THE SECOND TERM II

PRACTICAL PHYSICS

My 34th morning at Victoria House was inauspicious. The hot water was essentially off, with only a mere trickle flowing through the knee-high faucet; there was insufficient pressure to elevate it to shower-head height, but I had bathed in a low-level stream several times before, so I proceeded to get fully lathered. And of course, just as I was ready to rinse and then to shampoo my hair, the hot water disappeared completely.

To add to my pleasure, the toilet had begun leaking at its base, and although a fundi had been summoned to repair it a few days earlier, on this morning the bathroom floor once again stood an inch deep in water. Fortunately, the hotel provides its guests with rubber flip-flops; since they're stored under my bed, their intended purpose is probably not for wading and bathing, but that's how I use mine.

I was not surprised to find the dining room in disarray and totally unready for breakfast, since a group of dirty, unshaven, loudmouthed Whops, complete with backpacks and short ice axes, had staggered in late the previous afternoon direct from some mountaintop experience somewhere. Their addition to the usual melange of Brits, Frogs, Krauts, and assorted Scandihoovians easily stressed the establishment past its limit of strain. The coffee was cold, the fruit arrived 15 minutes late, and the eggs were fried, not poached; this was, after all, only the 34th consecutive request for soft-poached eggs. I glared at them for a time in silence, and they were suddenly snatched away and served to someone else; I hope he enjoyed pepper on his eggs and salt on his tomato. When the correct order of eggs finally did appear, they were nicely done, although without the usual accompaniments of sausage and toast, and ultimately a thermos–it always comes in blue here–of fresh, hot coffee helped to improve my mood. So I carried on up the hill with a note for the headmaster that I expected to provoke a substantial reaction from him.

It has been my observation over the years that the traditional lecture system, so widely used in science education at many levels, has a number of significant advantages. It is comparatively economical in use of space, in time of set-up and preparation, and in cost of instruction; in this age of television monitors, one lecturer can engage as many intellects at one time as can be conveniently and simultaneously seated, and not necessarily all in the same room. And best of all, it has not been convincingly demonstrated, at least not to most science teachers I've met, that this time-honored method is any less effective than those numerous expensive modern innovations that require so much time from teachers and their assistants and the dedicated use of laboratories and class rooms. But the greatest advantage of all, particularly if one has the luxury of teaching assistants and graders, is that one never need know what is, or is not, going on in the minds of the students. Nothing is more exciting than to step down from the lectern at the end of a lecture that has been delivered flawlessly and without reliance on notes, and to realize that one has imaginatively elucidated profound insights on the day's topic that one did not know in advance that one possessed. It's a most gratifying process for the lecturer; I know, I've experienced it myself. It is usually a much less gratifying process for the student, however; I know, I've also experienced that myself.

During my first term at Ilboru I conducted no practicals. This was not only because of my innate impracticability, but also because I thought that those few of the ten weekly class periods for each stream that did escape cancelation would be better used if I reviewed topics that had been discussed by other teachers or had gone undiscussed when their assigned Tanzanian teacher, who is simultaneously the senior academic master, the head of two departments–physics, de jure and chemistry, de facto–and totally worthless, completely ignored them. Toward the end of that term, however, this triple disaster and the headmaster requested that a regular schedule of practicals be instituted this term. That caused no problem for me, since Ilboru has a full-time physics technician, and another in chemistry, each of whom seems to have much more free time than meaningful responsibility. Ultimately, I even acceded to the head of department's request, although to do so was in complete conflict with both my basic nature and better judgment, that I put in writing in a notebook especially prepared for the purpose my timetable of practicals; evidently teachers do not communicate directly with technicians. That this same triple disaster, on the first Friday that I was assigned to use the new physics laboratory, the only one provided with power, was not on campus was typical and no surprise, but that he had carried off the only existing key to that facility was a bit of a revelation, even in this, the eighth month of my Tanzanian experience.

When I returned to town to become a hotel resident again, and especially during the period I seriously considered leasing a flat at such a distance from Ilboru that a hired car and driver would have been a necessity, I became very disinterested in the time-wasting educational practices so diligently worshiped by the Tanzanian Ministry of Culture and Education and enforced by the headmaster. If I were paying my own way, I reasoned, why should I not teach in my own style? Lacking a colleague to argue with me, I decided to do just that. I thought briefly of discussing with the headmaster those procedures I would no longer follow–in fact I even drew up a list–but instead I decided simply to skip them as they occurred and to wait for a confrontation. As it happened, such was not long in coming.

As a student I always particularly resented those instructors who gave a full-period, formal lecture the first time the class met in a new term. So I've never done that, at least not that I can remember. Ilboru proved no exception. Fortunately, a bundle of letters from some California high school physics students had arrived during the holidays, so we talked a little bit about the differences between American high schools and Tanzanian secondary schools during our first meeting of the term. The three periods set aside for the first practical were then used to read, discuss, and answer those letters. This may well prove to be the best thing I did here with my students.

A colleague of mine at Central Washington University, which is where I did my all of my previous practice teaching of physics, very kindly prepared and mailed copies of three experiments that many instructors there use during the first term of introductory physics. One in particular, a straightforward analysis of projectile motion, has always appealed to me, so I decided to use it with these students. The experimental record is a stroboscopic photograph showing the projectile’s position ten times each second. The practical work is a bit tedious–these Tanzanian students complained about that much less than did their American counterparts–and amounts to measuring positions and then calculating velocities and accelerations.

It wasn't too surprising to find that these students had trouble recalling basic definitions and that they had almost no perceptual facility with fundamental concepts; that's true at home, too. But when I talked with them individually, or in small groups, about the time interval between two successive flashes of light, and hence between two successive images on the film, the puzzled looks on their faces were undisguised. The most popular response was “two-tenths of a second,” and when I shook my head negatively to that, I often heard “one-twentieth of a second.” I remember one group of three guys in particular that I prodded and cajoled for at least fifteen minutes. Finally, one of them saw the light–sorry–and blurted out, “Oh, it's a tenth of a second.” Immediately one of his colleagues looked past me at him and asked in amazement, “How did you get that?”

Generally the technician stood mutely against the wall unless I asked the students to direct their questions to him. On this first occasion, however, he personified a man of action and proudly brought me a stroboscopic flash unit from the storage bins lining three walls of the room. It's an attractive item, with the xenon lamp and the power supply together in a compact package. The unit has never been used, at least not since leaving the factory in England, because no plug has as yet been attached to the power cord. I would have put it into operation to illustrate how such a unit works, but for this practical I was assigned to the old, and hence powerless, laboratory. I frankly doubt that it would have helped anyway.

One other of their reactions surprised me at first, but I now regard it as symptomatic of the basic weakness in the Tanzanian approach to science education. Without intending to suggest any particular relation between them, I mentioned in succession the “frequency” of the strobe and the “velocity” of the projectile. Immediately, and almost without exception, the students wrote down the equation that combines those two concepts and “wavelength,” a formula that describes wave motion. Exactly what characteristic repeat distance they thought the resulting number quantified, I still do not know. It is always revealing but often disappointing to probe even a little into a student mind.

As my visit here continues I pay less and less attention to the operation of the school beyond the walls of my three classrooms and the two physics laboratories, and I visit the staff room occasionally only to see if Mr. Chagga has unlocked his desk and put a little of my mail in its assigned box. About the time we were beginning to work seriously on the projectile experiment–it seemed to stretch out for about three weeks because of frequent interruptions to work outside; many boys were needed to watch the two or three who had those hoe-like instruments in hand and were hacking away at a ditch intended to carry a water pipe–I read from a notice on the outside wall that February monthly tests were set for the 15th and the 16th; the timetable was promised “soon.” It was then that I made the first of my serious miscalculations

Although school had nominally been in session for four weeks, nobody was around the first week, and my third week had been disrupted to the point of virtual nonexistence, so there was very little material on which to base a test. Furthermore, the guys were still puzzled about the time interval between successive strobe flashes even after doing a second experiment using such photographs, and what they did to the definition of velocity in the first experiment persuaded me that they should be encouraged to set some fundamental issues straight. So I decided to put in a couple of American style questions before filling out the test with the plug-numbers-in-equations problems that are the staple of national “papers” here. That was my first mistake.

It was sometime on Thursday that the test timetable appeared; its author, the same triple disaster I described previously, even troubled himself to ask me if I knew about the tests. That's the first and only sign of interest he has shown in me except to request that I prepare his wedding invitations on my computer. That my test was scheduled early on Monday morning didn't surprise me; I've always been assigned the first available period. But it did bother me now that I'm living in town again, because it meant going to work without breakfast, and since I was also asked to invigilate–I figured out the hard way what that word means; you can too–a form-two English test in the afternoon, it meant nearly a twenty-four-hour fast. In itself that would probably be a very good practice for me to adopt right now, but it was the principle involved. And on the next day, Tuesday, I was scheduled to invigilate two more, one early, the other late. But the headmaster, in that interview where he had lied, “Grandfather, you can do anything you want,” had agreed that Tuesdays were free days for me.

Among Americans there remains a considerable sense of fair play that even the Brits appear to have lost; to me, it's one of the most pleasing attributes of our national character. The Brits do remain the world's best queuers, however. I reasoned that if two other teachers have to invigilate my exam, because it's given simultaneously in three different classrooms, then it's only fair that I invigilate two other exams in return. But during two previous exams I had been assigned three extra invigilations, because such dignitaries as the second master and the triple disaster don't stoop to this level of work, and also because an amazing number of Tanzanian names never appear on the invigilation lists.

It was then that I made my second mistake, although I still think the idea was a stroke of genius; if the idea of fair play is an American attribute, so is inventiveness. Why not, I thought to myself, find a way to avoid using other teachers to invigilate my test so there would be no reason for me to invigilate theirs? This productive moment arrived sometime after lunch on Sunday, so not many options remained open. In fact, I could think of only one, that of making this a self-test, neither to be picked up nor graded, so I adopted that procedure.

On Monday morning's ride up the hill, I was exuberant. My exams were distributed, and we were gone before the triple disaster and my two would-be-invigilators appeared, if indeed they ever did. And I enjoyed another free Tuesday. The rest of the week went well for me, and I decided, prematurely it turned out, that I had executed a real coup. To be sure there was a stormy moment or two on Wednesday when the laboratory remained locked at a time my class was to use it–I can't even get a key to my “office”–and I was moved to use profanity, much to the amusement of the students, to prevent, temporarily, a change in my schedule of practicals; apparently the triple disaster only wished to see my timetable so he could disrupt it. I did notice on this day that no one else was teaching, however; the rest of the faculty were involved in a very long meeting with the headmaster. It's my recollection that it lasted for about two hours.

But it was on the following Monday, when I was working through the second of the experiments from home, on uniform circular motion, with the third and last of my classes, that I fully realized how totally futile my efforts here are. Not only was the time interval between successive flashes still a total mystery to most of them the second time around, but they really had no significant grasp yet of the most elementary fundamentals of physics–and they are in their fifth year of study. Their background, training, and experience are so different from mine that neither of us comes close to understanding the other. So later that afternoon, back in my room at Victoria House, when I read the negative note from the headmaster that had been handed to me by Mr. Chagga just as I was leaving the campus, I was more exhilarated than dismayed; the end of our mutual futility was in sight. His letter stated: “I would like to draw it to your attention that the way you gave your monthly test...was unsatisfactory. It did not reach the required standard and also it was not performed according to the expected requirements.” In the second and last paragraph he wrote: “By this letter you are required to follow the guidelines on the conduct and administration of monthly tests as per attached secular letter.” The attachment–straight pins are used here instead of staples–was that very same set of guidelines that he had previously distributed to all faculty members but me. The vacant slot above my name in the mailbox a few days previously had been obvious, and I had mistakenly taken it to be a good sign.

So on Tuesday I mailed a letter to Dar requesting reassignment, if possible, or early termination if not, and on Wednesday morning I left the following handwritten note for the headmaster:

RE: Your communication of 20th February, 1993 The requirements stipulated in the subject document are totally unacceptable to me, and I have no intention of acceding to them. Realizing long ago that my philosophy of education, based on a lifetime of teaching introductory physics, in English, was at variance with Tanzanian practice, I had determined not to remain at Ilboru beyond the end of May, at the very latest. It now seems I should depart much sooner, perhaps immediately. I'm very disappointed at the method you chose to bring this matter to my attention. In my culture men of good will meet to discuss their differences in person. But, you clearly are in charge. Please let me know when you wish me to discontinue teaching.

There was no timely written response to my note–in fact none has been received to date–and I didn't even encounter the headmaster until the following week. When he did walk past me that first time, he turned his head to the side in order to avoid even saying hello. A few minutes later, I walked past him again, deliberately, to offer him a second chance; this time he walked away from me to stare vacantly through the window of the locked and unused library. Pole sana.

It's harder to do good than I realized, even when one pays one's own way, but I doubt that I’ll be going up the hill much longer.

W. Vance Johnson

17 Mar 93