Is it helping 1 or abandoning 39?

Luis.

How do you pick one child to give a future to, when you love all 40? How do you pick one child when you know the others can't afford education, when you know all they want is to learn?

I thought that by sponsoring one of my children it would help me transition back into the somewhat selfish life of a commercial television network employee when I return home. I thought it was a good way to keep part of myself in Tanzania, and keep giving back. But that mind frame in itself was selfish, because it's not about me. The truth is it has been such a heartbreaking experience.

I partly let my teachers choose for me, I explained that I wanted to sponsor one of the kids and send them to Intel School, a great private boarding school here in Arusha which has a really good sponsorship program, but I needed to know more about the kids home situation. I knew which were the brightest in the class and which had the biggest hearts, but I didn't know which would be ok without me. Almost all of them, they explained, would not be able to afford to go to a decent primary school.

My placement is at Shining Star Pre-Primary school, with children from 2 years old to 6 years old. I have the 6 year old class so all my kids will have to move schools next year. Shining Star is run by 3 generous women with enormous hearts who started as volunteers, teaching the local kids. The poorest kids can't pay, so the teachers turn a blind eye. That won't happen next year when the 6 year olds move schools.

Luis is the brightest in my class. I remember him clearly on the first day, he was the only child who wasn't excited by us being there. I noticed when I spoke to him he wouldn't look me in the eye, he looked frightened. He kept his head down, his eyes averted, and I couldn't help but wonder if his strange body language was a result of something which had happened to him in the past.

It took about a week to win him over but slowly I started getting little smiles, then high fives, and then one day he took my hand and held it, while giving me cutest little grin. Teacher Lucy suggested he would be the best to sponsor because he has so much potential and such a poor family. So I chose Luis.

I didn't tell him straight away, I waited until I was 100% sure it was going to be possible. And then once I had confirmed an available place with Intel School's director, I arranged  a meeting with Luis and his family to see what their thoughts were. Luis's dad arrived at school half an hour early, and he didn't wipe the smile off his face the whole time. He's young, looks like he's in his late 20s, early 30s. He said through a translator that he preferred boarding over a day student because that way Luis will get 3 meals a day, something they can't always offer him at home. He shook my hand about 8 times.

And then the meeting ended, Luis went and chatted to his friends, and a few came running over to me. I will never forget the look of hope in Ian's* eyes. (I've changed his name for reasons which will soon become apparent.) He tugged on my shirt, and looked up at me with these gorgeous big brown eyes, a half smile on his beautiful but dirty face and said, "Teacher, School?"

Ian* is also an incredibly bright student. He has a heart of gold, and wears the same torn clothes to school every day. He gets to school early and stays as late as he can before he has to walk home. I learnt recently it's because his father is an abusive drunk, most of his baby teeth are cracked. Ian* will not get to go to a decent school next year, because of a decision I made. He will stay in a horrible living situation because I could only pick one. And he's not unusual, all the kids have different stories and different living situations, all are incredibly poor with parents who can't give their children a proper education despite desperately wanting to.

After school today I took Luis for the afternoon to get him set up for his first day at his new school on Monday. We met one of the staff members from Intel school who took us to the local market and helped us get everything we needed. There was a long list of necessities, blue sheets, black school shoes, a towel, washing soap, a pillow, the list goes on. I was the only white person in the market and was extremely glad to have Godson with us (that's his name, to clear up any confusion). The aisles were narrow and dusty, the stalls overcrowded and filled with everything you can think of. We bought a suitcase first and then were ushered into another stall which had almost everything we needed. One of the workers brought me a chair, Luis sat on my lap wide eyed as Godson started handing out orders to the crowds of stall holders eager to cash in on the "Mzungu". We stayed in the one place as they brought everything to us. Cork screws? No! Socks? Yes, 5 pairs, tick that off the list. Plates and cups? No! Undies? Yes, 5 pairs, another tick off the list. Every time something was ticked off the list and dropped into the suitcase Luis turned around to me, stunned, and whispered in my ear, "Thank you teacher."

He needed a pair of black school shoes, runners for sport, and a pair of slip ons for around the boarding house. He looked at them all confused, then he counted in English for my benefit - "one, two, three," then pointing to his own shoes "four shoes?" Again he was stunned. All up they cost less than $35, what I'd happily spend on a casual Melbourne lunch. "Thank you teacher," he said somewhat breathless, and tears started rolling down my face. Awkward.

Had I been there on my own I would have had to fight to the death on every single price but Godson ensured we got local prices and weren't taken for a ride. The only thing I kicked up a fuss about was the grey track suit for sport with the "Adidass" label on it. No, that's not a typo, well at least not by me. The "fake copiers" didn't even know how to spell the brand name, and the was no chance I was paying the asking price for it. Even Godson didn't realise they weren't genuine Adidas trackies until I pointed it out to him. I eventually got them for half price. Winning.

I'd hired the use of our trusty driver Jimmy for the afternoon and it was finally time to load up the purchases and take Luis home. He directed Jimmy where to go in Swahili and I finally got to meet his mum and baby sister Catherine. Same name as my mum, it must be a sign.

Luis's mum was waiting for us at the end of a dirt road. The family lives in a few rooms with a tiny store set up through one of the windows for income. She didn't speak a word of English but she too shook my hand and smiled. Godson explained to her that we'll pick them all up on Monday to tour the school and support Luis for his first day. It will be just the three of them at home now. I asked through translation if they were sad that Luis wouldn't be living with them anymore, 6 is such a young age for boarding school. And they laughed.

Crazy angry white woman. Me.

Today was the first day I got seriously mad. I yelled at buff looking local welders and I kicked two kids out of class. Temporarily.

It all started with the desks.

3 weeks ago Jack and I ordered 15 new small desks for our students. They were supposed to be ready the following week. We went to check on their progress after a few days and while slightly behind, they looked good. The place was filthy, with welders sitting on the floor all around us with sparks flying everywhere, we just had to step over them. Some of them wore sunglasses, some had nothing protecting their eyes. The desk bases were strong, and the right size. Strength is the most important thing because the desks get thrown around and they break. I was optimistic, he said they would be ready the following Monday instead of that Thursday. I could cope with that.

On the Monday we had organised a car to pick them up but a last minute check in phone call confirmed they still weren't ready. "Tomorrow they will be finished." This happened time and time again for 2 more weeks. Teacher Rose went to check on them one day and they told her they needed more money to pay for materials, even though we'd already paid half in advance. She didn't want to tell us so she borrowed the money and I found out about it later. This morning again the desks were supposed to be ready so Jack and I walked there before school. We could see some of the bases lying around, unfinished, terribly made, they looked as if I could snap them in half. The workers don't speak any English but they knew what the crazy white lady was talking about. They could hear I was furious. They could see the difference between "strong, good!" And waving my hands frantically at the new ones saying "weak, bad!" They could see me pointing to the terrible joints, and put their heads down when I said "3 weeks! 3 weeks!" I rubbed my fingers together making the money signal and made it clear that we were going home soon. When we leave, our money leaves. This must be finished today! Heads still down they nodded, but I didn't trust them for a second. 3 quarters of the payment had already been handed over, the desks looked shocking, they still didn't have all the material necessary and they were more than 2 weeks late. I was furious.

I left feeling dejected and started the day on the wrong foot. The kids were even more disruptive than ever. They fought in the playground, hitting each other with closed fists. I turned around at one point to see one of the assistants wacking the naughty children with a large stick. I felt sick. How on earth can you teach a child not to be violent when their punishment from those who they respect is more violence? I don't blame the assistant, that is the culture here so that's what she has learnt. I try to never judge another culture as being right or wrong, but I can't help myself here. It's wrong.

I had the class to myself in the afternoon and the fighting continued. The bickering and poking and smacking escalated and I saw two of the kids again throwing fists. I yelled at them properly for the first time. "I will not have fighting in my classroom!" I don't know where it came from. My voice bellowed. I took the two responsible by the arms and dragged them out of the classroom, they didn't come willingly. I repeated myself, "I will not have fighting in my classroom!"

The rest of the class stopped, stunned. They were quiet and well behaved for the rest of the lesson. The two boys outside came back in after about 30 seconds and sat at their desks, heads down, silent. My dummy spit may have in fact been quite successful, and by the time school finished it was back to smiles and cuddles.

The morning's desk dummy spit was actually quite successful too. We went back there after work with Jimmy, our big strong local friend (and driver) who agreed to put the hard word on for us. To my surprise all the dodgy joints had been fixed and almost all of the 15 bases had been finished. Apparently we can pick them up tomorrow. I just want to see them at school before I leave.