Tanzania Volunteer Teaching Trip | The Bittersweet Art of Saying Goodbye
From the first nervous steps into the unfamiliar rhythm of rural Tanzania, I had already been given more than I expected. In just a handful of days I met people who felt like long lost friends. I enjoyed teaching with children whose laughter and curiosity melted any remaining unease. I thought the journey had delivered its full measure of gifts. But I was wrong. On the final morning it offered one last, unavoidable lesson: how to say goodbye.
If you haven’t read the earlier parts yet, you can catch up here:
→ Travelling from Hong Kong to Arusha (IVHQ Experience)
→ The Three Rafikis
→ My First Day as Teacher
→A Girls’ Night That Meant More Than I Expected
→ Moshi Village Coffee and Ancient Underground Caves
→ Unexpected Encounters, Meaningful Chats
→ The Night We Shared Our Stories
→ Drive into the Unknown: Misadventure in the Dark
Last Lesson and the Children’s Saddness
Even though my students and I had not shared months together, something real had taken root. They would spot me crossing the dusty yard and break into wide smiles, racing over to seize my water bottle or bag, eagerly telling me the things they hoped to learn that day. When I told them I would be going back home tomorrow, they said almost nothing. The quiet disappointment on their faces was enough to give me heartache.
At some point, I am relieved I am not a full-time teacher. I get emotional so easily, and farewells have never been my strong suit. The thought of spending a whole school year with a class in Hong Kong only to say goodbye at the summer break is enough to make me cry. At Greenwich Primary School the children took my hands and said, ‘Teacher, you must come back next year.’ I smiled and gave no answer. A promise I cannot keep with absolute certainty feels wrong, especially when it is offered to a child. I keep imagining a parade of well-meaning volunteers, each one lightly promising to return. The children believe every word and wait. If we who stand at the front of the classroom cannot live the values we teach, keep the promise we make, what is the point of giving them false hope?
Hoping to Leave a Brighter Trace
I wanted to leave something brighter in their memories than a brief lesson plan. Each morning I dressed with care. Nothing extravagant, simply the same tidy, lovely clothes I would wear to work back in Hong Kong, while being mindful of local norms that keep knees covered. The local Tanzanian teachers noticed and told me, with approval, that they liked the way I dressed every day. It was refreshing. For me it was a small act of respect. Travelling to Africa did not mean I should lower my standards and dress sloppy. I have never been one for expensive labels. But I don't want to look as though I have stopped trying.
I still remember a teacher from my elementary-school days who never taught my class. She arrived each morning looking quietly elegant, with straight hair one day, soft waves the next, clothes that were graceful without being showy. She remains, in my mind, ‘the beautiful teacher’. I hoped, in some small way, to show my respect for these children by putting efforts into my styles. I want to show them that they deserve every beautiful thing the world can offer them.
Not Much in the Bag, but Plenty in the Heart
Before I left Hong Kong I had emailed the volunteer organiser to ask what the school most needed. I would be more than happy to bring gifts and stationery with me. Their reply was polite and brief: anything would be welcome. So I packed exercise books, packs of three-colour pens and a large bag of Hong Kong snacks. The moment I saw the short, well-chewed pencils the children were using, I regretted not bringing more. In the end the stationery went to the older classes and the snacks to the younger ones. Several teachers were excited and asked me for photographs. Standing there with them I realised the quantity of what I had carried mattered less than the fact that the intention had been received.
Exit Interview?
On my last teaching day the school’s person in charge, Alan, said he would like a quick exit interview with me. I expected a causal chat about my teaching experience and any suggestions I might have.
Instead, during the break, he led two other volunteers into the playground, phones raised, and asked me to speak straight to camera. The questions came fast without giving me any time for preparation.
‘Where do you see our students in the next five years?’
I can't even answer that one for myself, to be honest.
I stumbled through an improvised blessing and later learned the footage was destined for a TikTok promotional clip. The thought of my awkward, unscripted self circulating online still makes me cringe. Perhaps that is simply the African way—spontaneous, unpolished, and cheerfully unconcerned with preparation.
Other volunteers later shared with me that they were also asked to make a video clip before they left. In some cases, schools also hope teachers could leave a donation perhaps. But is it the point of our volunteering experience? And can money donation help in the way they are looking for?
One question continued to stay with me: how should I make sense of my experience even when I am back in Hong Kong? And within the limits of what I can actually do, what more might still be possible?
