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I came to Africa hoping to broaden my horizons, expand my capacity for empathy, understand something of a very different part of the world and — I hope — enjoy myself. But failing any or all of those things, I told myself I would at the very least build up my reservoir, such as it is, of the quality of resilience that would serve me well in the future. The topic bubbled to the surface after some memorable events last weekend, recounted below (and with apologies for an unusually long post today. In the future, I promise more Hemmingway, less Faulkner).
“Resilience” is actually something I’ve spent a fair amount of time thinking about as an education reporter. There’s a growing recognition of its importance — that skills like learning how to stay calm in a challenge and not be devastated by setbacks are very useful predictors of long-term success and happiness. Of course, what role educators should play in nurturing resilience is a complicated question (I‘m sure parents think about resilience all the time too, but I have a decent amount of experience covering education and zero as a parent, so I‘ll stick to that). There’s a fear that if resilience is overemphasized it could undermine other aspects of the curriculum — why not replace history or math with a ropes course? Resilience also bleeds awkwardly into the question of character education, a minefield of political and even religious conflict that most educators prefer to avoid.
(That of course wasn’t always the case, at least at the college level; the Calvinist founders of the earliest American institutions of higher learning had no such qualms. But these days, outside the service academies, while there is much talk of building resilience in students and lamenting Gen Y’s lack thereof, the cause is hampered by soaring tuition and the creature comforts customers demand in return. That isn’t to say resilience is tossed aside, but it seems to be put in its own separate box of questionable authenticity. There are outdoors programs and study abroad, though many more go to Sydney than Senegal. One of the best-known vehicles whose ostensible purposes include teaching resilience is college sports. I actually think it’s a pretty valid one. You may think college athletes are pampered and over privileged, but they work hard and, by mathematical necessity, experience defeat on average every other time they compete. Harry Lewis, a former Harvard dean, recounted a faculty colleague lamenting that the school was cutting its number of athlete slots. “That’s too bad,” he said. “They’re the only people around here who know how to lose.”)
Resilience, of course, is a much broader concept than knowing how to lose, but it seems a fit one to describe Tanzanian children, who are incredibly well-mannered and uncomplaining. Something similar — though with much different origins — appears true for the children of ex-pat families who live here, working as missionaries, doctors, engineers and in the coffee business. Their kids live in considerably more comfort than most others here and most attend the high-end international school in town. Still, they have a very palatable sense of adventure and lack of fear. It is striking how far-removed these families are from the helicopter-parent culture of the States. Of course, it’s a self-selecting groups - true helicopter parents probably wouldn’t up and move to a country like Tanzania. But even accounting for that their children are remarkably precocious, independent and mature.
Which brings us to the events of last Sunday. To set the scene, some readers may be familiar with “hashers.” These are groups around the world that organize outdoor outings. In Moshi, the local chapter meets every few weeks and someone is designated to “set the hash.” Participants drive to a spot, usually a good bit outside of town, and the setter lays out a trail for a hike or run designed to last perhaps an hour or two. The trail is marked by scoops of flour dropped on the ground. These are not official trails, and it isn’t always apparent where the path leads, so the group must work together where it’s unclear, heading off in a couple different directions until someone spots the flour and shouts “on on” so the group knows where to follow. Custom dictates the first group arrange sticks into an arrow alongside the flour to point the way where the route is unclear.
For the outing on Sunday, friends picked us up in their pickup truck and we headed west out of Moshi, with Mt. Kilimanjaro looming along the right side of the highway to our north. A few miles outside of town we turned right toward the foothills of the mountain. Soon we were in an entirely different, much wetter eco-system. The dry, dusty soil gave way to a much more forested and greener feel - almost jungle-like. We passed through a few villages and settlements and many people walking up and down the roads, usually balancing water buckets or giant bags of stores or fruits and vegetables on their heads. The pavement ended abruptly and the road became extremely rough; there had just been a downpour, which didn‘t help. Finally, we bumpily descended a steep hill to a river, where the other hashers were parked and waiting to start. There were various people and families I recognized from the last outing, mostly ex-pats, including quite a large number of children.
We gathered around the group leader who had set the hash. He was known to be fairly hard-core, and told the group this was a tough one. We laughed nervously, having regrettably expected a fairly simple walk in the woods and packed accordingly. We set off.
“Tough” turned out to be an understatement. The river was at the bottom of an immensely steep canyon that shot up hundreds and hundreds of feet on each side (to my great regret, I forgot to plug the memory card back into the camera so there is no photographic record, but the location can be found on this Google map: http://tinyurl.com/yfrt3vf . I can’t pinpoint the exact spot, but this all took place in the canyon you can see north of Machame on this map. The terrain lines give a sense of the steepness).
We carefully crossed the river on rocks and followed the flour straight up a steep incline. Then the trail cut north, across the hill and parallel to the river along a tiny ledge between a small irrigation ditch built into the side of the mountain and, well, nothing. We followed perhaps half an hour along the precarious ledge. For some portions, falling on the river side would probably have meant tumbling down and, if lucky, being able to break one’s fall on a bush. But it was so steep it would have been almost impossible to climb back up. The only choice would have been to try to slide down to the river and follow it back. On substantial other portions there would have been nothing to stop the fall and I’m pretty sure a missed step would have been “game over.”
I had already concluded that the person who set this hash had gone overboard; while parts of the hike were steep it was not impossible, but the consequences of a misstep were severe. As a child, I’m pretty sure I would have been starting to freak out by this point, but the kids around us showed no signs of alarms and followed in close order. Gradually, the trail descended to the river, which because or the rain was running higher than when the hash had been surveyed and set. We had to cross it, which meant wading through thigh-deep water with a not insubstantial current, and I was worried some of the smaller kids might lose their footing and get swept down. But they were more nimble than the rest of us and persevered back to the west side of the river.
By this time I was pretty angry; the hash was entirely too dangerous and difficult for a group with children, but we were in the middle of it and could only hope the return trail was easier. In fact, it was, but unfortunately that’s not the way we went.
After crossing the river, the trail started straight up the immensely steep west wall of the canyon. The only way to climb it was on hands and knees, reaching into crevices in the soft dirt. About this time, several mistakes were made almost simultaneously. I saw the group ahead climbing straight up the face of the hill and assumed that the trail went straight up to the ridge and then turned for home. But once on the hill itself it was difficult to see people more than a few yards in front of you. I followed the people ahead of me who — another mistake — weren’t paying close enough attention to the flour. The part of my brain that was supposed to notice that I hadn’t seen flour for a while didn’t click in. And somehow we missed the trail, which cut back to follow the river at a fairly steady elevation, about one-third of the way up the hill.
Instead, we continued the extremely arduous climb. I found myself in a group of five. At the front was Holly, a physician friend of Maria’s from Duke, who was in the lead; Hawa, a Tanzanian pharmacy student; Frankie, a 5-year-old Tanzanian orphan who has been adopted by an American living in Moshi; and Alya, the 9-year-old daughter of Jeff, another Duke doctor who has lived and worked in Moshi for several years. We continued up the hill, grabbing onto roots to hoist ourselves up, hoping the top wasn‘t much further. I tried to say reassuringly that I thought the group had just gotten ahead a bit and would be waiting at the top of the hill. But then my cell phone rang (absolutely remarkably, the cell phones worked almost the whole time, even though we were miles from anywhere). It was Maria, who was on the trail, wondering where we were.
Where’s the trail? I asked. When she told me it was only about a third of the way up the mountain, I realized what had happened. We were almost at the top. But we couldn’t just backtrack — the hill was simply too steep to go back down. Nor could we walk parallel to the river at our own elevation. On that side another canyon cut perpendicularly toward the river, and it was just as steep, with no trail down. There were two possible directions we wanted to go and both were blocked.
It’s always said in more serious disasters, like an airplane crash, it’s rarely one error but a slow compounding of several minor ones. That was certainly the case here. The person who set the hash had made it irresponsibly; yes, the point is to learn to follow the flour, but almost every week people get off track and, especially with children, the consequences of a mistake simply must be less severe. The spirit of the group looking out for each other had broken down as everyone focused on getting up the steep side of the canyon; both Maria and the parents of the children had let those behind them out of their site. Holly, in the lead, failed to stop when she hadn’t seen flour for a while, as did I. I failed to be open to the possibility I was wrong in assuming the trail went straight up to the ridge (I also failed to bring a whistle, flashlight and other emergency tools, which I won’t do again).
By cell phone we tried to reconnoiter with the others, but they couldn’t see us, or hear when we shouted loudly. We thought we knew where they were but couldn’t be sure. Eventually, we could hear each other shouting, but because of the canyon we couldn’t be entirely confident of pinpointing where the noise came from.
Had I been alone or with adults I would have viewed this as a challenge; with a 5-year-old and a 9-year-old in our care I was more concerned. For the moment, they were fine, but would happen if they got hungry or hurt or lost confidence we knew what we were doing? It seemed not at all difficult to imagine somebody spraining an ankle. What then? Frankie didn’t even have a water bottle. Luckily, they showed no signs of anxiety as Holly and I mulled our options. I felt the only choice was to keep moving up toward the ridge, which looked flat, and hopefully either find a road home there or at least a route to get past the perpendicular canyon and down the other side. Unfortunately, that would mean moving away from the group waiting for us. Holly had understandable concerns it could be further than it appeared — the familiar phenomenon of thinking the ridge is always just ahead. I briefly considered the well-established body of research causing people to interpret limited information more positively than is warranted. But I thought we should try, while attempting not to lose sight of the river. Because of the heat, the hash hadn’t started until 4 p.m. It was now well after 5 and would be dark at 7.
I was reluctant to even recount this story for fear of sounding like I was narcissistically overhyping a missed turn in the woods for a death-defying adventure. It was not that. But the fact was we were somewhat lost on a steep canyon side with two children, no food and no flashlights, and the sun starting to set. There was no known path back to our group and the trail. I tried to keep up an encouraging tone but it was certainly one of a handful of occasions I’ve experienced where the certainty one usually carries around that things will be just fine and I’ll be back safely in my own bed tonight was not at my fingertips. If we couldn’t get to the ridge and then over, we might be spending the night — once the sun went down it would be impossible to find us.
What was most remarkable was that throughout this, the two children were astoundingly calm and poised — probably more than me. I kept offering Frankie some water but he declined. He asked if his mommy was up ahead a few times but never got upset and he did everything I asked — keeping up with the group, not getting ahead or behind. Alya betrayed no panic and acted as if it were just another adventure (while commenting she wouldn’t be going on any more hashes sent by THIS guy again). They were so relaxed I actually had to push them a bit to keep moving. They could not have missed from our shouting and conversations what was going on. The average five- and nine-year-old, cut off from their families, would have long since lost it in such circumstances. I’m sure I would have.
We continued up the mountain with some difficulty, given there was no real trail through the brush. Finally, it flattened out and a clearing opened up and revealed a small farm and tiny dwelling. My fears of spending the night in the woods subsided. But here again I perhaps made another interesting mistake. I had barely spoken with Hawa, though she spoke perfect English. She also, of course, spoke Swahili and in hindsight I’m not sure why I didn’t ask her to knock on the door at the farm and see if they could direct us to a road that would take us back. Perhaps it was stress clouding my judgment; perhaps I wasn’t confident we could convey to anyone where the cars were parked and we might get sent further away In any case, by this time, Jeff, Alya’s dad, had backtracked along the trail to try to meet up with us, and I wanted to connect with him. So we continued with the original plan, and moved south along the ridge parallel to the river until I thought we were beyond the point where the perpendicular canyon would be blocking us from following the river further. We looked over the edge of the canyon, which was still was still very steep but slightly less so (enough to have trees growing).
We knew at some point we had to descend and this was as good a place as any. We had regained shouting contact with Jeff, who seemed to be right below us. And it was getting darker. So we dropped down into the woods, following his voice. Essentially, we were skiing. There was nothing of a trail and soon we were essentially sliding down on our behinds, bracing ourselves against bushes and trees to keep from falling down. Again, not a peep of complaint from Frankie and Alya. I kept pushing ahead toward Jeff’s voice and had to remind myself there were five of us and I couldn’t get too far ahead. Finally, to our relief, I saw Jeff‘s head poking out of the brush.
He was calm and put everyone at ease, though obviously he had been worried, and we weren’t quite clear yet. Once we were under the canopy, the darkness was even more noticeable. Also, we still weren’t on the trail. Jeff had left it himself to come straight up the mountain toward us, and the portion he had climbed up, bracing himself on bushes and trees, felt close to vertical as we made our way back down. Here at last Alya, and Hawa, showed some anxiety. We were perched atop a clearing that essentially required us to sit down and slide a good 40 or 50 feet. For a while, Hawa and Alya sat at the top, understandably nervous to take the leap. Jeff encouraged them but eventually told them it was getting dark they just had to go (in hindsight, with their low center of gravity, some of this maneuvering was probably easier for the children).
Even then, I had no idea how much further we were from the trail or home. Fortunately, the trail was close. Frankie, the 5-year-old, just slid down like he was at the playground and bounded ahead. I told him not to go any further. But after one more big slide there he was, standing on a trail next to a much-welcome splotch of flour. And even smiling.
After so much scampering through brush, the trail was a relief. It ascended back to another ridge and another field and farm opened up. A half-dozen children who lived there greeted us with shrieks of delight and giant smiles. Why were these mzungus driving out into the middle of nowhere only to walk around in the brush? And how had they gotten so filthy? They laughed at us. I kicked myself for forgetting the camera card and missing pictures of this beautiful place or the children and their home. As the light faded, there were magnificent views of the entire basin beneath Kilimanjaro where Moshi sits.
At last, we caught up with Maria and the group ahead of us. Frankie hugged his mother, who, if she had been worried, showed no signs of it. Halfway down she picked him up to carry him the rest of the way. He barely said a word. We followed the flour down a dirt road and, with the very last of the light, arrived back at the starting point, where the other hashers were finishing their post-hash picnic. They laughed and stared at us; we were all covered in black dirt and looked like coal miners after a day‘s work.
I wasn’t in a mood to laugh about it. But I told both parents how impressed I was by their children. I don’t know if they considered it such a big deal. Perhaps this is all just a day’s work in Tanzania (though I could tell many of the parents on the hash thought it was over the top for children). There is, of course, no way to predict how a child will turn out. But I would bet those two will be fine.
