Or the safety equipment. It is a two hour bus ride from Moroni on the central coast to Fumboni on the southern tip. I'm convinced that you could walk it in four hours.

The bus hugs as much of the pavement as it can during the journey. The exciting part is when vehicles approach from the other direction. Then a game of chicken begins. Who will be forced to give up their tiny segment of asphalt? I'm not really sure. I had my eyes closed most of the time. But at the end of all of this was the beautiful town of Fumboni. And a journey of a different kind began.

Home Cooking

Cooking in Comoros is a labor of love. In a country largely devoid of electricity, ovens, refrigeration, and running water quick homemade meals are unheard of. Dinner preparations begin early in the day. My host aunt is in charge of cooking for her family. She leaves for the market shortly after dawn to collect the food stuffs she will need for that night's meal. The market is crowded, noisy, and overwhelming, to me at least. She navigates it easily, as she has done all her life. She returns with fruits and vegetables from one market, flour and oil from another, and cuts of fish and meat from a third. Some of these items will become tonight's dinner. Some will be redistributed to other family members.

The task begins with washing last night's giant pile of dishes in shallow buckets in the back yard. My host aunt hauls back breaking gallons of water from the cistern at the front of the house. The washing is cursory to my western sensibilities, but each dish washed requires significantly more effort than loading the dish washing machine back home. When this is taken care of, more women arrive to help. They bake root vegetables over coal fires in the yard, make Comorian bread in shallow pans over gas burners in the kitchen, and peel and juice various fruits while sitting on tiny little stools. Each little task is probably more effort than I would be willing to put into a whole meal. Spices are ground between rocks out back, and strange sauces are removed from a warm refrigerator that serves more as a cabinet than as a device to keep food cool.

I am tasked with taking a portion of the food they cook to Mama Linda, the less fortunate neighbor next door. I walk down the steep ledge to the tin shack in the compound next door and call through the scrap of cloth at the doorway. I am greeted with hugs and kisses and gratitude. Though she can hardly spare it, she sends me home with bread and fish made specially for me.

At the end of their labor they set a table with salad, baked bananas and cassava root, beef or goat, fish, flatbread, rice porridge, crepes, juice, and tea. The women don't partake in the feast they so painstakingly prepared though. It is for their male guests. They women will eat the leavings and burnt pieces from a communal platter in the backyard while others eat the fruits of their labor at the dining room table. I am given a seat of honor at the table with the men. I must admit that I am jealous though. The women's warm laughter from the backyard compliments the food much better than the men's silence.