I have found Eldorado. The teaching equivalent anyway. It is called “Family Time” and is the 45 minutes before bed that students spend discussing their day, life, hopes and ambitions. In actuality, it is a free-for-all which involves an absurdly long roll-call process, lost-property announcements and generalised bitching about school drudgery.

I discovered this unpolished diamond on my first day at St Judes. When my guide mentioned that there was a shortage of Family Time staff, my ears pricked up. I peppered her with questions about Family Time, its genesis, and how I could get involved.

However, from her puzzled look, I could tell she thought I wasn’t the brightest light on the Christmas tree. You see, Family Time is the graveyard shift. Night teachers are busy — hunting down rogue sheep that have strayed from the flock. Students are disinterested — viewing this time as one more flaming hoop separating them from the warm comfort of their bunks. The Family Time room in each boarding wing is small, dim and hardly an enjoyable place to discuss life’s deepest issues. And, to make matters worse, it was the Form 2 girls that were without a teacher — the shrill, giggly, bloodbath of emotions that is 75 x 15 year old girls.

Luckily for my guide, it is the smell of a lost cause of which drives my appetite. I had just one speed bump in my way — the approval of the boarding nuns.

Cue Operation Alexa Infiltration. I dusted off my old fair weather Catholic cobwebs, did up my top button, parted my hair and took tea with the nuns.

The nuns at St Jude’s are the most wonderful (and intimidating) human beings. Going into my tea date, I was twitchy and nervous about the encounter. To make matters worse, my frenetic and overly-enthusiastic “puppy-like” nature was amplified by the strong coffee I drank (Sister apologised that she’d never made coffee before — she put 3 teaspoons of coffee and 50mls of water into a cup).

Being around such godliness, it is hard to feel holy (except for my socks). I felt like they had God’s x-ray vision, boring holes into my soul with their eyes to reveal every instance of bad behaviour — every time I’d stolen stationary from work, cheated in Monopoly, or over-inflated my achievements on a CV. Luckily, it has been scientifically proven that my goodness levels are 50.1% and so I passed their assessment of moral aptitude with flying colours.

The Head Sister warned me of the firey pits of hell that I would brave - “Teenagers are not easy”, she said. She ushered me towards the door and said no more. She did not need to. Her eyes screamed “Have fun, you crazy Mzungu (white person)!”

Although I probably am crazy, the opportunity I hoped to seize was the small slither of time that was free from the shackles of the Tanzanian curriculum where I could free-style. My very own Dead Poet’s Society, except for the fact that the students are not hypnotically attracted to my pearls of wisdom, but rather are forced to attend my class as a pre-requisite to sleep. No biggy.

At first, my students were wary. Silence and death stares were the modus operandi. What they did not count on was that I was once a teenage girl and so I have insider knowledge on the building defects of the Tower of Mordor that is teenage girls.

The key to getting inside the Tower of Mordor is emptying your pockets of dignity onto the floor before entry (a torturous process which involves a public scrutinisation of your love life) and sugar bribery. Burned and bruised, stripped of pride and cash (lollies are expensive in Tanzania), I finally gained entry. The eagle has landed.

My first order of business was to break down the cliques and create a culture of sharing and open communication amongst the girls. At first, when I called for people to share their worries, hopes and dreams, there was crickets. Now, I can’t put a cork in it. At times I feel like I’m Jerry Springer, proffering advice like “No — you should get rid of him, you’re worth so much more” or, “It’ll all be worth it in the end” to choruses of “Naaw” or “Yeah!”

By the end of this outburst of clucking, people are fairly tired and the bell is imminent. I only have a small slither of time each night to actually teach something. The heavy burden of this magical opportunity weighed heavily on my shoulders for several days. I spat out some garble about being “nice to each other” to fill the space, knowing this was not the message I wanted to leave.

But what to teach? It’s not like they need a lesson on gratitude or the woes of struggle street, nor am I qualified to speak on such topics as I’m hardly an alumni of the School of Hard Knocks. So, taking inspiration from every corny Aunt Agony column I have ever read, I thought about what I would tell my 15 year old self if I had the chance.

And then it hit me —I would teach my younger-self the importance of resilience. An ability to continue-on, hope and see the good in life, no matter what it throws at you. Nobody can stare a 15 year old in the eyes and promise that life will be sunshine, lollypops and rainbows, let alone make that promise to a female in a developing country. In fact, to do so would be a disservice, to deprive them of the opportunity to develop coping strategies for the cloudy days that will (hopefully only occasionally) discolour their skies throughout their lives.

So for the next few weeks, I’m proselytising the gospel of resilience. Be rubber and not cement — bounce-back even higher from life’s lows so that you glimpse your next opportunity beyond the horizon.