Today’s best quote: “This policy document is like the bible – it has all the answers.” And then my agnostic, insubordination-loving brain started to go: “grrr-argh-ahhh…Plooey!!!”
Immediately followed up by: “You know, if a woman sleeps with more than two men, she is a harlot.” In reference to a fairly intense discussion of what exactly the bible means when it refers to harlotry. The parts of my brain that hadn’t exploded after the initial comment -- the crazy feminist parts -- those promptly went “POP!” too. Now I’ve got nothing left.
Fortunately, these last few days have been all about the arts, and so I’ve been enjoying myself enormously. One of my favorite learners is a girl named Zanele. She’s bright, inquisitive, and speaks near-perfect English. She lived in Johannesburg before moving out here to live with her grandmother and has already skipped one grade, with the school considering skipping her again. Last term I asked the principal if I could pull her out of class during English and work with her in a sort of one-on-one GATE program. I’ve never taught GATE before (I’ve never taught much of anything before) so it turned into a very student-driven sort of thing. Zanele set whatever topic she was interested in, I would try to dig up as many resources and facts as I could find, and we would discuss it all until she was satisfied and decided to move onto something else. The only thing I really set in stone was that I wanted her to ask as many questions as possible. She was not allowed to read and regurgitate the information. She had to come with new questions about it – or anything else that struck her fancy – each time we met. So far we’ve discussed world history, astronomy, volcanoes, and Plato. At the end of last term, she told me that she would like to talk about Shakespeare when I came back. And my poor, literature-deprived, recently exploded brain said, “Hooray!!”
Yesterday, then, I spent a lot of time talking about Shakespeare with Zanele. We talked about the language he used (still English, but “deep” English – a play on “deep” SiSwati, which is the official formal sort of language that they use in Swaziland, and that we certainly don’t use here.) and why people still care about his plays 400 years later. Then we started on Much Ado About Nothing, because everybody reads Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet is a little over the top for a 12 year old, and as awesome as Rosalind is in As You Like It, the constant character gender-bending might get a little confusing. The Taming of the Shrew was not even up for discussion, might I add. Plus, I think I may be able to track down a copy of the movie Much Ado About Nothing, in which Kenneth Brannagh is a little bit ridiculous, but the story comes across pretty well*. Anyway, we started discussing the play. We read through the beginning of the first scene together, and then I spent a few hours summarizing the first two acts for her – a sort of home made Cliff Notes.
The other thing I did yesterday was make a whole lot of learning aides. Alphabets, number lines, vowels, and individual desk name-tags for each learner, including a little decorative alphabet. Because I didn’t want to waste the school’s ink, I printed each of them out in black and white, and then spent most of my day coloring them in. It was like kindergarten. I got to have a coloring day. A Shakespeare and coloring day. All while a Dolly Parton’s Greatest Hits CD serenaded the office over and over again.
Yesterday was a Shakespeare-coloring-Dolly Parton sort of day. Today is shaping up to be a Shakespeare/Chaucer-coloring-Dolly Parton sort of day. Just what I needed to regenerate those brain cells. This is my nine to five.
*I majored in literature. Can you tell?
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Walk the Line
Being a Peace Corps Volunteer grants a sort of flexible identity. “Us and Them”—this concept of ‘the other’ what was so fashionable when I was in school – becomes a little bit slippery. There is one clear us -- other volunteers, especially those in your group, though not necessarily excluding those of other years or other countries -- and that is stronger than almost anything else, though it’s not completely inviolable. But the questions start to come when I wonder who, exactly, ‘them’ is – and what are we to others, an ‘us’ or a ‘them.’ (Stick with me, here.)
It is our job to be flexible, to be sinuous and a little bit tricky. We are told to integrate into a village, to learn the language and the customs, to take a new name and do our best at the laughably impossible task of blending in. So we do. I’ve learned SiSwati, kind of. I work hard to make friends and to gain the friendship of those around me. I only use my right hand or both hands to give and take things. And it’s worked, kind of. One of my proudest moments here was when a teacher said to me, “Ay Nomvula! UmSwati, really!” (“Nomvula, you are really a Swazi!”). I’m still weird, sure. I still talk English funny and have those darn blue eyes and blonde hair, but I’m an understood weird. I’m not just *the* other, I’m *our* other. Close enough, I’ll take it.
So I can walk in the village. I am a part of things, even if briefly, and in a way I become a part of us. But then I leave, and there are other places I can walk – by virtue of my language, my education, my nationality, my gender, my upbringing, and an ugly fact in this country is by virtue of my skin color too – that my friends or teachers in the village can’t. Nomvula and Becca aren’t entirely the same person, 98% overlap maybe, but not 100%. I can walk into a resort hotel or nice restaurant and know the rules and be accepted, because that’s where rich Americans go. I can go to the Afrikaan pub in Malelane, because while I may not be quite ‘us’ there, I’m certainly not ‘them’. With some friends, over a year ago, I found myself in a township outside Pretoria, a place where I almost certainly would have been in deep trouble were it not for our guide vouching for us – instead we became ‘us’ and spent the evening drinking beer and arguing about Generations. Last month a friend and I met the wife of the Irish Ambassador to Lesotho. She offered us a three hour ride to town (“I knew you guys were Peace Corps as soon as I saw you. I love Peace Corps!) and we spent the time chatting as equals about Africa, Dublin, America, and all the rest of it. As a volunteer, I feel like we have so many opportunities to switch that it does two things: At once it obliterates any sense of ‘us’ or ‘them,’ because when you are granted the ability to walk through walls it becomes more difficult to pay attention to them. But at the same time the only people experiencing this sensation of walking through worlds, of belonging everywhere and nowhere, are other PCVs. And so while everybody may find some way to accept me, and I them, its as if the line becomes even more starkly drawn between the only us I ever really use, and the rest.
We work – well, maybe I should stop talking for other volunteers – I work in one of the poorest areas of one of the most schizophrenic countries in the world. On one side of the divide is this conservative rural village, where culture and tradition are still the trump card, where there is extreme poverty and child-headed households, and no running water, and some of the most beautiful and heartfelt music I’ve ever heard. On the other side is a country that could be Europe, western and wealthy and occasionally even cosmopolitan. These two sides, they don’t understand each other so well. I came home one day after a braai to tell my shocked family, “did you know Afrikaaners eat pap too?” “They do??!!”
We can, I can, walk that line and see both sides. Becca and Nomvula, the part that walks in both and tries to balance perfectly on the fulcrum. I go to grade 7 functions at my school, and celebrations at the US Ambassador’s house. I send my reports to the Lubombo Circuit Manager and Congress. It is odd, exceedingly extremely odd, to live on that pivot point and have access to so many worlds. I am not a tourist in a human zoo, I live here. I am not an awe-struck kid, I grew up with this.
It is our job to be flexible, to be sinuous and a little bit tricky. We are told to integrate into a village, to learn the language and the customs, to take a new name and do our best at the laughably impossible task of blending in. So we do. I’ve learned SiSwati, kind of. I work hard to make friends and to gain the friendship of those around me. I only use my right hand or both hands to give and take things. And it’s worked, kind of. One of my proudest moments here was when a teacher said to me, “Ay Nomvula! UmSwati, really!” (“Nomvula, you are really a Swazi!”). I’m still weird, sure. I still talk English funny and have those darn blue eyes and blonde hair, but I’m an understood weird. I’m not just *the* other, I’m *our* other. Close enough, I’ll take it.
So I can walk in the village. I am a part of things, even if briefly, and in a way I become a part of us. But then I leave, and there are other places I can walk – by virtue of my language, my education, my nationality, my gender, my upbringing, and an ugly fact in this country is by virtue of my skin color too – that my friends or teachers in the village can’t. Nomvula and Becca aren’t entirely the same person, 98% overlap maybe, but not 100%. I can walk into a resort hotel or nice restaurant and know the rules and be accepted, because that’s where rich Americans go. I can go to the Afrikaan pub in Malelane, because while I may not be quite ‘us’ there, I’m certainly not ‘them’. With some friends, over a year ago, I found myself in a township outside Pretoria, a place where I almost certainly would have been in deep trouble were it not for our guide vouching for us – instead we became ‘us’ and spent the evening drinking beer and arguing about Generations. Last month a friend and I met the wife of the Irish Ambassador to Lesotho. She offered us a three hour ride to town (“I knew you guys were Peace Corps as soon as I saw you. I love Peace Corps!) and we spent the time chatting as equals about Africa, Dublin, America, and all the rest of it. As a volunteer, I feel like we have so many opportunities to switch that it does two things: At once it obliterates any sense of ‘us’ or ‘them,’ because when you are granted the ability to walk through walls it becomes more difficult to pay attention to them. But at the same time the only people experiencing this sensation of walking through worlds, of belonging everywhere and nowhere, are other PCVs. And so while everybody may find some way to accept me, and I them, its as if the line becomes even more starkly drawn between the only us I ever really use, and the rest.
We work – well, maybe I should stop talking for other volunteers – I work in one of the poorest areas of one of the most schizophrenic countries in the world. On one side of the divide is this conservative rural village, where culture and tradition are still the trump card, where there is extreme poverty and child-headed households, and no running water, and some of the most beautiful and heartfelt music I’ve ever heard. On the other side is a country that could be Europe, western and wealthy and occasionally even cosmopolitan. These two sides, they don’t understand each other so well. I came home one day after a braai to tell my shocked family, “did you know Afrikaaners eat pap too?” “They do??!!”
We can, I can, walk that line and see both sides. Becca and Nomvula, the part that walks in both and tries to balance perfectly on the fulcrum. I go to grade 7 functions at my school, and celebrations at the US Ambassador’s house. I send my reports to the Lubombo Circuit Manager and Congress. It is odd, exceedingly extremely odd, to live on that pivot point and have access to so many worlds. I am not a tourist in a human zoo, I live here. I am not an awe-struck kid, I grew up with this.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The Real Africa
I've just gotten back from a fantastic three week vacation all over the place, it was very refreshing and probably one of the best holidays I've had here. We went pony-trekking in Lesotho, which was phenomenal. Two days, six hours of riding a day -- I've never had my butt so sore in my life, but it was totally worthwhile. Lesotho is very mountain-y, and a lot of the time the trail was nothing but incredibly steep switchbacks, anywhere from 8 to 36 inches wide, covered in scree and perfectly round smooth rocks, with a 300 foot drop off a cliff right on the other side of it all. But the view certainly is beautiful from that drop-off. Occasionally it would be so steep that the guide, Mpho, would tell us, "If you guys are nervous, you can get off and walk down the trail," "Um...do you think we should walk?" [Pause. Pause. Mpho eyes nervous horses as they refuse to get within 15 feet of descent. Pause]. "If you guys want...you can get off and walk down the trail." We got off and walked. That night we stayed in an incredibly rural village, a little bit past the middle of nowhere, where our horses decided that they were tired of nothing but grass, grass, grass all the time and wanted some delicious mealies instead. Unfortunately, this delayed our departure in the morning a bit, since the owner of the mealie field was exceedingly pissed when he found out. Somebody had to run for the chief, who then had to negotiate a settlement between the field owner and our guides, which of course took several hours. Had I not spent the last 20 months in Africa, it might have been a fun and authentic addition to out trip. As it was, we were just irritated. TIA. After Lesotho we headed on to the mountains and the beach successively and had yet again a fantastic time. All in all, a great vacation.
One phrase I did keep hearing -- and that I have been hearing, and even use myself -- is "the real Africa." As in, "well, the Wild Coast is beautiful, but its not the real Africa." "Cape Town is a cool city, but its not the Real Africa." "Come on our tour and see the Real Africa!" What does that mean? What is the Real Africa? There is a universally understood sense of what you mean when you use this phrase: The Real Africa is somewhere poor, somewhere rural, somewhere black. It's somewhere where you can still see women carrying things on their head, and watch handicrafts get made, and see people walking everywhere and depending on subsistence farming. Why is that the Real Africa anymore than Pretoria or the wild coast or anywhere else? Why is it that the preconceptions of Africa become our definition of what is real? The realest, most scraped-to-the-bone place I've ever been in South Africa was a township about 10k from Pretoria. But nobody would ever consider it the "Real Africa."
One phrase I did keep hearing -- and that I have been hearing, and even use myself -- is "the real Africa." As in, "well, the Wild Coast is beautiful, but its not the real Africa." "Cape Town is a cool city, but its not the Real Africa." "Come on our tour and see the Real Africa!" What does that mean? What is the Real Africa? There is a universally understood sense of what you mean when you use this phrase: The Real Africa is somewhere poor, somewhere rural, somewhere black. It's somewhere where you can still see women carrying things on their head, and watch handicrafts get made, and see people walking everywhere and depending on subsistence farming. Why is that the Real Africa anymore than Pretoria or the wild coast or anywhere else? Why is it that the preconceptions of Africa become our definition of what is real? The realest, most scraped-to-the-bone place I've ever been in South Africa was a township about 10k from Pretoria. But nobody would ever consider it the "Real Africa."
Friday, April 04, 2008
brief hiatus
I am on vacation. I needed it very badly. Lots of very fun things have been happening, and I will write about them in a week or two.
Yay.
Yay.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Now What?
I have come to the decision, finally that Africa does not, in fact, look like the central valley, or San Francisco, or the Great Plains, or Santa Paula, or anywhere else. South Africa looks like…like itself, and that’s the only analogy I’m willing to give.
When you first come here, of course, and see brown hills rolling away to the horizon, or acre after acre of avocados, oranges, and mangos, or the very western shop-lined streets in Cape Town, its easy enough to compare this landscape with what you’ve seen before. Hills with cows on them are hills with cows on them, after all, and maybe the biggest geographical distinction the 5* and the N-4 is that on the N-4 you’ll occasionally see a Zebra, while on the 5 you have to roll up your windows as you pass the horrible Harris Ranch slaughterhouse that is the last sight (and smell) that that steak you ate last night probably ever had. I’m happier with the Zebra, personally.
But as I see more and longer, I’ve begun to accept what I’m seeing for what it is, and not for what I bring with me. Hills with cows on them are not just hills with cows on them, the 5 is not the N-4. And as I begin to see that, I begin to wonder how I could ever have thought anything else. The hills here don’t simply go to the horizon, beyond which there is probably another town or another freeway, instead they just keep going. I remember the first time I made that drive from Los Angeles to Sacramento, I was simply shocked that there could be so much land so undeveloped. Where were the houses? The strip malls? The constant movement and drone and mark of people? There were the truck-stops, but where did the people who worked in them *live*? Now of course, I realize that there’s nothing at all undeveloped about the central valley, and that the hum and buzz is always there. There is nothing limitless or unbounded. Its just a little chunk of the state that happens to have a lot of farms instead of a lot of houses, but it is of course surrounded.
Here it’s very different, and that’s why I say now that I can no longer even imagine comparing the rolling hills of Mpumulanga with any others I’ve ever seen. Here there is no limit, there is no boundary. There is not a sense that just over the horizon there are probably towns, and people, and farms, and roads. There’s just a sense that there are…more hills. More Africa.
People talk about the enormity of Africa, and on the whole I think its mostly a cliché that people parrot because….well, that’s one of the things that’s true about Africa, isn’t it? Its very big, and very poor, very corrupt, and the people there all have malaria, or AIDS, or interesting diseases caused by malnutrition that cause swollen bellies or skeletal limbs. That is the vision we bring to Africa, and so that is how we see. But how can you go and really see a place, if you’ve already decided what it looks like?
It’s true, Africa is big. But it is big on its own terms, not on mine. The hills of Mpumulanga are the hills of Mpumulanga, not of Fresno or Ventura. Stellenbosch is Stellenbosch, not Santa Maria. South Africa is always and only itself, and I’m starting to be able to see.
*That’s right. THE 5. Bring it.
When you first come here, of course, and see brown hills rolling away to the horizon, or acre after acre of avocados, oranges, and mangos, or the very western shop-lined streets in Cape Town, its easy enough to compare this landscape with what you’ve seen before. Hills with cows on them are hills with cows on them, after all, and maybe the biggest geographical distinction the 5* and the N-4 is that on the N-4 you’ll occasionally see a Zebra, while on the 5 you have to roll up your windows as you pass the horrible Harris Ranch slaughterhouse that is the last sight (and smell) that that steak you ate last night probably ever had. I’m happier with the Zebra, personally.
But as I see more and longer, I’ve begun to accept what I’m seeing for what it is, and not for what I bring with me. Hills with cows on them are not just hills with cows on them, the 5 is not the N-4. And as I begin to see that, I begin to wonder how I could ever have thought anything else. The hills here don’t simply go to the horizon, beyond which there is probably another town or another freeway, instead they just keep going. I remember the first time I made that drive from Los Angeles to Sacramento, I was simply shocked that there could be so much land so undeveloped. Where were the houses? The strip malls? The constant movement and drone and mark of people? There were the truck-stops, but where did the people who worked in them *live*? Now of course, I realize that there’s nothing at all undeveloped about the central valley, and that the hum and buzz is always there. There is nothing limitless or unbounded. Its just a little chunk of the state that happens to have a lot of farms instead of a lot of houses, but it is of course surrounded.
Here it’s very different, and that’s why I say now that I can no longer even imagine comparing the rolling hills of Mpumulanga with any others I’ve ever seen. Here there is no limit, there is no boundary. There is not a sense that just over the horizon there are probably towns, and people, and farms, and roads. There’s just a sense that there are…more hills. More Africa.
People talk about the enormity of Africa, and on the whole I think its mostly a cliché that people parrot because….well, that’s one of the things that’s true about Africa, isn’t it? Its very big, and very poor, very corrupt, and the people there all have malaria, or AIDS, or interesting diseases caused by malnutrition that cause swollen bellies or skeletal limbs. That is the vision we bring to Africa, and so that is how we see. But how can you go and really see a place, if you’ve already decided what it looks like?
It’s true, Africa is big. But it is big on its own terms, not on mine. The hills of Mpumulanga are the hills of Mpumulanga, not of Fresno or Ventura. Stellenbosch is Stellenbosch, not Santa Maria. South Africa is always and only itself, and I’m starting to be able to see.
*That’s right. THE 5. Bring it.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Pink Floyd
Once again I'm in Pretoria -- now on my way back to site, rather than away -- and I can happily report that nothing has been stolen from me this weekend. And really, if I only get robbed once in two years, and its only a pair of shoes (no matter how much I loved them!) and I wasn't even mugged -- well, I'm pretty okay with that. People get robbed, its just the way South Africa works, so I'm mostly over it and still feeling happy. (Though the blisters all over my toes from my new shoes are still a little bitter).
Unfortunately, of course, one of the drawbacks of spending a week at training for a new group of volunteers is that I've been doing nothing all that exciting, and so have no witty, insightful, or in anyway clever story to write up (making the base assumption that any of my posts ever are). I'm sorry to say that last week was pleasant, unexciting, and about as productive as I had expected (re: not very, but the expectations started low). Shame.
All I want to say then, is this: Last week I was angry, and upset, and exhausted. This week I am happy, optimistic, and looking forward to maybe even getting a few things done. Next week...who knows. So is life in South Africa.
But hey, in two weeks -- I'm going pony trekking in Lesotho! Who can be sad on a pony?
Unfortunately, of course, one of the drawbacks of spending a week at training for a new group of volunteers is that I've been doing nothing all that exciting, and so have no witty, insightful, or in anyway clever story to write up (making the base assumption that any of my posts ever are). I'm sorry to say that last week was pleasant, unexciting, and about as productive as I had expected (re: not very, but the expectations started low). Shame.
All I want to say then, is this: Last week I was angry, and upset, and exhausted. This week I am happy, optimistic, and looking forward to maybe even getting a few things done. Next week...who knows. So is life in South Africa.
But hey, in two weeks -- I'm going pony trekking in Lesotho! Who can be sad on a pony?
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Dance Class
There are lots and lots of photos (by which I mean about 20) that I just put up at Snapfish. I also have a lot of really neat videos that I took of a Grade 7 dance presentation, but I have yet to figure out how to post those. But I'll sort it out eventually. I'm sorry thats all I've really got for this week, and last week to come to think of it, but honestly I'm just tired. Emotionally, physically, I just feel exhausted all the time. All I want to do is sleep.
Do you know, two nights ago somebody stole my shoes? My shoes! And the only pair I had with me at the time, too. The only pair I ever wear, and you can't get Chacos in South Africa, either. I was staying in a dorm room at my favorite Pretoria backpackers, and somebody managed to break in, sneak into the room, and grab my shoes. He was bending over my backpack, too, beginning to rifle through things, when fortunately another guy who was staying there woke up and started shouting at him. The robber took off without my camera or cell phone, or wallet, or anything super valuable but -- I really loved those shoes! My poor Chacos. And it scares me, that somebody was so close to my bed at night -- so close to me at night -- and I didn't even wake up.
It just gets so exhausting, to always have to be on your guard. To always be looking over your shoulder, and worrying, and making back-up plans. I hate that I can't hear somebody running behind me without going into instant defense mode. I hate how its just always acceptable for people to stop me on the street and try to get something from me. Why is it okay to ask me for 2 rand, (for 4 rand 60? wtf?) for a sweet, for a drink, for "just something momm-ee...just something" to give me a lewd proposal, marriage or otherwise? I just don't have the patience anymore, or the energy. I understand the poverty, don't I? I live in it, I see it everyday. I don't...I want to say I don't hate the people who stop me on the street, but maybe instead I should say I don't misunderstand them. Yes, I know where you're coming from. Yes, I know the system has destroyed you. I can pity you, and empathize, and resolve to try just that much harder where I am. But I think sometimes its the sheer amount of energy it takes to remind myself of that. To not say "oh, these people..." to always be reminding myself that of course there's a reason. (Obviously, of course, there's a reason. Nobody just decides to live on a street corner because it seems like fun).
It is exhausting to live here. It will finish you. I am exhausted.
Do you know, two nights ago somebody stole my shoes? My shoes! And the only pair I had with me at the time, too. The only pair I ever wear, and you can't get Chacos in South Africa, either. I was staying in a dorm room at my favorite Pretoria backpackers, and somebody managed to break in, sneak into the room, and grab my shoes. He was bending over my backpack, too, beginning to rifle through things, when fortunately another guy who was staying there woke up and started shouting at him. The robber took off without my camera or cell phone, or wallet, or anything super valuable but -- I really loved those shoes! My poor Chacos. And it scares me, that somebody was so close to my bed at night -- so close to me at night -- and I didn't even wake up.
It just gets so exhausting, to always have to be on your guard. To always be looking over your shoulder, and worrying, and making back-up plans. I hate that I can't hear somebody running behind me without going into instant defense mode. I hate how its just always acceptable for people to stop me on the street and try to get something from me. Why is it okay to ask me for 2 rand, (for 4 rand 60? wtf?) for a sweet, for a drink, for "just something momm-ee...just something" to give me a lewd proposal, marriage or otherwise? I just don't have the patience anymore, or the energy. I understand the poverty, don't I? I live in it, I see it everyday. I don't...I want to say I don't hate the people who stop me on the street, but maybe instead I should say I don't misunderstand them. Yes, I know where you're coming from. Yes, I know the system has destroyed you. I can pity you, and empathize, and resolve to try just that much harder where I am. But I think sometimes its the sheer amount of energy it takes to remind myself of that. To not say "oh, these people..." to always be reminding myself that of course there's a reason. (Obviously, of course, there's a reason. Nobody just decides to live on a street corner because it seems like fun).
It is exhausting to live here. It will finish you. I am exhausted.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Domo Arigoto, Mr. Roboto
Monday was a linguistic trainwreck. The kind you just can’t look away from. There is a new Salvation Army pastor in the village, originally from Mozambique. He wants to learn English. One of my teachers, who is very active in the church, volunteered me. Sure, why not?
I walk up to the house, which is right behind the church and built by (of course) the donations of Salvation Army churches in America. So now you know where the $5 you paid for that awesome Halloween costume last year went.
I walk in. “Sanibonani!” I say. “Yebo.” He replies. We are polite in siSwati. I turn to his wife. “Ninjani?” (how are you?) “Si…khona??” she replies. How odd. She sounds suspiciously like me in her confusion. “Oh, she is also from Mozambique, she is just learning siSwati.” Her husband tells me. “Oh, I’m sorry! Avuxeni!” I am both contrite and proud of myself for remembering correct greeting in xiTsonga. (Later, a teacher tells me that I did not in fact remember the correct greeting in xiTsonga. Avuxeni means good morning. It was currently 2:30 in the afternoon.). Once again, Mrs. Pastor shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. “No,” her husband tells me again, “we are from Mozambique. Portugese only.” I am a moron.
So we progress to the lesson. “What do you want to learn?” I ask naively. (The condition in which I ask most of my questions, come to think of it)
“English.”
“Oh, okay, well, we can do that. But we need a place to start. So what parts of English do you want to focus on? Conversations? Sermons? Travel? Reading? Writing? We need a starting point. So what part of English do you want to learn the most.”
“No, just English. All of it.”
“Oh…kay…” Of course, as you can see he essentially already speaks English. Not perfectly, not smoothly, but functionally. So where do I start? We dance around a bit, we try to find a good starting point, a good teaching method, some way be can both leave this interview feeling like something has happened. The longer this goes on, the more doubtful that outcome begins to look. I have decided in my head that really what he mostly needs is practice with a native speaker, so why don’t we just hang out and chat for an hour a week or so. The blank, open notebooks and pencils hovering in the hands of he and his wife tell me that this is not their preferred approach.
So we abandon that approach for a bit, and he offers to teach me some Portugese. I can now say “Boa Tardi” and “Bom Dia” (good afternoon, good day) with reasonable accuracy. Five minutes later I forget how to say “I am thirsty” within 30 seconds of him telling me. I am still a moron.
Somehow, during all this mess, we discover that we have both taken a decent amount of French in high school. We switch to French. I begin mixing my siSwati and French, because its been about two and a half years at this point since my last French conversation. We say goodbye, and make plans to meet up again the next day, when I promise to have something actually prepared.
“A demain!” I say.
“A demain!” He replies.
“Abrigado!” calls his wife.
“Bye!”
Thirty minutes. Five languages. I start laughing hysterically, and don’t stop until I make it home.
I walk up to the house, which is right behind the church and built by (of course) the donations of Salvation Army churches in America. So now you know where the $5 you paid for that awesome Halloween costume last year went.
I walk in. “Sanibonani!” I say. “Yebo.” He replies. We are polite in siSwati. I turn to his wife. “Ninjani?” (how are you?) “Si…khona??” she replies. How odd. She sounds suspiciously like me in her confusion. “Oh, she is also from Mozambique, she is just learning siSwati.” Her husband tells me. “Oh, I’m sorry! Avuxeni!” I am both contrite and proud of myself for remembering correct greeting in xiTsonga. (Later, a teacher tells me that I did not in fact remember the correct greeting in xiTsonga. Avuxeni means good morning. It was currently 2:30 in the afternoon.). Once again, Mrs. Pastor shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. “No,” her husband tells me again, “we are from Mozambique. Portugese only.” I am a moron.
So we progress to the lesson. “What do you want to learn?” I ask naively. (The condition in which I ask most of my questions, come to think of it)
“English.”
“Oh, okay, well, we can do that. But we need a place to start. So what parts of English do you want to focus on? Conversations? Sermons? Travel? Reading? Writing? We need a starting point. So what part of English do you want to learn the most.”
“No, just English. All of it.”
“Oh…kay…” Of course, as you can see he essentially already speaks English. Not perfectly, not smoothly, but functionally. So where do I start? We dance around a bit, we try to find a good starting point, a good teaching method, some way be can both leave this interview feeling like something has happened. The longer this goes on, the more doubtful that outcome begins to look. I have decided in my head that really what he mostly needs is practice with a native speaker, so why don’t we just hang out and chat for an hour a week or so. The blank, open notebooks and pencils hovering in the hands of he and his wife tell me that this is not their preferred approach.
So we abandon that approach for a bit, and he offers to teach me some Portugese. I can now say “Boa Tardi” and “Bom Dia” (good afternoon, good day) with reasonable accuracy. Five minutes later I forget how to say “I am thirsty” within 30 seconds of him telling me. I am still a moron.
Somehow, during all this mess, we discover that we have both taken a decent amount of French in high school. We switch to French. I begin mixing my siSwati and French, because its been about two and a half years at this point since my last French conversation. We say goodbye, and make plans to meet up again the next day, when I promise to have something actually prepared.
“A demain!” I say.
“A demain!” He replies.
“Abrigado!” calls his wife.
“Bye!”
Thirty minutes. Five languages. I start laughing hysterically, and don’t stop until I make it home.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Locutius
The powers that be have recently set each school in our circuit, or region, or province, or…something, a task. The school has to decide on the best teacher and learner of 2007, so that those who are chosen can go to an awards ceremony and serve as an encouragement to those around them, etc...
At the school I’m at this week, we were apparently given all of 18 hours notice to get this done. The principal held a brief after-school meeting on Wednesday to let the educators know and give them a chance to think things over, then on Thursday morning they had to decide. It got a little ugly.
In America, of course, the situation might be handled delicately, but the idea of picking a ‘best’ for the year would make sense, and be seen as a fairly run of the mill thing to do. It’s not virtual blasphemy to acknowledge different levels of skills, and that some teachers might be way, way better than others. That’s just how it is. Some people are really good at their jobs – better than other people in fact. Lets acknowledge and reward them for it.
Here…not so much. Here the most common use of the term Ph.D comes not when we’re discussing relative educational levels, but instead the acronym: Pull Her/Him Down. Which means that it doesn’t do to try and rise above those around you, because those around you will only get mad and try to drag you back down. Or say, “fine – you do all the work then if you’re the best.” It’s a very South African thing, with any number of dimensions. The idea that the collective is more important than the group, of course, plays a big part. Ubuntu’s evil twin. It seems to me that its almost rude to rise too far above the rest, its disrespectful. Like saying that you’re better than them. Being the best – or rather, being the stand-out best – is like giving the finger to everyone else around you. So you can imagine some of the dismay when the educators were asked to choose just one of a collective to be singled out as the best. They were deeply uncomfortable with the idea, and both the Principal and Deputy Principal had to keep reassuring them with, “no, no, we know that we are all the best teachers. We are all good. But we just have to choose somebody to go to this function. Just one name to go to the function. But we are all still the best.” Of course, everybody sitting in the room knew it was a lie. Quite a few probably could have pointed out the lady who honestly is the best teacher in the school, because last year we had a teacher of the month award and she got it. But they just couldn’t bring themselves to do it. They suggested drawing names out of a hat, they suggested going by who does the most extracurriculars, they even suggested having the principals or myself just choose (I declined. I’m not stupid. I know what disaster would ensue for me if I chose just one, even though the choice was so obvious to me I wanted to pull my hair out). In the end, they chose one of the favorites of the staff, not the best teacher, far far from it, and the principal knows it too, but a nice outgoing guy who adds to – surprise – the group dynamic.
Of course, now you may be wondering: but what about the Mercedes? Is Babe that out of touch with the community, or is that entry or this one full of it? Well here’s how I see it: I think that a certain amount of mobility within the community is perfectly acceptable. Babe’s not the only one with a Mercedes (though he’s certainly the one with the poopiest*), and therefore the Mercedes is acceptable. It falls within the acknowledged range of success and status in the village. Some people, who do well and have good jobs and a fairly high status in the community, those people have the material goods to show it off. And even if they don’t have all those things, they can still attempt to mimic them with the physical status symbols. The Mercedes falls within the acceptable collective status/success continuum. Saying you’re the best – or better than everybody else – does not.
Or maybe not. Maybe this is what it is: The Mercedes is a tangible status symbol. Big houses, satellite TV, an American hanging out at your house and school, the enormous entertainment system – all of these are tangible, we could even say commercial or material symbols. Materialism on that level is a relatively new thing in this culture. I can practically guarantee you that nobody in Steenbok drove a Mercedes prior to 1994. Because they are new, the rules haven’t been made yet.
Or maybe not. Maybe its this: The tangible, material symbols are proclaiming status not only amongst the smaller group – one school, one family, one village – but within an entire society. I said, I can practically guarantee you that nobody in Steenbok drove a Mercedes prior to 1994. So could there be a certain sense of pride to see that car go up and down the road? Does it become not just “his” Mercedes, but instead “our” Mercedes? Does the big house with the satellite TV in fact not show up the neighbors, but instead instill in them a sense of pride that now they too can live in a neighborhood with big houses and satellite TV (even if the house isn’t theirs). Maybe the acquisition of things that were previously unavailable to the group – even if they are only being acquired by an individual member – serve as a sense of pride to the whole group. Now they can do that too.
The third option seems the most likely to me. But more than anything else all the possibilities and interpretations just serve to remind me that I’m still only an observer here – and probably not all that good of an observer. I’ve been in Africa nearly 19 months with not that many left to go, and I’m still just making my best guess. It is entirely possible, and even likely, that all of the above is complete bull pucky. If I showed it to somebody who stayed here, they would probably just laugh their heads off and point out all the places where I was wrong.
But after over a year and a half in Africa – I’m okay with that too.
At the school I’m at this week, we were apparently given all of 18 hours notice to get this done. The principal held a brief after-school meeting on Wednesday to let the educators know and give them a chance to think things over, then on Thursday morning they had to decide. It got a little ugly.
In America, of course, the situation might be handled delicately, but the idea of picking a ‘best’ for the year would make sense, and be seen as a fairly run of the mill thing to do. It’s not virtual blasphemy to acknowledge different levels of skills, and that some teachers might be way, way better than others. That’s just how it is. Some people are really good at their jobs – better than other people in fact. Lets acknowledge and reward them for it.
Here…not so much. Here the most common use of the term Ph.D comes not when we’re discussing relative educational levels, but instead the acronym: Pull Her/Him Down. Which means that it doesn’t do to try and rise above those around you, because those around you will only get mad and try to drag you back down. Or say, “fine – you do all the work then if you’re the best.” It’s a very South African thing, with any number of dimensions. The idea that the collective is more important than the group, of course, plays a big part. Ubuntu’s evil twin. It seems to me that its almost rude to rise too far above the rest, its disrespectful. Like saying that you’re better than them. Being the best – or rather, being the stand-out best – is like giving the finger to everyone else around you. So you can imagine some of the dismay when the educators were asked to choose just one of a collective to be singled out as the best. They were deeply uncomfortable with the idea, and both the Principal and Deputy Principal had to keep reassuring them with, “no, no, we know that we are all the best teachers. We are all good. But we just have to choose somebody to go to this function. Just one name to go to the function. But we are all still the best.” Of course, everybody sitting in the room knew it was a lie. Quite a few probably could have pointed out the lady who honestly is the best teacher in the school, because last year we had a teacher of the month award and she got it. But they just couldn’t bring themselves to do it. They suggested drawing names out of a hat, they suggested going by who does the most extracurriculars, they even suggested having the principals or myself just choose (I declined. I’m not stupid. I know what disaster would ensue for me if I chose just one, even though the choice was so obvious to me I wanted to pull my hair out). In the end, they chose one of the favorites of the staff, not the best teacher, far far from it, and the principal knows it too, but a nice outgoing guy who adds to – surprise – the group dynamic.
Of course, now you may be wondering: but what about the Mercedes? Is Babe that out of touch with the community, or is that entry or this one full of it? Well here’s how I see it: I think that a certain amount of mobility within the community is perfectly acceptable. Babe’s not the only one with a Mercedes (though he’s certainly the one with the poopiest*), and therefore the Mercedes is acceptable. It falls within the acknowledged range of success and status in the village. Some people, who do well and have good jobs and a fairly high status in the community, those people have the material goods to show it off. And even if they don’t have all those things, they can still attempt to mimic them with the physical status symbols. The Mercedes falls within the acceptable collective status/success continuum. Saying you’re the best – or better than everybody else – does not.
Or maybe not. Maybe this is what it is: The Mercedes is a tangible status symbol. Big houses, satellite TV, an American hanging out at your house and school, the enormous entertainment system – all of these are tangible, we could even say commercial or material symbols. Materialism on that level is a relatively new thing in this culture. I can practically guarantee you that nobody in Steenbok drove a Mercedes prior to 1994. Because they are new, the rules haven’t been made yet.
Or maybe not. Maybe its this: The tangible, material symbols are proclaiming status not only amongst the smaller group – one school, one family, one village – but within an entire society. I said, I can practically guarantee you that nobody in Steenbok drove a Mercedes prior to 1994. So could there be a certain sense of pride to see that car go up and down the road? Does it become not just “his” Mercedes, but instead “our” Mercedes? Does the big house with the satellite TV in fact not show up the neighbors, but instead instill in them a sense of pride that now they too can live in a neighborhood with big houses and satellite TV (even if the house isn’t theirs). Maybe the acquisition of things that were previously unavailable to the group – even if they are only being acquired by an individual member – serve as a sense of pride to the whole group. Now they can do that too.
The third option seems the most likely to me. But more than anything else all the possibilities and interpretations just serve to remind me that I’m still only an observer here – and probably not all that good of an observer. I’ve been in Africa nearly 19 months with not that many left to go, and I’m still just making my best guess. It is entirely possible, and even likely, that all of the above is complete bull pucky. If I showed it to somebody who stayed here, they would probably just laugh their heads off and point out all the places where I was wrong.
But after over a year and a half in Africa – I’m okay with that too.
Friday, February 01, 2008
^3
And finally, there are lots and lots of new pictures up at snapfish, if anybody is interested in looking at them.
Why I'm Rooting for Barack
"...I will speak...as someone whose grandmother lives in a hut without indoor plumbing in a Kenyan village devestated by HIV/AIDS." Is this an outstandingly ludicrous political statement that you kind of just have to laugh at? Sure. But hey, I live in that village too, so I'm sold.
Also, what the US really needs is a first Gogo to keep things in line. Nobody messes with a Gogo.
Also, what the US really needs is a first Gogo to keep things in line. Nobody messes with a Gogo.
I Wish I Was...
(Apologies to the immediate Miller family – especially Mira – who have already read this. But I liked it, and wanted to expand).
Today, a grade 3 teacher walked into the school office and asked me to help her with something. “Awesome!” I thought to myself. “I would love to help you!” I said to her. She then explained that she was having some trouble disciplining her learners – “I’m too soft with them you see, they just think I’m their friend.” Could I maybe help her come up with some ways to improve discipline? Well sure. Let’s sit down and plan. But no wait – there’s more. “You see, whenever I leave my classroom – like now when I came to talk to you – they are just running up and down and making noise. How can I keep them quiet?” A year and a half ago, I would have been circumspect and non-confrontational about maybe, you know, just as a thought, things might be better if she was in her class instead of with me. (“well…lets go to your class and see what we can do.”) Six months ago I would have suggested, with a sense of abject and defeated cynicism, that she at least give them some work to do if she doesn’t ever plan on being there. Today, I have essentially 6 months of school to go, and I said. “Oh! I know! I have the perfect solution for you – its really easy! Do you want to hear it?!” “Yes, please.” “Stay in your class! Problem solved.” The teacher then began laughing at shaking her head at my ridiculous solution, and then left the room still laughing and has yet to ask me about it again – since obviously by giving such an absurd answer, I was just joking and never meant to help her in the first place. This response has not changed at all over the last 18 months, nor do I imagine it will in the next 6. It’s just one of many things that make me miss America – and be more than happy to be heading back in not too long.
Quite often, in fact, I find myself becoming a lot or a little homesick. What I never knew, before I came here, is that homesickness has its levels and degrees, and in the past year and a half I think I’ve experienced many (though probably not all) of them. There’s the raw, ripping, grief-like feeling of being 10,000 miles away from everyone you love and all those who love you; the sudden sucker-punch of dislocation just when you thought things were fine; the sense of isolation and frustration that comes from sitting in the middle of a conversation that you can’t understand – and probably wouldn’t even if it was in your own language. Most of all though, there is the constant and low-grade sense of alienation, of disconnect or misconnect. Its as if even while I sit and move in the middle of things – take the taxi, go to the store, walk down the street, chat with a friend – some part of something is not quite genuine, is not entirely supposed to be there, and I just can’t quite get to the heart of things, behind the scenery and the script to the reality. I am, constantly, out of place. That *is my place, to be the alien, the mascot, the obvious one. Its one of the reasons that going to Pretoria and walking through the campus is such an escape. I am escaping into the invisible, to a place where I am unseen, and therefore normal. To a place where -- to those around me even more than myself -- I could be at home.
Which of course is completely normal, I think. It is grinding, the constant process of being the alien, the mascot. Smiling and greeting, being stared at, and always always always standing out. To the point that on my worse days I can only hope that there will be enough of me left after all this grinding to last seven more months. Home, after all, isn’t the place where everybody knows your name (and that could probably be a mixed blessing in a bar, too) – because I’ve got that now, and Celebrity and Home are two very, very different things. Home, I think, is the place where you know everybody else’s name, and more than that you know that you belong to it, and it belongs to you more than any other place in the world. (“Its not so very difficult to own something.” in the words of Neil Gaiman, “You just have to know that it’s yours, and then be willing to give it up.”).
Steenbok does not belong to me, and I do not belong to it. We are visitors to one another, brief – if powerful – moments in one another’s existence. That’s not ownership, or belonging, so its not home.
Will as many people ever know who I am in Davis, in Ventura, in wherever I end up eventually? Will I have as big an impact there, or will the place shape me in the same way, with the same sharp and fleeting collision? No, probably not. But they were, it will be, mine, in the same way and for the same reason that Africa never could and never will be. I have no right to claim a place here, that’s what it is. Just like you can see a place for the first time and think “Home.” “Mine.” I think in the same way you can know that a place, a person, whatever, isn’t meant to be yours.
I remember in one of my very first letters home I wrote something along the lines of, “I can feel myself falling in love with Africa, and that surprises me.” It’s still true, of course. I still love this place. I love the feeling of coming home (a place can of course be home, even if it’s not Home) through the bush, watching the sun set to my right. I love that the other day one of my teachers called me “skoni,” which means ‘sister-in-law’ (no I haven’t married anybody! It’s also a term of endearment). I love this place, but I don’t own it, and it doesn’t own me. We maintain our distance from each other, and on some level we both know that it will not last. The place where we are coming from is not the same – and neither is our destination, even if the road parallels for a bit. Which is why a suggestion as simple and obvious to me as a teacher staying in her classroom, instead seems to that teacher the funniest thing she’s heard all day.
Today, a grade 3 teacher walked into the school office and asked me to help her with something. “Awesome!” I thought to myself. “I would love to help you!” I said to her. She then explained that she was having some trouble disciplining her learners – “I’m too soft with them you see, they just think I’m their friend.” Could I maybe help her come up with some ways to improve discipline? Well sure. Let’s sit down and plan. But no wait – there’s more. “You see, whenever I leave my classroom – like now when I came to talk to you – they are just running up and down and making noise. How can I keep them quiet?” A year and a half ago, I would have been circumspect and non-confrontational about maybe, you know, just as a thought, things might be better if she was in her class instead of with me. (“well…lets go to your class and see what we can do.”) Six months ago I would have suggested, with a sense of abject and defeated cynicism, that she at least give them some work to do if she doesn’t ever plan on being there. Today, I have essentially 6 months of school to go, and I said. “Oh! I know! I have the perfect solution for you – its really easy! Do you want to hear it?!” “Yes, please.” “Stay in your class! Problem solved.” The teacher then began laughing at shaking her head at my ridiculous solution, and then left the room still laughing and has yet to ask me about it again – since obviously by giving such an absurd answer, I was just joking and never meant to help her in the first place. This response has not changed at all over the last 18 months, nor do I imagine it will in the next 6. It’s just one of many things that make me miss America – and be more than happy to be heading back in not too long.
Quite often, in fact, I find myself becoming a lot or a little homesick. What I never knew, before I came here, is that homesickness has its levels and degrees, and in the past year and a half I think I’ve experienced many (though probably not all) of them. There’s the raw, ripping, grief-like feeling of being 10,000 miles away from everyone you love and all those who love you; the sudden sucker-punch of dislocation just when you thought things were fine; the sense of isolation and frustration that comes from sitting in the middle of a conversation that you can’t understand – and probably wouldn’t even if it was in your own language. Most of all though, there is the constant and low-grade sense of alienation, of disconnect or misconnect. Its as if even while I sit and move in the middle of things – take the taxi, go to the store, walk down the street, chat with a friend – some part of something is not quite genuine, is not entirely supposed to be there, and I just can’t quite get to the heart of things, behind the scenery and the script to the reality. I am, constantly, out of place. That *is my place, to be the alien, the mascot, the obvious one. Its one of the reasons that going to Pretoria and walking through the campus is such an escape. I am escaping into the invisible, to a place where I am unseen, and therefore normal. To a place where -- to those around me even more than myself -- I could be at home.
Which of course is completely normal, I think. It is grinding, the constant process of being the alien, the mascot. Smiling and greeting, being stared at, and always always always standing out. To the point that on my worse days I can only hope that there will be enough of me left after all this grinding to last seven more months. Home, after all, isn’t the place where everybody knows your name (and that could probably be a mixed blessing in a bar, too) – because I’ve got that now, and Celebrity and Home are two very, very different things. Home, I think, is the place where you know everybody else’s name, and more than that you know that you belong to it, and it belongs to you more than any other place in the world. (“Its not so very difficult to own something.” in the words of Neil Gaiman, “You just have to know that it’s yours, and then be willing to give it up.”).
Steenbok does not belong to me, and I do not belong to it. We are visitors to one another, brief – if powerful – moments in one another’s existence. That’s not ownership, or belonging, so its not home.
Will as many people ever know who I am in Davis, in Ventura, in wherever I end up eventually? Will I have as big an impact there, or will the place shape me in the same way, with the same sharp and fleeting collision? No, probably not. But they were, it will be, mine, in the same way and for the same reason that Africa never could and never will be. I have no right to claim a place here, that’s what it is. Just like you can see a place for the first time and think “Home.” “Mine.” I think in the same way you can know that a place, a person, whatever, isn’t meant to be yours.
I remember in one of my very first letters home I wrote something along the lines of, “I can feel myself falling in love with Africa, and that surprises me.” It’s still true, of course. I still love this place. I love the feeling of coming home (a place can of course be home, even if it’s not Home) through the bush, watching the sun set to my right. I love that the other day one of my teachers called me “skoni,” which means ‘sister-in-law’ (no I haven’t married anybody! It’s also a term of endearment). I love this place, but I don’t own it, and it doesn’t own me. We maintain our distance from each other, and on some level we both know that it will not last. The place where we are coming from is not the same – and neither is our destination, even if the road parallels for a bit. Which is why a suggestion as simple and obvious to me as a teacher staying in her classroom, instead seems to that teacher the funniest thing she’s heard all day.
Friday, January 18, 2008
RIP
Yesterday was an excellent day. In the morning I met with the Principal and head teachers at one of my schools to discuss our ideas for the coming year – by which we all meant my last 7 months in Steenbok (!). We discussed mainly two ideas at great length – a possible career fair for the 6th and 7th graders, and the creation of a school-wide vision for the coming years.
The impetus for the career fair is simple – you ask kids what they want to be when they grow up and they pull seemingly random (yet standard) answers out of a hat. “I want to be a teacher, a doctor, an engineer…” Which are all great of course, but then you ask them how they plan to do it and the answer is once again standard: “I don’t know.” They don’t know what’s really out there, what subjects they need to study, what school they have to go to, how to get a scholarship, or even to fill out a basic job application or create a resume. So yesterday afternoon, two teachers and I sat down to brainstorm every career we could think of in the area. We came up with over 50 in less than an hour, and realized it would be a little bit difficult to have them all get up and talk one by one for only one day. Then another plan began to take shape: We’re going to hold a career week, instead.
The first day will feature a speaker who will describe various job opportunities and possibilities in the area along with – well, I’m not really sure what she’s going to talk about, but she’s a local something or other and the teachers thought it would be a good idea to have her come and kick off the whole thing. That same day we’ll give the kids one of those ridiculous interest/skill inventories that’s supposed to tell you if you’ll make a better architect or taxi driver. (I know they’re absurd and label-y and probably not all that useful anyways, but I have a feeling the kids have literally NO IDEA what angle to begin looking from, so at least we can give them a starting point.) We’ll also give them a time table and summary of the various speakers who are coming over the next week to take home to their parents. The idea here is two-fold: One, trigger parental discussions about the child’s possible future; and two, invite anybody in the community who wants to come. We’re going to make this open to anybody who’s interested in stopping by and learning about possible careers. In a community with 70% unemployment, I think we may get a visitor or two. Over the next few days, we’ll have hopefully lots and lots of people from different jobs and places coming to talk to our kids and tell them how to get where they’re going in different sessions throughout the day. The speakers will be put in a certain classroom at a certain time, and the kids can decide whom they want to go listen to.
I know this all sounds pretty complicated, but what’s really cool is how simple it actually is. Invite people to come talk to the kids at a certain place and time, tell the parents about it, invite any community members who are interested. The other amazing thing is that its not just me setting things up. This is truly a group effort – in fact the teachers are the ones who came up with pretty much all of the careers, the plan for a week-long event, and the logistics of it all. I think that’s really cool, and I also think its something I probably couldn’t have done in the beginning. Finally, after a year and a half at site, we’ve started to reach this point of planning together, working together, not just me trying to drag people along. I love that. Too bad I’ve now only got effectively 6 months left to enjoy it. Its honestly enough to make me think about extending for a third year…except that I really, really can’t wait to get back to showers. And microbrews.
We also talked about the idea of creating a school vision, which was actually an extension of a conversation we’d had back in November, that was initiated not by me, but by sever of the deputy principals. I want to help each school create a school vision of quite literally what they want to see when they look out the office door. What do they want their school to look like? Where do they want it to go? And how should we get there.* We came up with a long, ridiculous process, but its one that I think is really suited to the school and will work. We’re going to ask everybody in the school – everybody – what they want to see. From Grade R to Grade 7, teachers, SMT, general workers, the SGB, and parents. Then we’re going to sit down in what I can only assume will be a series of mind-numbing, hair-pulling (for me) meetings, and try to find common ground among all of those different desires (though I’m betting most of them will be pretty close). The result will be our school’s vision, and we can start planning how to get there. Sure it seems a little bit bulky and not terribly efficient, but I think it will work. Once again, the great thing is that we’re not doing things my way, we’re doing them our way.
Those were the two big collaborative efforts of the day, but it was the two smaller personal ones from which I got to take a pretty big feeling of personal satisfaction.
I’ve started teaching world history to one little girl in grade 6 during her normal English period. She spent most of her school time in Joburg, and consequently already speaks English better than pretty much anybody else in the village (possibly including me). Spending her time reciting, “The ball is on the table. The boy sees the ball. The boy is playing with the ball.” is one of the more useless things I can think of, so her teacher and the principal agreed to let me pull her out during English class when I’m around so that we can work on something together instead. And when I asked, she wanted to learn history. So now the two of us our learning World History. Which I’ve definitely never taught, in addition to never having taught anybody one on one. So this should be fun. But she’s smart, and asks good questions, and together we’ll figure it out.
All of the above is pretty good of course -- career fairs, school visions, world history -- however I’ve definitely been saving the best, the thing that gets me the most excited and of which I am the most proud, for last.
Izora has *not only* mastered the main tune of the alphabet song, *not only* does she mostly get and average of 14-16 of the letters in there when she’s singing it, *not only* has the concept of signing various letters while she does it, BUT: As of yesterday she’s mastered A-C on their own. She can point to them and name them without any help from me. And just like that, this 3 year old is suddenly ahead of half the kids in grade 3. What a smart kid.
*In other words: ‘Quo Vadius.’ Man was Sports Night a good show.
The impetus for the career fair is simple – you ask kids what they want to be when they grow up and they pull seemingly random (yet standard) answers out of a hat. “I want to be a teacher, a doctor, an engineer…” Which are all great of course, but then you ask them how they plan to do it and the answer is once again standard: “I don’t know.” They don’t know what’s really out there, what subjects they need to study, what school they have to go to, how to get a scholarship, or even to fill out a basic job application or create a resume. So yesterday afternoon, two teachers and I sat down to brainstorm every career we could think of in the area. We came up with over 50 in less than an hour, and realized it would be a little bit difficult to have them all get up and talk one by one for only one day. Then another plan began to take shape: We’re going to hold a career week, instead.
The first day will feature a speaker who will describe various job opportunities and possibilities in the area along with – well, I’m not really sure what she’s going to talk about, but she’s a local something or other and the teachers thought it would be a good idea to have her come and kick off the whole thing. That same day we’ll give the kids one of those ridiculous interest/skill inventories that’s supposed to tell you if you’ll make a better architect or taxi driver. (I know they’re absurd and label-y and probably not all that useful anyways, but I have a feeling the kids have literally NO IDEA what angle to begin looking from, so at least we can give them a starting point.) We’ll also give them a time table and summary of the various speakers who are coming over the next week to take home to their parents. The idea here is two-fold: One, trigger parental discussions about the child’s possible future; and two, invite anybody in the community who wants to come. We’re going to make this open to anybody who’s interested in stopping by and learning about possible careers. In a community with 70% unemployment, I think we may get a visitor or two. Over the next few days, we’ll have hopefully lots and lots of people from different jobs and places coming to talk to our kids and tell them how to get where they’re going in different sessions throughout the day. The speakers will be put in a certain classroom at a certain time, and the kids can decide whom they want to go listen to.
I know this all sounds pretty complicated, but what’s really cool is how simple it actually is. Invite people to come talk to the kids at a certain place and time, tell the parents about it, invite any community members who are interested. The other amazing thing is that its not just me setting things up. This is truly a group effort – in fact the teachers are the ones who came up with pretty much all of the careers, the plan for a week-long event, and the logistics of it all. I think that’s really cool, and I also think its something I probably couldn’t have done in the beginning. Finally, after a year and a half at site, we’ve started to reach this point of planning together, working together, not just me trying to drag people along. I love that. Too bad I’ve now only got effectively 6 months left to enjoy it. Its honestly enough to make me think about extending for a third year…except that I really, really can’t wait to get back to showers. And microbrews.
We also talked about the idea of creating a school vision, which was actually an extension of a conversation we’d had back in November, that was initiated not by me, but by sever of the deputy principals. I want to help each school create a school vision of quite literally what they want to see when they look out the office door. What do they want their school to look like? Where do they want it to go? And how should we get there.* We came up with a long, ridiculous process, but its one that I think is really suited to the school and will work. We’re going to ask everybody in the school – everybody – what they want to see. From Grade R to Grade 7, teachers, SMT, general workers, the SGB, and parents. Then we’re going to sit down in what I can only assume will be a series of mind-numbing, hair-pulling (for me) meetings, and try to find common ground among all of those different desires (though I’m betting most of them will be pretty close). The result will be our school’s vision, and we can start planning how to get there. Sure it seems a little bit bulky and not terribly efficient, but I think it will work. Once again, the great thing is that we’re not doing things my way, we’re doing them our way.
Those were the two big collaborative efforts of the day, but it was the two smaller personal ones from which I got to take a pretty big feeling of personal satisfaction.
I’ve started teaching world history to one little girl in grade 6 during her normal English period. She spent most of her school time in Joburg, and consequently already speaks English better than pretty much anybody else in the village (possibly including me). Spending her time reciting, “The ball is on the table. The boy sees the ball. The boy is playing with the ball.” is one of the more useless things I can think of, so her teacher and the principal agreed to let me pull her out during English class when I’m around so that we can work on something together instead. And when I asked, she wanted to learn history. So now the two of us our learning World History. Which I’ve definitely never taught, in addition to never having taught anybody one on one. So this should be fun. But she’s smart, and asks good questions, and together we’ll figure it out.
All of the above is pretty good of course -- career fairs, school visions, world history -- however I’ve definitely been saving the best, the thing that gets me the most excited and of which I am the most proud, for last.
Izora has *not only* mastered the main tune of the alphabet song, *not only* does she mostly get and average of 14-16 of the letters in there when she’s singing it, *not only* has the concept of signing various letters while she does it, BUT: As of yesterday she’s mastered A-C on their own. She can point to them and name them without any help from me. And just like that, this 3 year old is suddenly ahead of half the kids in grade 3. What a smart kid.
*In other words: ‘Quo Vadius.’ Man was Sports Night a good show.
Monday, January 07, 2008
All Tuckered Out
I have more thoughts percolating in my head, but they've yet to make themselves into a coherent post, so it will just be a little bit longer until that goes up. Today is, I guess, my last day of vacation (or my last day before going back to site at least) and after a few days of decompressing in Pretoria I will be more than glad to get back. I have a lot of plans and projects for my last two terms at school, and I can't wait to see just how many we can pull off before August 21st. In the meantime:
Me and Bhutazwa at Amazing Grace on Christmas Day. I may have to smuggle him home at the end of service. (Also, if anybody could explain to me how to rotate pictures on blogger I'd be very happy).
Mom goes on Safari*.
Dad goes on Safari too.
Hippos! What you can't see is the 27 car pileup (plus one very impatient minivan) as everybody tried to get up and down a rail-less one lane cement bridge to the main rest area/lunch stop while simultaneously trying to get as many yawning hippo photos as possible.
And giraffes. Which are very tall. And also very funny looking.
Lions. A whole pride of them came right up to our safari truck (yes, safari truck. With real tourists and everything. I preferred to think of it as a different aspect of wildlife spotting).
An elephant hanging out in Kruger. We saw lots of these. They don't seem to worry about people too much.
Dad looking deeply concerned next to the crocodile ("flatdog") warning sign in Swaziland. We saw a wildebeest body dissapear in less than 2 days.
Mom cooking in my kitchen in Steenbok. We made delicious spaghetti for my family. We thought it was delicious, at least.
Mom and Dad on a hike in Swaziland. Aww.
There were also some very precarious bridges on the way. Fortunately there were not too many crocodiles at this particular bend in the river. (I would also like to know how to rotate this one.)
Dad is king of the mountatin.
New Years dinner in Cape Town, yay! Note the all-tequlia margaritas on the table, and the fact that I wasn't given fair warning in the look on my face.
Long Street in Cape Town on New Year's eve. Its like Mardi Gras, but with more Afrikaans.
An African Jackass penguin. Really. They live in Cape Town on the beach and swim in the Indian Ocean all day. I think this pretty clearly proves that these are the smartest penguins in existence. None of that freezing their tails off March of the Penguin BS for these guys.
All in all, it was a long, tiring, and very satisfying trip.
The parents should theoretically be posting all the rest on snapfish sometime in the near future. When they wake up from their naps.
*Random trivia fact for the day: 'safari' apparently translates to 'walk' in Swahili (which is not siswati, for those of you who may have been confused). This is why you have to go in the biggest, and most petrol intensive vehicle that you can find.
Me and Bhutazwa at Amazing Grace on Christmas Day. I may have to smuggle him home at the end of service. (Also, if anybody could explain to me how to rotate pictures on blogger I'd be very happy).
Mom goes on Safari*.
Dad goes on Safari too.
Hippos! What you can't see is the 27 car pileup (plus one very impatient minivan) as everybody tried to get up and down a rail-less one lane cement bridge to the main rest area/lunch stop while simultaneously trying to get as many yawning hippo photos as possible.
And giraffes. Which are very tall. And also very funny looking.
Lions. A whole pride of them came right up to our safari truck (yes, safari truck. With real tourists and everything. I preferred to think of it as a different aspect of wildlife spotting).
An elephant hanging out in Kruger. We saw lots of these. They don't seem to worry about people too much.
Dad looking deeply concerned next to the crocodile ("flatdog") warning sign in Swaziland. We saw a wildebeest body dissapear in less than 2 days.
Mom cooking in my kitchen in Steenbok. We made delicious spaghetti for my family. We thought it was delicious, at least.
Mom and Dad on a hike in Swaziland. Aww.
There were also some very precarious bridges on the way. Fortunately there were not too many crocodiles at this particular bend in the river. (I would also like to know how to rotate this one.)
Dad is king of the mountatin.
New Years dinner in Cape Town, yay! Note the all-tequlia margaritas on the table, and the fact that I wasn't given fair warning in the look on my face.
Long Street in Cape Town on New Year's eve. Its like Mardi Gras, but with more Afrikaans.
An African Jackass penguin. Really. They live in Cape Town on the beach and swim in the Indian Ocean all day. I think this pretty clearly proves that these are the smartest penguins in existence. None of that freezing their tails off March of the Penguin BS for these guys.
All in all, it was a long, tiring, and very satisfying trip. The parents should theoretically be posting all the rest on snapfish sometime in the near future. When they wake up from their naps.
*Random trivia fact for the day: 'safari' apparently translates to 'walk' in Swahili (which is not siswati, for those of you who may have been confused). This is why you have to go in the biggest, and most petrol intensive vehicle that you can find.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Family Vacation
I need some time to process the last couple of weeks before I post any sort of substantitive blog entry. But in brief, mom and dad came out and we had a really amazing time -- Kruger, Amazing Grace, Steenbok, Swaziland, and Cape town -- all in less than two weeks! It was really great. Here are some photos to prove it:
At the Amazing Grace Children's Center in Malelane, passing out christmas gifts. I think mom bought out at least three different dollar store toy sections.
By "passing out gifts" of course what I actually mean is "putting the box on the ground and letting the riot happen." The kids were actually very very good about sharing everything and playing with all the toys together. No thrown elbows or body checks in sight, just a bunch of really happy kids on christmas.
Where we all live!
Wild dogs in Kruger! We saw these on a night drive. They're incredibly rare, we were very lucky.
At the Amazing Grace Children's Center in Malelane, passing out christmas gifts. I think mom bought out at least three different dollar store toy sections. 
By "passing out gifts" of course what I actually mean is "putting the box on the ground and letting the riot happen." The kids were actually very very good about sharing everything and playing with all the toys together. No thrown elbows or body checks in sight, just a bunch of really happy kids on christmas.
Where we all live!
Wild dogs in Kruger! We saw these on a night drive. They're incredibly rare, we were very lucky.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Two More (okay, 2.5)
Okay, these are my final comments on camp/life in general for now:
Should any of you like to knit, and be looking for a cool project, I can now highly reccomend mother bear. I've seen the faces of the kids when they get their bears -- they were passed out at breakfast on the last day of camp, while some counselors spontaneously began to sing Christmas carols -- and it was just one more moment at camp where suddenly the room was full of happy, crying, singing people. Awesome.
My computer has what I'm going to euphemistically call the chicken pox (and will studiously avoid call "being dead") so while I have tons and tons of photos of camp and thanksgiving and lots of fun things like that -- well, it may take a while until they make it online. Dammit.
And finally, Camp Sizanani has a website at www.worldcamps.org if you want to see pictures of camp activites in general, even if I myself do not happen to be in them.
Should any of you like to knit, and be looking for a cool project, I can now highly reccomend mother bear. I've seen the faces of the kids when they get their bears -- they were passed out at breakfast on the last day of camp, while some counselors spontaneously began to sing Christmas carols -- and it was just one more moment at camp where suddenly the room was full of happy, crying, singing people. Awesome.
My computer has what I'm going to euphemistically call the chicken pox (and will studiously avoid call "being dead") so while I have tons and tons of photos of camp and thanksgiving and lots of fun things like that -- well, it may take a while until they make it online. Dammit.
And finally, Camp Sizanani has a website at www.worldcamps.org if you want to see pictures of camp activites in general, even if I myself do not happen to be in them.
In Which I Become Mariah Carey
I just got back from two weeks at a girls camp in the Northwest province (a girls camp which I blessedly was not in charge of, but only helping out at, I might add). Its an amazing program called Camp Sizanani ("Helping Each Other" in Zulu) that takes kids from Soweto, the big famous and extremely poor township outside of Jo'burg, and brings them to essentially summer camp for two weeks. They do Sports, Arts and Crafts, Theater, Adventure, Swimming, and -- crucially -- Lifeskills. The whole camp is designed around lifeskills, actually, with each activity being specifically focused on increasing self-esteem, communication, empowerment, and all the good stuff like that. So of all the above activites, imagine Becca goes to camp to help out, what would I obviously be doing?
If you answered swimming, you were too right (and blindly guessing). I originally went with the intention of doing Lifeskills, I mean thats my 'thing' right? However, it turns out that one of the major and unexpected skill deficits of the South African camp counselors was the ability to swim. Nobody knew how to swim, yet counselors were needed to teach swimming. A conundrum. And there I was. Suddenly in the pool four hours a day for nine straight days when I thought I'd be teaching all about gender roles and HIV instead.
It was amazingly fun. About 98% of the girls had never been in a pool, never been in a large body of water of any sort before, and to see them progress from outright terror to enthusiastic swimmers was such a blast. One girl, of whom I was particularly proud, told me that a number of years ago she'd spent four days in the hospital after nearly drowning in a swimming pool. But she got in the water, even though I could see how scared she was, and by the end of the nine days she was splashing around indistinguishable from the rest of the kids. Thats bravery.
I was also in charge, along with two other girls (one another PCV, one a South African) or a cabin of 14 13-14 year old girls. Oh my god, what an age. I was reminded why teaching middle school is considered a punishment in the states. It was a little bit funny, though, to watch them vascillate between being the little girls they had just been, who only wanted to have fun, and the adults whom they were pretty sure they should be -- and much too cool for any of that fun stuff. You could see the battle in their eyes, and it was hard to get too mad at them for anything. In fact, they were all incredibly sweet girls (even the ones who pretended not to be) and I think we all surprised ourselves on the last day with how much we were going to miss one another.
The whole experience, in fact, is hard to summarize except for by describing the last day. On average, in a moment to moment sort of way, it was herding girls from one place to another, teaching lessons, eating bad food, attempting to enforce lights out, solving arguments, attempting to wake them up again in the morning, and generally two weeks of exhaustion. That was moment to moment though, that was the surface. I think on the last day we all sort of realized what we had created in the meantime. During those moments, or inbetween, something really cool had happened.
The closing ceremony of Camp Sizanani is a lot of singing and speaches and poetry around a campfire, followed by a bridge or tunnel of camp counselors which all the girls walk through, stopping one by one for a hug and special message from each adult they'd interacted with over the past 9 days. Not only was there not a single dry eye anywhere, I don't believe there was a single person who wasn't a sobbing mess that night, especially including me. It was amazing. Girls talked about what a life changing experience they'd gone through, about what they'd learned and the bonds they'd made with the other counselors. They mentioned how they'd love to come back and be counselors themselves next year (and quite a few actually do), and generally affirmed Camp Sizanani as one of the best things that had ever happened to them. It was really beautiful.
One of the images that I'm left with, the one that sort of expresses camp to me, happened towards the end of our time in the pool. We'd progressed beyond kicking and putting our faces in the water (well, most of us) and had moved on to actual moving-our-arms, kicking-our-legs real live swimming. I had the girls swim to me one at a time, always backing up just a little bit, but always right in front of them where they could see me. My constant litany was "its okay, I'm right here, I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you, you're safe." and I think I said it more than was necessary, because to be able to promise that to a child here is a luxury I won't often have again. So I said it a lot, and I think it was comforting for all of us, and especially healing for me. But we swam out, or rather I walked back and the girl swam to me, until finally I stopped with my back against the rope that demarcate the shallow and the beginning-to-be-deep ends. Then I would stop the girl, and hold her up, and point back to where we had come from -- about 15 feet. "Look! You just swam that whole way, all by yourself, you swam that far! Aren't you proud of yourself?" And inevitably the girl would turn around and her face would break out into a look of awe. In the process of getting there, I don't think she'd realized where she'd been going. And all of a sudden, she'd really accomplished something. Something that a week ago had seemed almost impossible. That one look, when she looked back and saw just how far she'd come, thats Camp Sizanani for me, and something that I think is going to stay with me as one of the highlights of Peace Corps.
If you answered swimming, you were too right (and blindly guessing). I originally went with the intention of doing Lifeskills, I mean thats my 'thing' right? However, it turns out that one of the major and unexpected skill deficits of the South African camp counselors was the ability to swim. Nobody knew how to swim, yet counselors were needed to teach swimming. A conundrum. And there I was. Suddenly in the pool four hours a day for nine straight days when I thought I'd be teaching all about gender roles and HIV instead.
It was amazingly fun. About 98% of the girls had never been in a pool, never been in a large body of water of any sort before, and to see them progress from outright terror to enthusiastic swimmers was such a blast. One girl, of whom I was particularly proud, told me that a number of years ago she'd spent four days in the hospital after nearly drowning in a swimming pool. But she got in the water, even though I could see how scared she was, and by the end of the nine days she was splashing around indistinguishable from the rest of the kids. Thats bravery.
I was also in charge, along with two other girls (one another PCV, one a South African) or a cabin of 14 13-14 year old girls. Oh my god, what an age. I was reminded why teaching middle school is considered a punishment in the states. It was a little bit funny, though, to watch them vascillate between being the little girls they had just been, who only wanted to have fun, and the adults whom they were pretty sure they should be -- and much too cool for any of that fun stuff. You could see the battle in their eyes, and it was hard to get too mad at them for anything. In fact, they were all incredibly sweet girls (even the ones who pretended not to be) and I think we all surprised ourselves on the last day with how much we were going to miss one another.
The whole experience, in fact, is hard to summarize except for by describing the last day. On average, in a moment to moment sort of way, it was herding girls from one place to another, teaching lessons, eating bad food, attempting to enforce lights out, solving arguments, attempting to wake them up again in the morning, and generally two weeks of exhaustion. That was moment to moment though, that was the surface. I think on the last day we all sort of realized what we had created in the meantime. During those moments, or inbetween, something really cool had happened.
The closing ceremony of Camp Sizanani is a lot of singing and speaches and poetry around a campfire, followed by a bridge or tunnel of camp counselors which all the girls walk through, stopping one by one for a hug and special message from each adult they'd interacted with over the past 9 days. Not only was there not a single dry eye anywhere, I don't believe there was a single person who wasn't a sobbing mess that night, especially including me. It was amazing. Girls talked about what a life changing experience they'd gone through, about what they'd learned and the bonds they'd made with the other counselors. They mentioned how they'd love to come back and be counselors themselves next year (and quite a few actually do), and generally affirmed Camp Sizanani as one of the best things that had ever happened to them. It was really beautiful.
One of the images that I'm left with, the one that sort of expresses camp to me, happened towards the end of our time in the pool. We'd progressed beyond kicking and putting our faces in the water (well, most of us) and had moved on to actual moving-our-arms, kicking-our-legs real live swimming. I had the girls swim to me one at a time, always backing up just a little bit, but always right in front of them where they could see me. My constant litany was "its okay, I'm right here, I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you, you're safe." and I think I said it more than was necessary, because to be able to promise that to a child here is a luxury I won't often have again. So I said it a lot, and I think it was comforting for all of us, and especially healing for me. But we swam out, or rather I walked back and the girl swam to me, until finally I stopped with my back against the rope that demarcate the shallow and the beginning-to-be-deep ends. Then I would stop the girl, and hold her up, and point back to where we had come from -- about 15 feet. "Look! You just swam that whole way, all by yourself, you swam that far! Aren't you proud of yourself?" And inevitably the girl would turn around and her face would break out into a look of awe. In the process of getting there, I don't think she'd realized where she'd been going. And all of a sudden, she'd really accomplished something. Something that a week ago had seemed almost impossible. That one look, when she looked back and saw just how far she'd come, thats Camp Sizanani for me, and something that I think is going to stay with me as one of the highlights of Peace Corps.
Like the Pantages, But Not at All
One of the first things we did at camp, by which I mean within 30 minutes of picking up the kids in Jo'burg, was go and see the Lion King. I don't mean we rented the movie and popped some popcorn -- or even projected it onto a convenient wall after dark. I mean 1800 children, their families, the camp counselors and directors, and four extremely happy Peace Corps Volunteers went to a local performing arts center where Disney had essentially donated the entire 1pm matinee of the South African production of the Lion King musical to Global Camps. This was not what I expected when I signed up for camp, but boy was I happy about it.
I'd seen the Lion King before, years ago in LA (for somebody's birthday, as I recall), and I'd remembered it being pretty awesome. So-so music (especially the weird fillers not written by Elton John) but AMAZING costumes. The Lion King is all about the visuals, the unbelievable puppets and characters and scenes that the artists have created. Thats what I remembered. Of course, the major difference between when I saw it with Tess and when I saw it two weeks ago were the 1800 children from Soweto who had never seen anything like this before in their lives. That and the fact that we were seeing it actually in Africa gave it an incredible depth. Here they tweak the languages of the songs quite a bit, which is fun. A lot of the original music was written in Swahili -- the parts that weren't in English, of course. Here they've instead switched a lot of the Swahili for Zulu, and also managed to fit in I believe all 11 official language plus Khoisan, a language which consists almost entirely of clicks and whistles which very few people speak anymore. The kids loved it.
In fact, the kids loved all of it, and while getting to see the Lion King was a wonderful experience on its own, getting to see the Lion King with all those kids is probably going to be my hands down best musical theater-esque experience ever. They were literally leaning forward on the edge of their seats, applauding, laughing, pointing, yelling, clapping and occasionally even singing along. (Hakuna Matata, especially, was a hit. Though according to the little girl next to me who apparently did in fact speak Swahili: "It means no problems not no worries." How can I not love seeing the Lion King in Africa?) When the performers came out for the final curtain call, the kids went wild screaming and applauding for all their favorites -- all except for the man who played Scar, who got perhaps the longest and loudest "Boooo!" I've ever heard. The poor guy. Once I stopped laughing I felt a little bad for him.
I'd seen the Lion King before, years ago in LA (for somebody's birthday, as I recall), and I'd remembered it being pretty awesome. So-so music (especially the weird fillers not written by Elton John) but AMAZING costumes. The Lion King is all about the visuals, the unbelievable puppets and characters and scenes that the artists have created. Thats what I remembered. Of course, the major difference between when I saw it with Tess and when I saw it two weeks ago were the 1800 children from Soweto who had never seen anything like this before in their lives. That and the fact that we were seeing it actually in Africa gave it an incredible depth. Here they tweak the languages of the songs quite a bit, which is fun. A lot of the original music was written in Swahili -- the parts that weren't in English, of course. Here they've instead switched a lot of the Swahili for Zulu, and also managed to fit in I believe all 11 official language plus Khoisan, a language which consists almost entirely of clicks and whistles which very few people speak anymore. The kids loved it.
In fact, the kids loved all of it, and while getting to see the Lion King was a wonderful experience on its own, getting to see the Lion King with all those kids is probably going to be my hands down best musical theater-esque experience ever. They were literally leaning forward on the edge of their seats, applauding, laughing, pointing, yelling, clapping and occasionally even singing along. (Hakuna Matata, especially, was a hit. Though according to the little girl next to me who apparently did in fact speak Swahili: "It means no problems not no worries." How can I not love seeing the Lion King in Africa?) When the performers came out for the final curtain call, the kids went wild screaming and applauding for all their favorites -- all except for the man who played Scar, who got perhaps the longest and loudest "Boooo!" I've ever heard. The poor guy. Once I stopped laughing I felt a little bad for him.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
That Was Unexpected
On tuesday of this week I did what I had initially planned to be a short workshop/lesson about HIV for my teachers at Bhambatha primary. I honestly had no idea how it would go, but I had a couple of main vague goals in mind: 1) teachers need to be educated just like everybody else; 2) people in the community respect teachers, so whatever the teachers are saying had better be accurate; and 3) free captive audience.
I initially planned to take about an hour, and stole what seemed like a good amount of basic activities from resources peace corps had given us (I could have made up my own, I suppose, but why reinvent the wheel?). I had no idea how much my teachers already knew, how receptive they would be, or if they would even want to be there at all. We ended school at 11 to start -- normally I would have protested, but its the end of the year and they're not really doing much -- and I prepared myself for blank stares and high amounts of resistance. Which is about what I got for the first 10 minutes, until things took a turn for the amazing.
What started out as a planned 1 hour workshop turned into a 3 hour conversation and lesson about HIV. Basic facts, how to stay safe, prevalent myths, social causes, the science behind it, what teachers as community members can do, and...most crucial of all...testing. At the end all of my teachers seemed so positive that I asked them how willing they were to test. If I called the local home based care organization and asked them to come to the school, would teachers test? I got some startled looks, some nervous headshakes. After all, agreeing on the importance of testing in theory is one thing, and not too hard. Actually getting tested yourself, in a county where 1/4 are infected and the stigma and shame are so deep-rooted no one will even call AIDS by its name...well, thats a different deal. But then, the principal said "Yes! We are educators, we are community leaders, we must test!" and the deputy principal agreed, and then another teacher, and another. They told me that if they made the call, they would go.
I was astounded. And I made the call.
Today three people from Thembalethu Home Based Care came to my school to test any teachers or staff that were willing. I was prepared with candy and certificates of bravery for anybody who was willing. I was expecting maybe the 3 or 4 that had committed to step up, maybe 1 or 2 more. Instead virtually every adult in the school got tested.
Almost every adult!! 20 out of 25!! In a place where most people believe that its just better not to know because the stress will kill you. A friend of mine couldn't talk hers into it even with the potential of a R5000 raffle payoff. I just can't convey how truly astounding it was that this many people got tested. Even the testers were shocked.
I am so proud of my teachers. The certificates I made them say "...for demonstrating outstanding BRAVERY and LEADERSHIP in learning their status" and thats exactly what they did.
I initially planned to take about an hour, and stole what seemed like a good amount of basic activities from resources peace corps had given us (I could have made up my own, I suppose, but why reinvent the wheel?). I had no idea how much my teachers already knew, how receptive they would be, or if they would even want to be there at all. We ended school at 11 to start -- normally I would have protested, but its the end of the year and they're not really doing much -- and I prepared myself for blank stares and high amounts of resistance. Which is about what I got for the first 10 minutes, until things took a turn for the amazing.
What started out as a planned 1 hour workshop turned into a 3 hour conversation and lesson about HIV. Basic facts, how to stay safe, prevalent myths, social causes, the science behind it, what teachers as community members can do, and...most crucial of all...testing. At the end all of my teachers seemed so positive that I asked them how willing they were to test. If I called the local home based care organization and asked them to come to the school, would teachers test? I got some startled looks, some nervous headshakes. After all, agreeing on the importance of testing in theory is one thing, and not too hard. Actually getting tested yourself, in a county where 1/4 are infected and the stigma and shame are so deep-rooted no one will even call AIDS by its name...well, thats a different deal. But then, the principal said "Yes! We are educators, we are community leaders, we must test!" and the deputy principal agreed, and then another teacher, and another. They told me that if they made the call, they would go.
I was astounded. And I made the call.
Today three people from Thembalethu Home Based Care came to my school to test any teachers or staff that were willing. I was prepared with candy and certificates of bravery for anybody who was willing. I was expecting maybe the 3 or 4 that had committed to step up, maybe 1 or 2 more. Instead virtually every adult in the school got tested.
Almost every adult!! 20 out of 25!! In a place where most people believe that its just better not to know because the stress will kill you. A friend of mine couldn't talk hers into it even with the potential of a R5000 raffle payoff. I just can't convey how truly astounding it was that this many people got tested. Even the testers were shocked.
I am so proud of my teachers. The certificates I made them say "...for demonstrating outstanding BRAVERY and LEADERSHIP in learning their status" and thats exactly what they did.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Briefly
From a Swazi Volunteer:
"You will not see tangible, measurable results in 2 years anywhere close to what you hope or expect. The saying that "what takes a day in USA takes a week in Africa, what takes a week in USA takes a month in Africa, what takes a month in USA takes 1 year in Africa" is close to true for reasons that you have no control over. So after your first month on the job, when you are still in USA mode, write down what you would like to achieve in 2 months time. This now becomes your 2 year work goal. NOTE: You can achieve more than this if you move into "take charge mode" but not through a capacity building approach. Also, in 2 years, you will probably not move out of USA mode."
When I read this, I first started to laugh very hard. Then for a brief second I thought I might cry. Then I just laughed some more. Its a pretty good summation.
"You will not see tangible, measurable results in 2 years anywhere close to what you hope or expect. The saying that "what takes a day in USA takes a week in Africa, what takes a week in USA takes a month in Africa, what takes a month in USA takes 1 year in Africa" is close to true for reasons that you have no control over. So after your first month on the job, when you are still in USA mode, write down what you would like to achieve in 2 months time. This now becomes your 2 year work goal. NOTE: You can achieve more than this if you move into "take charge mode" but not through a capacity building approach. Also, in 2 years, you will probably not move out of USA mode."
When I read this, I first started to laugh very hard. Then for a brief second I thought I might cry. Then I just laughed some more. Its a pretty good summation.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Its Not Just Me
An unexpected consequence seems to be coming out of my family's attempts at renovating. In the storage room -- now the porch -- there was a bookshelf, you can actually see it in one of the photos below I think. Obviously as soon as I got home last month and saw my surprise I brought all of my books inside (where they now happily live in more cardboard boxes than I would have expected), however my host family never bothered. Consequently, there is now a bookshelf full of all sorts of random things (disentegrating siswati bibles, old text books, ANC policy documents...) just gazing out onto the street. Nothing good, or I would have saved it, but still lots of books just sitting there.
This week I've had at least two sets of visitors that I know of -- primary grade kids come to sort through this apparent treasure trove. I assume that many more have stopped by when I haven't noticed or haven't been around. They're not looking for anything in particular, they're just awed and a little excited at the prospect of so many books waiting out for them -- free to touch or read or page through without any adult discouragement or intervention. Its like watching birds come to a birdfeeder. Unfortunately at the moment the birdfeeder is full of nutrasweet rather than anything actually nutritious, and I don't want to leave any of my very very small stock of picture books out for fear of damage. But it makes me happy to see, and it gives me hope for the library we're building at Ekwenzeni and the one I think will be forthcoming too at Bhambatha if the renovations ever happen. Kids want to read. They want those books. If we build it, they will come.
Thats kind of reassuring, isn't it?
This week I've had at least two sets of visitors that I know of -- primary grade kids come to sort through this apparent treasure trove. I assume that many more have stopped by when I haven't noticed or haven't been around. They're not looking for anything in particular, they're just awed and a little excited at the prospect of so many books waiting out for them -- free to touch or read or page through without any adult discouragement or intervention. Its like watching birds come to a birdfeeder. Unfortunately at the moment the birdfeeder is full of nutrasweet rather than anything actually nutritious, and I don't want to leave any of my very very small stock of picture books out for fear of damage. But it makes me happy to see, and it gives me hope for the library we're building at Ekwenzeni and the one I think will be forthcoming too at Bhambatha if the renovations ever happen. Kids want to read. They want those books. If we build it, they will come.
Thats kind of reassuring, isn't it?
Saturday, November 03, 2007
More pictures...
because I do not win at blogger.
All our pumpkins, lined up in a row.
My butternut-o-lantern guards the house at night.
Bonga strikes poses with her gorgeous face paint and lovelier pumpkin. (Its me...can you tell?)
All our pumpkins, lined up in a row.
My butternut-o-lantern guards the house at night.
Bonga strikes poses with her gorgeous face paint and lovelier pumpkin. (Its me...can you tell?)
More Pictures!
Bubble blowing on the front lawn. Best dollar store purchase ever.
Everybody strikes a pose with their pumpkins and friends. Latoya and Azora look on a little confused.
Sarah demonstrates the art of perfect pumpkin carving.
Masks in grade 3! Seriously, how cute are they?
"Trickatricka!!" Siswati for trick or treat. Here we're trick or treating for stickers, because hopping 65 9 year olds up on sugar is not a good way to start the day.
A grade 3 boy acts out his grandfather costume. His teachers and friends and I were all cracking up.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Ups and Downs
About a week and a half ago, as an exercise at our mid-service training, we were asked to graph our relative morale from month to month since we had gotten here. Mine seemed to be generally fairly high, though just like everybody else's its gone into a bit of a decline the last few months (like I told Omar, who has just finished his two years and is now off travelling: "Its not exciting and frustrating any more, its just frustrating!" "Yeah, thats pretty normal for right about now."). But like I said, on the whole I rate the last 15 months pretty highly. I attribute this to two things: 1) I really am having fun, and am generally fairly optimistic; and 2) I opted to focus on the best parts of each month rather than the worst. Had we been asked to graph things bi-weekly, or even weekly, there would have been a whole lot more down and things would have been a whole lot more bipolar. This week is an excellent example.
First, the ugly:
Monday and tuesday I once again braved the corporal punishment workshop. I've discussed my thoughts on corporal punishment already, but here I've taken the stance that if its not obvious its probably not that bad, so I don't want to get into it. However, the principal asked me to, so I did.
The first day bordered on disastrous. My teachers argued that the governemnt and department of education were in fact in the wrong, since both Jesus and the Bible advocate beating children (the first time I heard this argument I tried countering: "but didn't Jesus say suffer the little children? and turning the other cheek? Jesus never hit anybody, did he?" I've since learned that this is an entirely worthless strategy, so now I just go with a simple "I don't know. But it is still the law.") By the end of the day I'm pretty sure that I had just convinced them even more of the importance of beating their children. "But Nomvula, of course you are shocked by the extreme levels of violence in South Africa, its because you're from a different culture." Right about there I quit. Not a lot of counterarguments to that one, are there?
The second day was better. We talked about all the different ways teachers could keep discipline without sticks or paddles or any of that. Positive reinforcement, stickers, being in your class (...), all the strategies that we never have to think twice about because we grew up with them, but that are completely foreign to my teachers. It was good! It was great! They were engaged, they asked questions, they agreed that they could and would use all the strategies. They even came up with a few of their own and discussed them. Afterwards quite a few -- including the principal and deputy principal -- came up and thanked me for such a helpful workshop, and promised to do their best.
Success!!
Until today. When I walked into the staff room and saw one of the HODs (department heads) beating the crap out of a learner with a cane until the learner was crouched on the ground, crying and yelling and holding his hands up to protect himself. The childs crime? Hitting another learner. Yup, that beating will definitely teach him that beating people is wrong. (I did pull the HOD aside to speak with him, after initially storming out of the room. We discussed why he did at and what else he could have done...ironically, one discipline technique I highlighted in my workshop.)
Fortunately, this same week I've been spending the large majority of my time with two of my favorite teachers in the village. They are hands down the best of the 60 I work with. They care about the kids, teach the whole time, use a variety of activities and methods, actually plan their lessons, integrate reading and writing...I could go on and on. I love these women. Monday I brought in Swimmy to share with the kids. I figured that I would entertain myself by doing a readaloud, and maybe model it to the teachers as well. I showed Maria -- one of the teachers -- the book, and she immediately grabbed it out of my hands in excitement. Two hours later, there stands Maria, stealing my lesson and doing a phenomenal reading of Swimmy to 65 3rd graders. She stopped to ask questions, translated, had them act out swimming, talked about adjectives...it was wonderful. The kids were enthralled. I wanted to hug her. The next day, as a follow up activity, she had them summarize it in siswati (I suggested that she also ask them to extend the story "...what do you think swimmy and his friends do next?" but apparently that was a little much for kids who aren't even used to repeating in their own words, let alone making up their own things to talk about. Baby steps.)
On Wednesday I also taught what they deemed a "lesson", and I deemed "goofing around because its a holiday" about Halloween. I explained the concept of jack-o-lanterns...the looks on their faces were priceless. Think about the concept of pumpkin carving for a second, its pretty weird. So we drew our own jack-o-lanterns, and then I had them put on masks that they had made for homework and go trick-or-treating for stickers. Apparently the siswati for "trick or treat" is "Trickatricka!!" and I consider that a perfectly valid cultural adaptation. Then we talked a bit about their masks, and I had all of them write poems in English and Siswati about who they were. It was great. I don't claim educational value, but I did get some excellent photos.
After school, Tom, Sarah, myself, and any respective siblings we could find (or steal in Sarah's case) decided to get together for some pumpkin carving. Because you can't have a real halloween without jack-o-lanterns, can you? Unfortunately, what with being in the wrong hemisphere and all, South Africa is a little low on pumpkins at the moment. So we opted for carving butternut-o-lanterns, which worked equally well. Soon a small pack of grade 5 boys wandered over to see what ridiculous thing the crowd of white people was doing. Fortunately Sarah had brought face paint, and I just happened to have some bubbles with me (stickers, bubbles, shiny beads -- the peace corps volunteers essential kit). Soon we had a full on halloween carnival happening!! Here's Tom carving and arranging the lanterns, there's a couple of toddlers running around chasing bubbles, here's a boy with clown face paint. It was awesome. Tomorrow, I'll post pictures.
First, the ugly:
Monday and tuesday I once again braved the corporal punishment workshop. I've discussed my thoughts on corporal punishment already, but here I've taken the stance that if its not obvious its probably not that bad, so I don't want to get into it. However, the principal asked me to, so I did.
The first day bordered on disastrous. My teachers argued that the governemnt and department of education were in fact in the wrong, since both Jesus and the Bible advocate beating children (the first time I heard this argument I tried countering: "but didn't Jesus say suffer the little children? and turning the other cheek? Jesus never hit anybody, did he?" I've since learned that this is an entirely worthless strategy, so now I just go with a simple "I don't know. But it is still the law.") By the end of the day I'm pretty sure that I had just convinced them even more of the importance of beating their children. "But Nomvula, of course you are shocked by the extreme levels of violence in South Africa, its because you're from a different culture." Right about there I quit. Not a lot of counterarguments to that one, are there?
The second day was better. We talked about all the different ways teachers could keep discipline without sticks or paddles or any of that. Positive reinforcement, stickers, being in your class (...), all the strategies that we never have to think twice about because we grew up with them, but that are completely foreign to my teachers. It was good! It was great! They were engaged, they asked questions, they agreed that they could and would use all the strategies. They even came up with a few of their own and discussed them. Afterwards quite a few -- including the principal and deputy principal -- came up and thanked me for such a helpful workshop, and promised to do their best.
Success!!
Until today. When I walked into the staff room and saw one of the HODs (department heads) beating the crap out of a learner with a cane until the learner was crouched on the ground, crying and yelling and holding his hands up to protect himself. The childs crime? Hitting another learner. Yup, that beating will definitely teach him that beating people is wrong. (I did pull the HOD aside to speak with him, after initially storming out of the room. We discussed why he did at and what else he could have done...ironically, one discipline technique I highlighted in my workshop.)
Fortunately, this same week I've been spending the large majority of my time with two of my favorite teachers in the village. They are hands down the best of the 60 I work with. They care about the kids, teach the whole time, use a variety of activities and methods, actually plan their lessons, integrate reading and writing...I could go on and on. I love these women. Monday I brought in Swimmy to share with the kids. I figured that I would entertain myself by doing a readaloud, and maybe model it to the teachers as well. I showed Maria -- one of the teachers -- the book, and she immediately grabbed it out of my hands in excitement. Two hours later, there stands Maria, stealing my lesson and doing a phenomenal reading of Swimmy to 65 3rd graders. She stopped to ask questions, translated, had them act out swimming, talked about adjectives...it was wonderful. The kids were enthralled. I wanted to hug her. The next day, as a follow up activity, she had them summarize it in siswati (I suggested that she also ask them to extend the story "...what do you think swimmy and his friends do next?" but apparently that was a little much for kids who aren't even used to repeating in their own words, let alone making up their own things to talk about. Baby steps.)
On Wednesday I also taught what they deemed a "lesson", and I deemed "goofing around because its a holiday" about Halloween. I explained the concept of jack-o-lanterns...the looks on their faces were priceless. Think about the concept of pumpkin carving for a second, its pretty weird. So we drew our own jack-o-lanterns, and then I had them put on masks that they had made for homework and go trick-or-treating for stickers. Apparently the siswati for "trick or treat" is "Trickatricka!!" and I consider that a perfectly valid cultural adaptation. Then we talked a bit about their masks, and I had all of them write poems in English and Siswati about who they were. It was great. I don't claim educational value, but I did get some excellent photos.
After school, Tom, Sarah, myself, and any respective siblings we could find (or steal in Sarah's case) decided to get together for some pumpkin carving. Because you can't have a real halloween without jack-o-lanterns, can you? Unfortunately, what with being in the wrong hemisphere and all, South Africa is a little low on pumpkins at the moment. So we opted for carving butternut-o-lanterns, which worked equally well. Soon a small pack of grade 5 boys wandered over to see what ridiculous thing the crowd of white people was doing. Fortunately Sarah had brought face paint, and I just happened to have some bubbles with me (stickers, bubbles, shiny beads -- the peace corps volunteers essential kit). Soon we had a full on halloween carnival happening!! Here's Tom carving and arranging the lanterns, there's a couple of toddlers running around chasing bubbles, here's a boy with clown face paint. It was awesome. Tomorrow, I'll post pictures.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Photos
So here you have the roadside view of what my house now looks like. (There are some before shots at snapfish if you want to compare.) I've decided that I'm just going to look at is as haveing a really big, nice patio. Maybe plant some flowers in the giant dirt pile in front.
And here a lovely shot of the next door kraal (cattle pen) and some neighborhood kids who were begging me to "shoot me! shoot me!" while I took the first photo.
Friday, October 12, 2007
The Mercedes
Let me reiterate, before I post this, that my blog is just mine and has nothing to do with the US Government's opinion, Peace Corp's opinion, anybody in South Africa's opinion, etc... I can't even guarantee that my opinion today will be the same as tomorrow. You may have noticed, in fact, that all my entries tend to be fairly upbeat. This is partially because I like to think of myself as an optimistic (albeit intensley sarcastic) person, and partially because peace corps volunteers getting too candid has a tendency to spark international incidences.
So. The Mercedes.
The family I live with isn't really poor by village standards. There is enough food on the table, enough clothes for all four kids, television, two working parents, etc... They're doing okay. However, my host-father is a local counsellor, and he apparently felt that without a car, he just wasn't living up to the title. So despite the fact that they do occasionally run out of electricity, that they have four children to feed, that I get hit up for money (and/or told about just how 'bankrupt' he is -- code for asking for money) more than I am comfortable with, despite all this, he bought a car. And not just any car, oh no, the counsellor can't be seen in just any car, he needs a Mercedes. Forget that he has children to feed, forget that they barely have enough money now, he needs a Mercedes Benz. (And then there's that other tiny detail: the lack of a driver's license. But no big deal, apparently).
It makes me angry, but not because a mercedes is a mark of western consumerism bla bla bla. He's a grown man, he can spend his money on whatever he wants and I really don't think there's any particular moral judgement to be made. If you want a mercedes instead of...I don't know...a set of the great works of western literature...why should one be a more moral choice than the other? Its not. I don't think that spending money on status symbols is inherently good or bad (though on an emotional level I may find it silly, but haven't I done the same thing? Or didn't I when I had the cash?) No, it makes me mad because its a choice that doesn't just affect him - he has children! There are four girls living in that house who now have less food to eat and less light to study by because their father needed to show off.* Our power has been going out fairly consistently now because they can't afford electricity anymore. My host-mom hit me up for R60 the other day for food (normally I avoid loaning them money, I don't really have that much to loan and I hate being seen as a walking wallet. But what could I do? I love the girls and the thought of them going hungry when I have money is repugnant). I'm pretty sure they wash the car more than the baby (usually with insanely loud and awful music right next to my house), and then there's the little matter of my room being half-demolished for a garage. So I hate the mercedes, a lot. Every time I lose another carton of milk because the powers been off too long, and everytime I see him driving up and down the road honking at people when he should be at work I just start to hate it a little more. I refuse to ride in it, because the thought of the American status symbol hopping into the German status symbol to be shown off around town makes me physically ill.
Does all of this sound a little petty? Maybe it is, maybe hating the car is a way of channelling who knows what other stresses and frustrations that I have to deal with every day all into one convenient package. But I think that its just the embodiment of an idea that I see over and over again here: that the look of a thing is more important than its substance. If a learner has really nice handwriting, but gets the answers wrong, the teacher will praise him or her above everybody else. Conversely, getting the right answer but being too sloppy makes it wrong. Secretaries spend hours on borders, tables, graphics, layouts, because thats all everybody cares about in a document -- the content is secondary. The important thing about a meeting is that you have an agenda and a secretary, not that you have important content and get a lot done. And if a family has a mercedes, they're succesful -- even if the power is off for days at a time. Its all about the look, and never about the big picture.
*The fact that this, and corporal punishment, are the two things that I have refused to concede cultural moral relativism on is interesting, isn't it? They both involve adult's relationships with children. Does this in fact reveal a cultural bias in me? The view that childhood is somehow sacred or inviolate (thanks Victorians)? Or does it mean that moral/cultural relationships between adults are just that -- relationships between two consenting adults of relatively equal power and status -- while children don't get much say in whats happening to them, which makes things less fair? I'm going to go with the second one.
So. The Mercedes.
The family I live with isn't really poor by village standards. There is enough food on the table, enough clothes for all four kids, television, two working parents, etc... They're doing okay. However, my host-father is a local counsellor, and he apparently felt that without a car, he just wasn't living up to the title. So despite the fact that they do occasionally run out of electricity, that they have four children to feed, that I get hit up for money (and/or told about just how 'bankrupt' he is -- code for asking for money) more than I am comfortable with, despite all this, he bought a car. And not just any car, oh no, the counsellor can't be seen in just any car, he needs a Mercedes. Forget that he has children to feed, forget that they barely have enough money now, he needs a Mercedes Benz. (And then there's that other tiny detail: the lack of a driver's license. But no big deal, apparently).
It makes me angry, but not because a mercedes is a mark of western consumerism bla bla bla. He's a grown man, he can spend his money on whatever he wants and I really don't think there's any particular moral judgement to be made. If you want a mercedes instead of...I don't know...a set of the great works of western literature...why should one be a more moral choice than the other? Its not. I don't think that spending money on status symbols is inherently good or bad (though on an emotional level I may find it silly, but haven't I done the same thing? Or didn't I when I had the cash?) No, it makes me mad because its a choice that doesn't just affect him - he has children! There are four girls living in that house who now have less food to eat and less light to study by because their father needed to show off.* Our power has been going out fairly consistently now because they can't afford electricity anymore. My host-mom hit me up for R60 the other day for food (normally I avoid loaning them money, I don't really have that much to loan and I hate being seen as a walking wallet. But what could I do? I love the girls and the thought of them going hungry when I have money is repugnant). I'm pretty sure they wash the car more than the baby (usually with insanely loud and awful music right next to my house), and then there's the little matter of my room being half-demolished for a garage. So I hate the mercedes, a lot. Every time I lose another carton of milk because the powers been off too long, and everytime I see him driving up and down the road honking at people when he should be at work I just start to hate it a little more. I refuse to ride in it, because the thought of the American status symbol hopping into the German status symbol to be shown off around town makes me physically ill.
Does all of this sound a little petty? Maybe it is, maybe hating the car is a way of channelling who knows what other stresses and frustrations that I have to deal with every day all into one convenient package. But I think that its just the embodiment of an idea that I see over and over again here: that the look of a thing is more important than its substance. If a learner has really nice handwriting, but gets the answers wrong, the teacher will praise him or her above everybody else. Conversely, getting the right answer but being too sloppy makes it wrong. Secretaries spend hours on borders, tables, graphics, layouts, because thats all everybody cares about in a document -- the content is secondary. The important thing about a meeting is that you have an agenda and a secretary, not that you have important content and get a lot done. And if a family has a mercedes, they're succesful -- even if the power is off for days at a time. Its all about the look, and never about the big picture.
*The fact that this, and corporal punishment, are the two things that I have refused to concede cultural moral relativism on is interesting, isn't it? They both involve adult's relationships with children. Does this in fact reveal a cultural bias in me? The view that childhood is somehow sacred or inviolate (thanks Victorians)? Or does it mean that moral/cultural relationships between adults are just that -- relationships between two consenting adults of relatively equal power and status -- while children don't get much say in whats happening to them, which makes things less fair? I'm going to go with the second one.
Monday, October 01, 2007
wtf?
The other day I got home after a long, long time away from site – training, Pretoria, swearing-in for the new volunteers, Limpopo, Sabie (geez!) – all excited to see my family again after 3 weeks, start making some delicious spaghetti, and show off my sweet digs to Erica. Unfortunately, instead of all that I got a little bit of a shock as the taxi pulled up in front of my house.
My host family recently bought a car (which is a whole different entry), and decided that they needed a garage for it. Before I left, my host mother pointed to my house and mentioned that they were planning to expand onto it to make said garage. My interpretation of this, aided by her hand gestures and pointing, was that my home would go from two cozy rooms (one that I use exclusively as a sort of studio apartment, and one that we share for storage) to three, with a third room being added on for the car. You’d think, by now, I’d have learned about the perils of assumption in South Africa – I mean, since probably 98%of my assumptions turn out to be wrong, why do I even trust them at all anymore? But, well, I haven’t.
Can you see where this is going?
So I get home, and now instead of home I have one studio apartment-esque space to live in (to reiterate mom: yes, I still have four intact walls and a door) and…one three walled catastrophe that looks like a mix of a movie set and a construction site. The taxi stopped, and we were all staring at what was once the inside of my house. I was a little surprised. Three hours later my family got home from whatever important business they had, and explained to me that there had been some sort of ‘mistake.’ I’m not entirely clear on this, but it seems like the original intent was for three rooms and then…an error was made? “Oops, knocked a gigantic hole in your wall by accident, well, we’ll just keep ripping it out now.” Who makes mistakes like that? More likely, I’m thinking, is that its cheaper to extend one room a few feet for a car than it is to construct an entirely new one.
I’m a bit pissed/surprised/irritated, but I’m willing to call that normal. I mean really, how difficult would it have been to call me with a “by the way, we’re knocking down a wall tomorrow. Heads up.” I kept a lot of books and school supplies in there, and they were apparently just sitting out for anybody to take them for at least a couple of days before I got home. Nothing got taken though, for once I guess the utter local apathy towards books and literacy has worked out in my favor. I guess the local tsotsis don’t see a lot of value in smuggling over to Maputo and then selling the complete works of John Donne and Shakespeare. A canonical western literature black market on the streets of Mozambique seems unlikely, though I’m not saying I wouldn’t stop by.
Geez.
My host family recently bought a car (which is a whole different entry), and decided that they needed a garage for it. Before I left, my host mother pointed to my house and mentioned that they were planning to expand onto it to make said garage. My interpretation of this, aided by her hand gestures and pointing, was that my home would go from two cozy rooms (one that I use exclusively as a sort of studio apartment, and one that we share for storage) to three, with a third room being added on for the car. You’d think, by now, I’d have learned about the perils of assumption in South Africa – I mean, since probably 98%of my assumptions turn out to be wrong, why do I even trust them at all anymore? But, well, I haven’t.
Can you see where this is going?
So I get home, and now instead of home I have one studio apartment-esque space to live in (to reiterate mom: yes, I still have four intact walls and a door) and…one three walled catastrophe that looks like a mix of a movie set and a construction site. The taxi stopped, and we were all staring at what was once the inside of my house. I was a little surprised. Three hours later my family got home from whatever important business they had, and explained to me that there had been some sort of ‘mistake.’ I’m not entirely clear on this, but it seems like the original intent was for three rooms and then…an error was made? “Oops, knocked a gigantic hole in your wall by accident, well, we’ll just keep ripping it out now.” Who makes mistakes like that? More likely, I’m thinking, is that its cheaper to extend one room a few feet for a car than it is to construct an entirely new one.
I’m a bit pissed/surprised/irritated, but I’m willing to call that normal. I mean really, how difficult would it have been to call me with a “by the way, we’re knocking down a wall tomorrow. Heads up.” I kept a lot of books and school supplies in there, and they were apparently just sitting out for anybody to take them for at least a couple of days before I got home. Nothing got taken though, for once I guess the utter local apathy towards books and literacy has worked out in my favor. I guess the local tsotsis don’t see a lot of value in smuggling over to Maputo and then selling the complete works of John Donne and Shakespeare. A canonical western literature black market on the streets of Mozambique seems unlikely, though I’m not saying I wouldn’t stop by.
Geez.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Visible/Invisible
I've been back from SA-16 training for about a week and have been spending my time in Pretoria, more or less awaiting the Tenth Anniversary Swearing-In Celebration(party/shindig/do) that, in typical peace corps fashion, was a bit less exciting than all it was talked up to be. I was promised Nelson Mandela and the Clintons! (okay, true I was promised via 8th person rumour, but still). Oh well. There were still swings and free food (in the words of the American Ambassador to South Africa "...one thing I have learned in hosting you guys is that volunteers can eat their own body weight.") and I got all dressed up for the first time since...well, my own swearing in one year ago today (!). We all looked very formal and elegant, not bad for those used to washing in buckets.
During my week here I've been spending a lot of time walking around the city, people-watching, and generally experiencing the vast difference between third world rural life, and first world city life. I'll be very honest: Unlike a lot of what I see each day, it gives me hope. I love seeing all the different people out together, walking together, playing tennis together. I love walking through the University of Pretoria campus and seeing how non-white it is. Is it 87% African and completely aligned with the demographics of the country? Good lord, of course not. But neither is it the all white continuation of the economic and educational disparity that everyday in my village. People are going to University; the cycle is slowly, slowly, slowly dissolving. And I think that thats even more remarkable when you consider that the students at a University now would have been the very first generation since apartheid, born in it's death throes. What will things be like in 20 years? Or 50? In three generations?
I think that one of the things many of us Volunteers tend to forget is that we do live in...not the worst of the worst, but perhaps the most desperate for help. It wouldn't do much good to send Volunteers to places that were getting their acts together on their own, would it? And so our perception of the system might be slightly skewed -- there are good things happening too. Thats not to say for a second that rural education here is anywhere near what it needs to be. I don't know whats going to happen to this generation of children in my village, I don't know if we are anything but a band-aid for this generation of teachers. But what about rural education in America? How good is that? Admittedly there are places like the Esparto district, where I subbed for a bit, or the many incredibly dedicated and fantastic teachers of Santa Paula (hi guys! hi mom!), but then there's also Gustine (hi Kasey!), the inner cities, and on. American education certainly isn't getting it all right, but there are a whole lot of things that are going pretty well. In the same way, there are a whole lot of things going wrong with education in this country, but there are also the occasional things going right (if you can afford it).
During my week here I've been spending a lot of time walking around the city, people-watching, and generally experiencing the vast difference between third world rural life, and first world city life. I'll be very honest: Unlike a lot of what I see each day, it gives me hope. I love seeing all the different people out together, walking together, playing tennis together. I love walking through the University of Pretoria campus and seeing how non-white it is. Is it 87% African and completely aligned with the demographics of the country? Good lord, of course not. But neither is it the all white continuation of the economic and educational disparity that everyday in my village. People are going to University; the cycle is slowly, slowly, slowly dissolving. And I think that thats even more remarkable when you consider that the students at a University now would have been the very first generation since apartheid, born in it's death throes. What will things be like in 20 years? Or 50? In three generations?
I think that one of the things many of us Volunteers tend to forget is that we do live in...not the worst of the worst, but perhaps the most desperate for help. It wouldn't do much good to send Volunteers to places that were getting their acts together on their own, would it? And so our perception of the system might be slightly skewed -- there are good things happening too. Thats not to say for a second that rural education here is anywhere near what it needs to be. I don't know whats going to happen to this generation of children in my village, I don't know if we are anything but a band-aid for this generation of teachers. But what about rural education in America? How good is that? Admittedly there are places like the Esparto district, where I subbed for a bit, or the many incredibly dedicated and fantastic teachers of Santa Paula (hi guys! hi mom!), but then there's also Gustine (hi Kasey!), the inner cities, and on. American education certainly isn't getting it all right, but there are a whole lot of things that are going pretty well. In the same way, there are a whole lot of things going wrong with education in this country, but there are also the occasional things going right (if you can afford it).
Sunday, September 09, 2007
melange
Today I am going to training for the SA-16 Volunteers in Rustenburg (Zeerust? Somewhere far away.) I'll be there for a week talking to the incoming volunteers about integrating into their village and how to become a part of their community. My first thought on this when peace corps told me was "Wow, that would be a good thing to have at training...I wonder how one does it?" So I asked my teachers and my sisters. Latoya's advice: "Um. Patience. I think just lots of patience." Latoya sounds like Peace Corps. One of my teacher's advice: "Well, they should try and get involved in activities and groups in the community, to really meet a lot of people." At that point, I got a little concerned, "wait, Maria, I haven't joined any groups or activities, what am I doing wrong?" "Oh, well. We don't have any in Steenbok. We just have funerals."
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