The other day I was sitting on my family’s front porch, chatting with two of my sisters – Latoya and Jabu, who are 14 and 16 respectively. This is one of my favorite parts of the day. Both girls are beautiful, smart, and sweet, and I really enjoy getting to hear about their and their friend’s perspective on big things like the school system, HIV, poverty, alcoholism, immigration, and all the rest of it. But even better is just having two friends who I can sit around and be silly with after school. We talk about Generations and movie stars, and their favorite musicians. They show me the latest dance moves, and I demonstrate over and over how bad my dancing is. Is it strange that two of my closest South African friends are 14 and 16? Maybe, but as I get further and further out of the exceedingly homogenous (age, socio-economic, and, yes, racial to a large degree) experience that was college I’m learning that that matters less and less. They’re my friends because I love the time that I spend with them.
Which is why my blood ran cold when, after sitting together quietly for a few minutes, Latoya looked at me and asked in perfect seriousness: “Ses Nomvula…is it true that white people are better than black people?”
What can you say to a question like that? What could I say? I can’t think of anything more calculated to break my heart. I asked her if she thought it was true. She said, “Well, no, but Bonga [the 8 year old sister] does. She asked mom to buy her Cornflakes because she sees white people eating them on TV. She says white people’s food is better. That’s what I thought too when I was her age, but I don’t anymore.” So we talked for a bit about the differences she sees around her. Why the white people in Malelane all seem to be doing so well, why the black people around her in the village are so poor. About the schools, and Apartheid, and the systemic brainwashing that has taken place over hundreds of years. (“But most white people in South Africa are rich, aren’t they?” “Well yes, richer than most people here, but only because they stole everything.”) Most people in the village feel the same way. They know that, technically, they are now equal in the eyes of the government. They see that there is a black president, a black government, that doors that were closed are slowly opening, but that can’t replace 300 years of, well, being told that white people are better. I am consistently offered the best seat in the car, the best plate of food, the seat of honor at whatever function. Sure some of this is because I’m willing to come volunteer and help out for a couple of years, but when I think about how many 24 year old women from the village would be offered the same perks or choice offerings of whatever, the same deference, the same ease of access, well of course she wouldn't.
But mostly, it all comes down to this: An 8 year black girl old lives in a rural village, in a cinder-block house with a tin roof, no running water, and days when there is no electricity because the money has run out. Everybody she knows lives them same way – many of them much worse off (at least she has shoes). She watches a happy, wealthy, white family eat cornflakes for breakfast in their perfect home. What would you conclude?
Friday, May 25, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Obit
"I listen to feminists and all these radical gals. ... These women just need a man in the house. That's all they need. Most of the feminists need a man to tell them what time of day it is and to lead them home. And they blew it and they're mad at all men. Feminists hate men. They're sexist. They hate men; that's their problem."
Jerry Falwell, this camps for you.
(and from now on I'll get back to talking about Africa, I promise)
Jerry Falwell, this camps for you.
(and from now on I'll get back to talking about Africa, I promise)
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Mother's Day
You know what the best advice I've ever gotten is? The tiny little phrase that manages to pack in more "hell yes, here's something to live your life by" and less trite cliche per syllable than nearly any other?:
"Honey, don't forget: It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission"
Thanks mom. Your words and actions inspire me every day, in Davis, Ventura, South Africa, and everywhere inbetween. I love you.
"Honey, don't forget: It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission"
Thanks mom. Your words and actions inspire me every day, in Davis, Ventura, South Africa, and everywhere inbetween. I love you.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Party Hard
Last week was my birthday, and I am now 24 (which is just weird. I'll be 25 when I come home, which is even weirder). I had mentioned to one of my teachers in passing about a month ago that my birthday was coming up while we were driving somewhere. She said, "Oh but you must be at our school that day, we will sing to you!" I laughed, and so did she, and then we kept driving.
So, on my actual birthday, I found myself in a kombie full of grades 4-6 learners on our way to the nearest piano to practice "Funniculi Funnicula." As we pass my key school where that teacher works, I saw her out on the road waving her arms around and trying to flag down the taxi. It stopped for her, and we said hello, and then she talked to one of the other teachers a bit, said something to the kids, and then told me that the next day I had to be at her school to help out their choir (which, incidentally got first place at the competition and will be continuing next week. Awesome.) As we're talking I all of a sudden hear 20 learners burst into:
"Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Nomvuuuuuuuula..."
She had apparently told all the kids to sing happy birthday to me, just like she promised. I cracked up. (Although, some of the fun of having all the kids sing just to me passed when they immediately followed up by singing along with the radio's remix of "f*** you you ho." Seriously, wtf Africa).
Anyway, I figured that that was my birthday sing along and that things were all taken care of again until next year. So, the next day I wandered into my key school, where all of the teachers were acting...a bit shadier than usual. I was constantly deflected from the office, told to go hang out in the grade 7 class (where, when the teacher dissapeared for the 3rd time in 15 minutes, I spent an hour or two playing Anagrams and Hangman with the kids). Despite the fact that I was specifically there for a choir practice, the choir didn't seem to be actually practicing.
Finally, at about 11, one of the teachers called me. "Nomvula, come here, we are having a staff meeting." I walk into the classroom, and there were all my teachers sitting in a row, my host parents up front, a giant pink sparkly cake (I immediately though of Emily) and the words "Happy Birthday Nomvula Sambo/Rebecca!!!" written on the blackboard with pictures and multicolored chalk. They had thrown me a surprise party!!! There were speeches, candles, singing, and even a gift. I'll be honest, when it was my turn to give a speech I started to cry a little.
It was so amazing, not only that they would take so much time and effort to do this for me when I don't even know what I've done for them yet (my favorite line from a speech: "Nomvula has done so much for us, I can not even list them all one by one" while I thought to myself, "funny, neither can I.") but because for the very first time I felt like I was being seen as a person. They weren't celebrating the white person's birthday, they weren't just happy that I was there because I'm different, they were throwing a party for my birthday, me as an individual person whom they like on a personal level. I know volunteers who have been at site for two years and still don't feel that way. Some people feel like they are just dolls, without dimension or feeling to the people around them. But now, with only 8 months on site under my belt, to at least a few people I'm just me. Still a white me, of course, that will never go away I think, but at least me.
So, on my actual birthday, I found myself in a kombie full of grades 4-6 learners on our way to the nearest piano to practice "Funniculi Funnicula." As we pass my key school where that teacher works, I saw her out on the road waving her arms around and trying to flag down the taxi. It stopped for her, and we said hello, and then she talked to one of the other teachers a bit, said something to the kids, and then told me that the next day I had to be at her school to help out their choir (which, incidentally got first place at the competition and will be continuing next week. Awesome.) As we're talking I all of a sudden hear 20 learners burst into:
"Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Nomvuuuuuuuula..."
She had apparently told all the kids to sing happy birthday to me, just like she promised. I cracked up. (Although, some of the fun of having all the kids sing just to me passed when they immediately followed up by singing along with the radio's remix of "f*** you you ho." Seriously, wtf Africa).
Anyway, I figured that that was my birthday sing along and that things were all taken care of again until next year. So, the next day I wandered into my key school, where all of the teachers were acting...a bit shadier than usual. I was constantly deflected from the office, told to go hang out in the grade 7 class (where, when the teacher dissapeared for the 3rd time in 15 minutes, I spent an hour or two playing Anagrams and Hangman with the kids). Despite the fact that I was specifically there for a choir practice, the choir didn't seem to be actually practicing.
Finally, at about 11, one of the teachers called me. "Nomvula, come here, we are having a staff meeting." I walk into the classroom, and there were all my teachers sitting in a row, my host parents up front, a giant pink sparkly cake (I immediately though of Emily) and the words "Happy Birthday Nomvula Sambo/Rebecca!!!" written on the blackboard with pictures and multicolored chalk. They had thrown me a surprise party!!! There were speeches, candles, singing, and even a gift. I'll be honest, when it was my turn to give a speech I started to cry a little.
It was so amazing, not only that they would take so much time and effort to do this for me when I don't even know what I've done for them yet (my favorite line from a speech: "Nomvula has done so much for us, I can not even list them all one by one" while I thought to myself, "funny, neither can I.") but because for the very first time I felt like I was being seen as a person. They weren't celebrating the white person's birthday, they weren't just happy that I was there because I'm different, they were throwing a party for my birthday, me as an individual person whom they like on a personal level. I know volunteers who have been at site for two years and still don't feel that way. Some people feel like they are just dolls, without dimension or feeling to the people around them. But now, with only 8 months on site under my belt, to at least a few people I'm just me. Still a white me, of course, that will never go away I think, but at least me.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
About Rule One...
This weekend, I also spent some time at a semi-local orphanage helping out a couple of friends of mine with a "Freedom Fun Day" activity camp. Just something fun for the kids to do over a long weekend. There was a little boy there who couldn't have been older than 3. The first time I saw him he was just skirting the edges of all the activities and was completely filthy. His clothes were crusty, his face was snotty, he was carrying around a bucket and rag (not sure why) and there were flies all over his face. He's the youngest kid there by a few years, my friend told me that he and his sister are from Mozambique, though he speaks siswati.
This child broke my heart. He gets fed, he gets washed every now and again, but he's certainly not potty trained (he can't even reach the toilet) so...you can imagine. It was so obvious, nobody touches him, nobody holds him, nobody spends the time to play with him or talk to him or cuddle him or do any of the 100 basic things that every child deserves. The first day he just skirted all the action, though halfway through I gave him some soda (well, I gave him some of Mike's soda) and then he was my shadow for the rest of the day. The second day he was less shy, and got kind of into the balloon game the kids were playing (by which I mean he got sad when his balloon was popped and happy when I got him a new one). Halfway through the day he was happy to sit by Christy or myself, to be tickled and played with, though he still seemed deeply skeptical about this whole affection thing. By the end of the day he was sitting in my lap, perfectly happy with his balloon (or occasionally my watch or camera) and a safe place to be.
When was the last time somebody let this child sit in their lap? When was the last time he was hugged? And this is South Africa, so I had to wonder too: what happened to his parents, and what about all of those old sores on his arms and legs? (Well, you know, southern Africa, 1 in 4 infection rate. Take a guess). This is HIV, isn't it? This baby that I held in my lap because nobody else would, or could. The children with no parents and the classrooms with no teachers. It would be easier if there were somebody to be mad at. Someone who I could go yell at, or blame, or be pissed at until they got their act together. But there's not. There's just these babies with no parents, with nobody to love them, and not a few of whom will die of the same disease their mothers passed on to them.
This child broke my heart. He gets fed, he gets washed every now and again, but he's certainly not potty trained (he can't even reach the toilet) so...you can imagine. It was so obvious, nobody touches him, nobody holds him, nobody spends the time to play with him or talk to him or cuddle him or do any of the 100 basic things that every child deserves. The first day he just skirted all the action, though halfway through I gave him some soda (well, I gave him some of Mike's soda) and then he was my shadow for the rest of the day. The second day he was less shy, and got kind of into the balloon game the kids were playing (by which I mean he got sad when his balloon was popped and happy when I got him a new one). Halfway through the day he was happy to sit by Christy or myself, to be tickled and played with, though he still seemed deeply skeptical about this whole affection thing. By the end of the day he was sitting in my lap, perfectly happy with his balloon (or occasionally my watch or camera) and a safe place to be.
When was the last time somebody let this child sit in their lap? When was the last time he was hugged? And this is South Africa, so I had to wonder too: what happened to his parents, and what about all of those old sores on his arms and legs? (Well, you know, southern Africa, 1 in 4 infection rate. Take a guess). This is HIV, isn't it? This baby that I held in my lap because nobody else would, or could. The children with no parents and the classrooms with no teachers. It would be easier if there were somebody to be mad at. Someone who I could go yell at, or blame, or be pissed at until they got their act together. But there's not. There's just these babies with no parents, with nobody to love them, and not a few of whom will die of the same disease their mothers passed on to them.
Do Re Mi in 6 8 Time
I mentioned to one of my favorite teachers about 2 or 3 months ago that I had studied music a bit in college, and play an instrument or two...including the piano. She, suddenly and spontaneously, broke into any number of emphatic 'hallelujah amen, oh praise jesus!'-es so that I started looking around me wondering if maybe the big man himself had materialised somewhere behind us. Nope, turns out that they were in desperate need of a piano accompanist for an upcoming choir competition in which EVERY SCHOOL IN THREE DISTRICTS was participating. So, you know, good thing I hadn't touched a piano in about a year. So I spent about three days at a semi-nearby teachers center that had a piano, practicing the music that turned out to be kind of hard (damn). And then approximately 3 hours of one saturday playing for all the music teachers/choir leaders so that they could get an idea of what things would and/or should sound like before the big day. (They had the option of bringing their choirs that day so that the kids could actually practice singing with the piano but, well, TIA).
Last saturday was the big competition, and THANK GOD the official piano player actually showed up. The teachers all claimed that they would rather have had me because I "listened better" (which means I was perfectly willing to ignore all musicality and ink on the page in favor of whatever they wanted) and wouldn't really believe me when I told them that no, they didn't. By coincidence two of the schools that I had been hanging out at the past week also did really well and will move on to the next round.
The school that I was at this past week claims that those two schools did well because I happened to be around (because, you know, sporadically clapping my hands to the beat every now and again and occasionally pointing out things like 'hey, I think you're supposed to be a bit louder here' = BEST CLINIC EVER!!!) so my job for the week was to hang out with the choir. Thats fine, I can do that. It was really fun.
I felt so bad for the kids though, the teachers had them practicing 5 hours a day for a week! Which, of course, is just horrendously bad for you. A lot of them couldn't even talk at the end of the week, I'm hoping that the long weekend will help them out some. They're singing "Funniculi Funnicula" which is actually really hard even if you do read music, and apparently none of the teachers do. Every song, every tune, everything is learned by ear or by do re mi sight singing. Its really amazing when you consider how much singing happens around the village and how beautiful it all is. ...But I've spent a lot of time explaining time signatures and rests and chords.
The kids are sounding really good, which is impressive because they've only had a week to practice. I'm rooting for them on Friday, its the second round of competition so they're not just up against the neighboring schools, now there are the rich schools from around Malelane and Komatipoort in it too. I don't know if the teachers are thinking of it this way, but what a coup for the to do well, to win or move on. I know they can, I have total faith in them, and they're so dedicated too. Wish us luck.
Last saturday was the big competition, and THANK GOD the official piano player actually showed up. The teachers all claimed that they would rather have had me because I "listened better" (which means I was perfectly willing to ignore all musicality and ink on the page in favor of whatever they wanted) and wouldn't really believe me when I told them that no, they didn't. By coincidence two of the schools that I had been hanging out at the past week also did really well and will move on to the next round.
The school that I was at this past week claims that those two schools did well because I happened to be around (because, you know, sporadically clapping my hands to the beat every now and again and occasionally pointing out things like 'hey, I think you're supposed to be a bit louder here' = BEST CLINIC EVER!!!) so my job for the week was to hang out with the choir. Thats fine, I can do that. It was really fun.
I felt so bad for the kids though, the teachers had them practicing 5 hours a day for a week! Which, of course, is just horrendously bad for you. A lot of them couldn't even talk at the end of the week, I'm hoping that the long weekend will help them out some. They're singing "Funniculi Funnicula" which is actually really hard even if you do read music, and apparently none of the teachers do. Every song, every tune, everything is learned by ear or by do re mi sight singing. Its really amazing when you consider how much singing happens around the village and how beautiful it all is. ...But I've spent a lot of time explaining time signatures and rests and chords.
The kids are sounding really good, which is impressive because they've only had a week to practice. I'm rooting for them on Friday, its the second round of competition so they're not just up against the neighboring schools, now there are the rich schools from around Malelane and Komatipoort in it too. I don't know if the teachers are thinking of it this way, but what a coup for the to do well, to win or move on. I know they can, I have total faith in them, and they're so dedicated too. Wish us luck.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Abyss
Yesterday I left school a little bit early to begin my walk home. Class had gotten out about 30 minutes ago, so there were still lots of kids all over the place. A few of them decided to walk me home. And then a few more, and then a few more, and a few more – until I had an enormous pack of children giggling and surrounding me like an atom cloud as I cruised down the road. They practiced their English (“Good morning! Hi, Nomvula! Good morning!”). I practiced my teaching skills (“seriously guys, its 2 in the afternoon – at least say ‘good afternoon.’ Okay, how about this: ‘whats cracking’ – say ‘whats cracking’” They didn’t) So we all headed down the road together while everybody in the village laughed at me and my new-found horde. I was beginning to congratulate myself on how well I was putting up with my popularity, feeling all proud of my tolerance and patience, etc… and maybe enjoying my celebrity a little bit too when all of a sudden…my horde disappears? Wtf?
I look around –
I’ve been abandoned for a new and interesting hole in the ground.
Such is fame, I guess.
I look around –
I’ve been abandoned for a new and interesting hole in the ground.
Such is fame, I guess.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Spring Break...Woo!*
I just got back from a vacation in Mozambique – which I can actually see from my backyard, so I suppose it was about time I made it over there. I think that the best part of being an education peace corps volunteer in Africa is probably about the same as the best part of being an education worker anywhere else in the world –ridiculous amounts of vacation time. So for spring break (well, autumn break. I am so tired of this stupid southern hemisphere) we decided to head to a tropical beach.
We spent a night in Maputo, the capital, which is a little bit sketchy but can be pretty interesting if you’re willing to walk all over the place to find stuff. Probably the best part is the ridiculously fresh seafood. There’s a fish market right on the beach, and then all of these little restaurant-like places that are basically glorified kitchens. They cook your food for you for about the equivalent of $2 a plate. Its completely delicious.
After a night in Maputo we got into a bus for a comfortable and delightful 8 hour ride up Tofo beach – which is incredibly beautiful and totally worthwhile. You know all those corona commercials where you’re looking from the perspective of a person in a hammock and its all white sand and completely clear blue water and coconut trees? Pretty much just like that. And I spent about the whole week in that hammock. We also tried to go snorkelling with whale sharks (what a ridiculous sentence to write. Who does that? Who says, “oh, last week when I was snorkelling with whale sharks”) but sadly we never actually found any. We just rode around in a boat off the coast for 2 hours instead. It was a nice boat ride. Maybe some other time.
Generally the whole trip was really amazing (especially the part where I accidentally pulled the handle off the backpacker’s propane stove and created an enormous fountain of flames and explosion that kind of threatened to burn the whole place down, when all I really wanted was to make spaghetti. That was fun.) Mozambique is definitely much more what people probably think of when post-colonial Africa comes to mind. Its very poor, but you can see the remains of the Portugese/Arabic/European influence in the architecture and infrastructure, which is occasionally very pretty even in a completely run down state. It has a very Caribbean tropical feel to it, lots of palm trees and sudden rain storms. I kept thinking to myself how much mom and dad would love the place, its so beautiful and so very real and down to earth at the same time. I wouldn't be surprised if Mozambique and its beaches start becoming a real touristy resort destination in not too many years. (Maybe 20). I'm glad I got to go there now and get the 'backpacker' feel before that dissapears. Of course, it is also a complete economic mess: the people are poor, the streets are covered in filth, and the cops are corrupt.
We actually got hassled by a group of cops when we were walking through Maputo on our last night. They wanted our passports, but only one of us actually had his on him. They wouldn’t accept our PC IDs, were giving us a hard time, and generally things were looking like we were headed towards a night in a Mozambican jail (and…ew) because God knows we didn’t have the money for bribes, when this dude in a car pulled over and just started shouting at them over and over in Portugese. I have no idea what he was saying, but he was pissed. So the cops turned to us and asked if there was a problem here. We said most definitely not and got the hell out of there.
So Mozambique was fun.
*This might look pretty familiar to a few of you getting letters pretty soon. Sorry, but I can only write the only thing so many times in so many ways, you know?
We spent a night in Maputo, the capital, which is a little bit sketchy but can be pretty interesting if you’re willing to walk all over the place to find stuff. Probably the best part is the ridiculously fresh seafood. There’s a fish market right on the beach, and then all of these little restaurant-like places that are basically glorified kitchens. They cook your food for you for about the equivalent of $2 a plate. Its completely delicious.
After a night in Maputo we got into a bus for a comfortable and delightful 8 hour ride up Tofo beach – which is incredibly beautiful and totally worthwhile. You know all those corona commercials where you’re looking from the perspective of a person in a hammock and its all white sand and completely clear blue water and coconut trees? Pretty much just like that. And I spent about the whole week in that hammock. We also tried to go snorkelling with whale sharks (what a ridiculous sentence to write. Who does that? Who says, “oh, last week when I was snorkelling with whale sharks”) but sadly we never actually found any. We just rode around in a boat off the coast for 2 hours instead. It was a nice boat ride. Maybe some other time.
Generally the whole trip was really amazing (especially the part where I accidentally pulled the handle off the backpacker’s propane stove and created an enormous fountain of flames and explosion that kind of threatened to burn the whole place down, when all I really wanted was to make spaghetti. That was fun.) Mozambique is definitely much more what people probably think of when post-colonial Africa comes to mind. Its very poor, but you can see the remains of the Portugese/Arabic/European influence in the architecture and infrastructure, which is occasionally very pretty even in a completely run down state. It has a very Caribbean tropical feel to it, lots of palm trees and sudden rain storms. I kept thinking to myself how much mom and dad would love the place, its so beautiful and so very real and down to earth at the same time. I wouldn't be surprised if Mozambique and its beaches start becoming a real touristy resort destination in not too many years. (Maybe 20). I'm glad I got to go there now and get the 'backpacker' feel before that dissapears. Of course, it is also a complete economic mess: the people are poor, the streets are covered in filth, and the cops are corrupt.
We actually got hassled by a group of cops when we were walking through Maputo on our last night. They wanted our passports, but only one of us actually had his on him. They wouldn’t accept our PC IDs, were giving us a hard time, and generally things were looking like we were headed towards a night in a Mozambican jail (and…ew) because God knows we didn’t have the money for bribes, when this dude in a car pulled over and just started shouting at them over and over in Portugese. I have no idea what he was saying, but he was pissed. So the cops turned to us and asked if there was a problem here. We said most definitely not and got the hell out of there.
So Mozambique was fun.
*This might look pretty familiar to a few of you getting letters pretty soon. Sorry, but I can only write the only thing so many times in so many ways, you know?
Monday, March 26, 2007
Haven't You Always Wanted a Monkey?
Sadly, this entry has absolutely nothing to do with its title. But wouldn't it be fun if I moved to Africa and really did have regular contact with monkeys? I'll have to settle for my 2 year old host sister instead, I guess. She is probably much cuter and smarter than any potential monkey, anyway. And probably throws her own poop around at least a little less.
One of the reasons I love spending time with Azora so much is because language is tends to be a non-issue. The two of us speak roughly the same amount of siSwati, but we seem to understand eachother perfectly anyway. She usually wants to play, sleep, have a drink, or avoid a bath, so we relate well. We also have our language lessons togehter: here is my head, my nose, my eyes, my hands, etc... (I have also taught her to say nose, mouth, spaghetti, and obnoxious in english. Each time she points to her nose when I ask where it is, I am convinced that I live with the most brilliant child in the world).
There are also certain key phrases that she has recently picked up due to having reached the potty-training stage of her career, and these I've had to learn with a certain amount of rapid necessity. So when she informs me that "ngifuna kaka!" I know that its time to get her off my bed and into the pit toilet. (There's also a certain sense of bizarre comfort to know that some words don't change no matter what culture or language you're in. Kaka means exactly what you think it does.) The trip to the pit toilet is accompanied by much commentary from both her ("unuka!") and me ("yeah, it does smell. Don't look down, friend, pit toilet rule 1! Azora, I love you but I am not fishing you out if you fall in." etc...) and finished up with her ordering me to 'sula!'
Any hint that I might have been succumbing to maternal instincts tends to end right there. No matter how much I may adore this child, I firmly believe that in the end we just all need to learn to wipe our own rear-ends.
(I really was planning to write something at least a little insightful up there, but sometimes you just have to give into the bizarre instead. Next time.)
One of the reasons I love spending time with Azora so much is because language is tends to be a non-issue. The two of us speak roughly the same amount of siSwati, but we seem to understand eachother perfectly anyway. She usually wants to play, sleep, have a drink, or avoid a bath, so we relate well. We also have our language lessons togehter: here is my head, my nose, my eyes, my hands, etc... (I have also taught her to say nose, mouth, spaghetti, and obnoxious in english. Each time she points to her nose when I ask where it is, I am convinced that I live with the most brilliant child in the world).
There are also certain key phrases that she has recently picked up due to having reached the potty-training stage of her career, and these I've had to learn with a certain amount of rapid necessity. So when she informs me that "ngifuna kaka!" I know that its time to get her off my bed and into the pit toilet. (There's also a certain sense of bizarre comfort to know that some words don't change no matter what culture or language you're in. Kaka means exactly what you think it does.) The trip to the pit toilet is accompanied by much commentary from both her ("unuka!") and me ("yeah, it does smell. Don't look down, friend, pit toilet rule 1! Azora, I love you but I am not fishing you out if you fall in." etc...) and finished up with her ordering me to 'sula!'
Any hint that I might have been succumbing to maternal instincts tends to end right there. No matter how much I may adore this child, I firmly believe that in the end we just all need to learn to wipe our own rear-ends.
(I really was planning to write something at least a little insightful up there, but sometimes you just have to give into the bizarre instead. Next time.)
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Success!
I found out yesterday that my grant has been approved for a girl's empowerment/HIV education camp this coming summer (Or...winter...June. Whatever). I'm so, so excited, not least of all because this was the first major grant that I've written and it was accepted on the first attempt. I've asked for a little under $3,000 American to fund 4 days at a youth hostel in Kruger Park (!). We're going to spend time with 24 12-16 year old girls from my village to discuss things like gender roles, self-esteem, life goals, relationships, and of course HIV and how it is effected (affected? whichever) by all of the above. I'm ecstatic, and I feel like this is something that really has a chance of helping girls in my village.
As far as my other project goes, I sent out 11 letters last week requesting book donations from various philanthropies and NGOs throughout the world (though mostly the US and UK). Hopefully we'll start hearing back from them soon. Would anybody out there in the US like to do a book drive with me? (Mom? Ed'd? Kate and band-uh!?). This is going to be the only accessible library for 20 miles -- which actually translates to about 2.5 hours. Which, of course, actually translates itself to inaccessibility. My dream is sections of books in SiSwati, Xitsonga, and English. Children's books, novels, books for adult literacy programs, pamphlets and information on health and agriculture, resource and textbooks for learners to do research projects and papers. I want lots of shelves and comfortable chairs and a computer with internet access. I want this to be a place where both kids and their parents can come to spend a few hours just enjoying the written word, or learning something new, or...whatever.
Is this ambitious? Incredibly so. But if there is one thing I've been passionate about my entire life its books and literacy and I can't imagine a better windmill to start tilting at.
Wish me luck, friends.
As far as my other project goes, I sent out 11 letters last week requesting book donations from various philanthropies and NGOs throughout the world (though mostly the US and UK). Hopefully we'll start hearing back from them soon. Would anybody out there in the US like to do a book drive with me? (Mom? Ed'd? Kate and band-uh!?). This is going to be the only accessible library for 20 miles -- which actually translates to about 2.5 hours. Which, of course, actually translates itself to inaccessibility. My dream is sections of books in SiSwati, Xitsonga, and English. Children's books, novels, books for adult literacy programs, pamphlets and information on health and agriculture, resource and textbooks for learners to do research projects and papers. I want lots of shelves and comfortable chairs and a computer with internet access. I want this to be a place where both kids and their parents can come to spend a few hours just enjoying the written word, or learning something new, or...whatever.
Is this ambitious? Incredibly so. But if there is one thing I've been passionate about my entire life its books and literacy and I can't imagine a better windmill to start tilting at.
Wish me luck, friends.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Likusasa Letfu
I’m currently working on two major projects that make me very happy.
The first is a girl’s empowerment/HIV education retreat that will be held at the end of June. I just finished the grant application for funding, and hopefully I’ll hear back from Peace Corps about it soon. The basic idea behind the retreat is this: women, for any number of reasons, biological as well as psychological and cultural, are at a much higher risk of HIV/AIDS in the village than are men. The women’s movement hasn’t quite made it all the way to Steenbok yet (which is why my key school principal occasionally tries to get me to wash his shirts for him…good luck). Girls in high school and primary school feel compelled to have sex for all the same bad reasons that their counterparts in the US do – so that the boy won’t leaver her, to prove that she loves him, because all her friends are doing it, etc… They also feel far less able to force the boy to wear a condom when they do agree to sex (assuming that they have actually agreed.) Teen pregnancy is rampant and verges on no big deal in the eyes of the girls. I’ve heard estimates that upwards of 50% of the female learners at the secondary school have children. My own estimates put the teen pregnancy rate at about 15% a year in the village. So the idea is, if we spend some time talking to girls from every school about self-esteem, about their own plans for their own futures, about the fact that they really are good enough and strong enough to do whatever they want and say whatever they want, then that itself will drastically effect choices they make in the future. We’re also going to spend time discussing HIV myths and facts, ways to protect themselves, etc… Its impossible to live in South Africa and not have heard about HIV of course. By some estimates the HIV infection rate is as high as 25%. Its highest in Mpumulanga (my province) and rural villages (like mine). They’ve heard ABC. They’ve seen the slogans. But I think that sitting down and discussing HIV, and STIs, and pregnancy – processing things in their own way and words instead of being passive receptors for government slogans – will go a lot further. I hope. I have a teacher from every school in the village of the committee to put this together, and we’ve all already decided that this camp should come back and create some sort of peer-education club at each school when they start up again in July. Potentially this can be a really awesome and sustainable program, or that’s my dream. I’m also really excited because my brilliant host sister, Latoya, is just the right age to go. The girls are going to be chosen via an essay contest, and I know that her English writing skills are good, so I think that she’ll get to go (and I’m not above pulling a few strings either…)
My second project is a school library that has the potential to become a resource for the entire community. The thing about it is, too – I didn’t even start it! A teacher at one of my schools came to me and said that she wanted to start a library for the school. She had already cleared out a room (this is the only school with spare classrooms. Hopefully within the year we will manage to get enough extra space to create libraries at the other two schools too). I told her that I would be completely delighted to help her, and as I just happened to have my copy of Libraries for All on me at the moment, I lent it to her. Finally on Friday she showed me the spare class, already complete with bookshelves. We went through a list of potential book donors, and talked about who we thought could use the library – what kind of books did we want? We both agreed that the dream is creating a community resource and that she is more than willing to act as librarian (which is, in its own way, unfortunate since she’s also one of the best teachers at the school. But we can burn that bridge when we come to it). So we’re requesting books on agriculture and community building and appropriate technology as well as reference and reading books. Looking around the room we could both see it: the computer will go here, the shelves will go here, and chairs and beanbags and tables and lamps and rugs, and… So my job this weekend is to write a general letter from a list of key points that we put together and then tailor it slightly to each organization we identified. I’m also planning to hit up Adventures for Kids and any other groups I can think of for book drives (perhaps some members of the Santa Paula or LAUSD school districts would like to help…?). My nearest neighbor recently got nearly 3900 books donated from one drive to her schools. Not that I’ve ever been at all competitive or anything, but…I’d say I have an obligation to at least double that.
In addition to those major things, I’m also going to start English clubs at two of my schools, and I want to see if I can actually start teaching a class a couple days a week at my key school. What better way to show teachers that it really can be done than through really doing it myself every day?
The first is a girl’s empowerment/HIV education retreat that will be held at the end of June. I just finished the grant application for funding, and hopefully I’ll hear back from Peace Corps about it soon. The basic idea behind the retreat is this: women, for any number of reasons, biological as well as psychological and cultural, are at a much higher risk of HIV/AIDS in the village than are men. The women’s movement hasn’t quite made it all the way to Steenbok yet (which is why my key school principal occasionally tries to get me to wash his shirts for him…good luck). Girls in high school and primary school feel compelled to have sex for all the same bad reasons that their counterparts in the US do – so that the boy won’t leaver her, to prove that she loves him, because all her friends are doing it, etc… They also feel far less able to force the boy to wear a condom when they do agree to sex (assuming that they have actually agreed.) Teen pregnancy is rampant and verges on no big deal in the eyes of the girls. I’ve heard estimates that upwards of 50% of the female learners at the secondary school have children. My own estimates put the teen pregnancy rate at about 15% a year in the village. So the idea is, if we spend some time talking to girls from every school about self-esteem, about their own plans for their own futures, about the fact that they really are good enough and strong enough to do whatever they want and say whatever they want, then that itself will drastically effect choices they make in the future. We’re also going to spend time discussing HIV myths and facts, ways to protect themselves, etc… Its impossible to live in South Africa and not have heard about HIV of course. By some estimates the HIV infection rate is as high as 25%. Its highest in Mpumulanga (my province) and rural villages (like mine). They’ve heard ABC. They’ve seen the slogans. But I think that sitting down and discussing HIV, and STIs, and pregnancy – processing things in their own way and words instead of being passive receptors for government slogans – will go a lot further. I hope. I have a teacher from every school in the village of the committee to put this together, and we’ve all already decided that this camp should come back and create some sort of peer-education club at each school when they start up again in July. Potentially this can be a really awesome and sustainable program, or that’s my dream. I’m also really excited because my brilliant host sister, Latoya, is just the right age to go. The girls are going to be chosen via an essay contest, and I know that her English writing skills are good, so I think that she’ll get to go (and I’m not above pulling a few strings either…)
My second project is a school library that has the potential to become a resource for the entire community. The thing about it is, too – I didn’t even start it! A teacher at one of my schools came to me and said that she wanted to start a library for the school. She had already cleared out a room (this is the only school with spare classrooms. Hopefully within the year we will manage to get enough extra space to create libraries at the other two schools too). I told her that I would be completely delighted to help her, and as I just happened to have my copy of Libraries for All on me at the moment, I lent it to her. Finally on Friday she showed me the spare class, already complete with bookshelves. We went through a list of potential book donors, and talked about who we thought could use the library – what kind of books did we want? We both agreed that the dream is creating a community resource and that she is more than willing to act as librarian (which is, in its own way, unfortunate since she’s also one of the best teachers at the school. But we can burn that bridge when we come to it). So we’re requesting books on agriculture and community building and appropriate technology as well as reference and reading books. Looking around the room we could both see it: the computer will go here, the shelves will go here, and chairs and beanbags and tables and lamps and rugs, and… So my job this weekend is to write a general letter from a list of key points that we put together and then tailor it slightly to each organization we identified. I’m also planning to hit up Adventures for Kids and any other groups I can think of for book drives (perhaps some members of the Santa Paula or LAUSD school districts would like to help…?). My nearest neighbor recently got nearly 3900 books donated from one drive to her schools. Not that I’ve ever been at all competitive or anything, but…I’d say I have an obligation to at least double that.
In addition to those major things, I’m also going to start English clubs at two of my schools, and I want to see if I can actually start teaching a class a couple days a week at my key school. What better way to show teachers that it really can be done than through really doing it myself every day?
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Ngitawukushaya!
One of the biggest things that I struggle with in my schools – and I’m far from being alone in this – is corporal punishment. Not so much the struggle to get teachers to stop doing it (though obviously I do) but the struggle within myself to process my own feelings and knee-jerk reactions to it.
In theory I’m not completely against the occasional slap on the wrist or other physical correction of a child. Sometimes you just want to give a kid an immediate physical reminder that what they did probably shouldn’t be repeated. Of course there are other and better ways to get your point across, and I don’t think that myself I could ever hit a child in any way but I’m just saying…probably there will be no lasting psychological scars from the calm occasional or once in a great while spanking. (Can you see already how many qualifiers I’ve worked in? How uncomfortable this makes me?)
That said, the first time I witnessed a teacher hitting students in her class it was probably one of the more horrible things I’ve ever had to sit and watch. Those children were terrified of every movement she made, and I personally was on the point of tears. First grade for goodness sake! How can you expect kids to learn to love reading if their first experience with it is like something out of Full Metal Jacket? But that’s not really the point (for now). I’ve seen other teachers hit, slap, humiliate, and pinch their learners. Other volunteers tell me horror stories involving full on whips. My schools, to be fair, are actually pretty good about corporal punishment. I’ve only seen three outright text-book examples (of course, I’m sure there were all sorts of other instances that I didn’t), but I felt like I was the one being hit each time.
Many of my teachers, while they won’t admit to hitting their learners, per se, still see nothing wrong with it as a teaching method, and herein lies the root of my problem:
In my eyes if you are capable of hitting a child openly and without remorse you are, with no shades of black and white, a Bad Person. In the eyes of my teachers and the people in my village, you are probably just a Caring Guardian. I have trouble talking to any teacher after I have seen them do this. I don’t want to be in their classroom, I don’t even want to look them in the eye or greet them in the morning. They have shifted catergories, moved into the unforgivable.
Is a good part of this a cultural thing? Yes, probably. I know perfectly well that corporal punishment was and is practiced in pretty much every school system that ever has existed. I know it is a very recent innovation that means that I (or more to the point, Robbie) never got called into an office and whapped good for whatever stupid thing I had done. I know all about nuns and rulers, and Mr. Spoon, and Roald Dahl’s stories, and all the rest of it. It happens, it happened, western civilization doesn’t seem to have come crashing down for it. But still. I was never hit as a child (maybe once, I have a vague recollection…), teachers in my classes never threatened to hit me, the very thought of violence as a disciplinary measure is something that I managed to grow up blissfully unaware of. And so when I see it, I am shocked. I consider it immoral, bad, I am incapable of seeing shades of grey. I cannot translate this as ‘culture’ even though every rational, far off part of me is saying that these are exactly the sort of clashes I was warned and taught about over and over.
Am I right? Are they wrong? I don’t know. I just can’t condone the violence as a solution, in any context, but I am willing to work towards understanding why my teachers can. Understand that I mean the rational, under control, occasional slap or pinch or whatever. I have also seen teachers simply lashing out at students at anger and in frustration, and I think that that is just wrong – no culture, no mitigations. Children should never be the vent for your aggravation. I don’t care how much the teacher hates their job or how poorly trained and frustrated they are. Unacceptable.
So what am I going to do about all this? I really don’t know. I’ll put on my workshops, I’ll explain the alternatives to every teacher I catch. I’ll tell them how against it I am and that I will walk out of any classroom where I see learners being hit. I’ll refuse to work with that teacher again until we work out a solution, a suitable set of disciplinary alternatives. It is, all my cultural qualms aside, against the law anyway.
But what does this mean for my cross cultural education? Do I just accept this as an example of “our cultures are different, hooray diversity!” Is it something I can change? Is it something I should bother changing? Is it inherently wrong or is it just my perspective?
Its that last one that gets me. Does cultural diversity translate to moral relativism? Do I get to be the one to draw the line in the sand?
In theory I’m not completely against the occasional slap on the wrist or other physical correction of a child. Sometimes you just want to give a kid an immediate physical reminder that what they did probably shouldn’t be repeated. Of course there are other and better ways to get your point across, and I don’t think that myself I could ever hit a child in any way but I’m just saying…probably there will be no lasting psychological scars from the calm occasional or once in a great while spanking. (Can you see already how many qualifiers I’ve worked in? How uncomfortable this makes me?)
That said, the first time I witnessed a teacher hitting students in her class it was probably one of the more horrible things I’ve ever had to sit and watch. Those children were terrified of every movement she made, and I personally was on the point of tears. First grade for goodness sake! How can you expect kids to learn to love reading if their first experience with it is like something out of Full Metal Jacket? But that’s not really the point (for now). I’ve seen other teachers hit, slap, humiliate, and pinch their learners. Other volunteers tell me horror stories involving full on whips. My schools, to be fair, are actually pretty good about corporal punishment. I’ve only seen three outright text-book examples (of course, I’m sure there were all sorts of other instances that I didn’t), but I felt like I was the one being hit each time.
Many of my teachers, while they won’t admit to hitting their learners, per se, still see nothing wrong with it as a teaching method, and herein lies the root of my problem:
In my eyes if you are capable of hitting a child openly and without remorse you are, with no shades of black and white, a Bad Person. In the eyes of my teachers and the people in my village, you are probably just a Caring Guardian. I have trouble talking to any teacher after I have seen them do this. I don’t want to be in their classroom, I don’t even want to look them in the eye or greet them in the morning. They have shifted catergories, moved into the unforgivable.
Is a good part of this a cultural thing? Yes, probably. I know perfectly well that corporal punishment was and is practiced in pretty much every school system that ever has existed. I know it is a very recent innovation that means that I (or more to the point, Robbie) never got called into an office and whapped good for whatever stupid thing I had done. I know all about nuns and rulers, and Mr. Spoon, and Roald Dahl’s stories, and all the rest of it. It happens, it happened, western civilization doesn’t seem to have come crashing down for it. But still. I was never hit as a child (maybe once, I have a vague recollection…), teachers in my classes never threatened to hit me, the very thought of violence as a disciplinary measure is something that I managed to grow up blissfully unaware of. And so when I see it, I am shocked. I consider it immoral, bad, I am incapable of seeing shades of grey. I cannot translate this as ‘culture’ even though every rational, far off part of me is saying that these are exactly the sort of clashes I was warned and taught about over and over.
Am I right? Are they wrong? I don’t know. I just can’t condone the violence as a solution, in any context, but I am willing to work towards understanding why my teachers can. Understand that I mean the rational, under control, occasional slap or pinch or whatever. I have also seen teachers simply lashing out at students at anger and in frustration, and I think that that is just wrong – no culture, no mitigations. Children should never be the vent for your aggravation. I don’t care how much the teacher hates their job or how poorly trained and frustrated they are. Unacceptable.
So what am I going to do about all this? I really don’t know. I’ll put on my workshops, I’ll explain the alternatives to every teacher I catch. I’ll tell them how against it I am and that I will walk out of any classroom where I see learners being hit. I’ll refuse to work with that teacher again until we work out a solution, a suitable set of disciplinary alternatives. It is, all my cultural qualms aside, against the law anyway.
But what does this mean for my cross cultural education? Do I just accept this as an example of “our cultures are different, hooray diversity!” Is it something I can change? Is it something I should bother changing? Is it inherently wrong or is it just my perspective?
Its that last one that gets me. Does cultural diversity translate to moral relativism? Do I get to be the one to draw the line in the sand?
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Quarterly Report
The other day as I waited in line to buy electricity for my family, an old man came up to me and said (in SiSwati), “Wait, are you THE Nomvula Sambo living in --------?” “Why yes, yes I am.” He then shook my hand and wandered off.
I am famous.
A few nights previous to that, I woke up to the feeling of something on my leg. It was a cockroach who had cleverly managed to sneak inside my mosquito net and commence crawling up the inside of my pajama pants.*
I am desired.
Later in the day I watched a woman at the grocery store do a visible double take when I told her that yes, in fact I was living in my village and not in Komatipoort.
I am…sort of confusing.
And so it goes as I find myself rushing towards the 6 month mark of my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer. That’s like the end of freshmen year, you’d think that I’d have learned something by now….you know, in theory.
What I probably have learned is why every other PCV I met during training, the ones who at that point had all been around for at least a year, kept telling us that we would end up scaling our ambitions back. That failure was sort of inevitable, and we would learn to be happy with ‘small victories.’ At the time I thought, “To heck with that! I came to Peace Corps to save the world and I’m going to do my best with the little corner I have!” I plotted workshops, young reader’s faires, 20 minutes of reading every morning, libraries I would put together, computer labs that I would build. I read policy documents on alternatives to corporal punishment and plotted all the facile answers I would give my teachers. I memorized curriculum booklets and waded through Department of Education policy documents, ready to explain all of them at the drop of a hat.
And I will still probably do a lot of that, but I’m also starting to realize that mostly those things are all external. The reason we are here, and the way that things will finally, eventually (someday…) change is much harder. Computer labs are great. Explaining policy is great, but at a certain point everything else is just external to good teaching practices. The way the schools will change, the way that things will get better, is just straight up better teaching. Kids here can’t read and they can’t think critically. You ask anybody “why?” and you get the blank stare to end them all. No computer lab or workshop is going to change that, only good teaching will. And I’m willing to help my teachers with that for the next 2 years ceaselessly. I’ll explain classroom management, and open-ended questions, and why essays are fun, and books are good, and sticks are bad until the end of time, but…that doesn’t really mean that they’ll be interested in it.
How do you convince people that the way things have been done practically forever really isn’t the way to do it at all, and instead they should try this? People don’t change their actions unless they see a really good reason, and currently many of my teachers don’t. It was good enough for them when they were in school. Their teachers beat them and they turned out all right. Why should they listen to the crazy PCV with the ridiculous, new, and difficult ideas?
Why indeed?
Turns out these are the small victories those in the know were talking about. When I can convince a teacher to erase the answers from the board and let her kids find it themselves for classwork. When someone else asks to borrow my book of grammar games (I was comp lit, okay?) and really does seem to notice that the ones encouraging creativity are better. When I can make at least one person understand the difference between regurgitating something and knowing it. Those are my victories. Tiny moments that happen maybe once a week, twice if the hippy gods are smiling down on me. I suppose that those are scaled down a bit from my original plans of saving the world, but they are what will make a difference, so I’ll go with it. Besides, I’ve got 18 more months.
*Oh yes, that is one very, very dead cockroach now. Simply unacceptable.
PS
Kelsey! I can't wait to see you!!
I am famous.
A few nights previous to that, I woke up to the feeling of something on my leg. It was a cockroach who had cleverly managed to sneak inside my mosquito net and commence crawling up the inside of my pajama pants.*
I am desired.
Later in the day I watched a woman at the grocery store do a visible double take when I told her that yes, in fact I was living in my village and not in Komatipoort.
I am…sort of confusing.
And so it goes as I find myself rushing towards the 6 month mark of my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer. That’s like the end of freshmen year, you’d think that I’d have learned something by now….you know, in theory.
What I probably have learned is why every other PCV I met during training, the ones who at that point had all been around for at least a year, kept telling us that we would end up scaling our ambitions back. That failure was sort of inevitable, and we would learn to be happy with ‘small victories.’ At the time I thought, “To heck with that! I came to Peace Corps to save the world and I’m going to do my best with the little corner I have!” I plotted workshops, young reader’s faires, 20 minutes of reading every morning, libraries I would put together, computer labs that I would build. I read policy documents on alternatives to corporal punishment and plotted all the facile answers I would give my teachers. I memorized curriculum booklets and waded through Department of Education policy documents, ready to explain all of them at the drop of a hat.
And I will still probably do a lot of that, but I’m also starting to realize that mostly those things are all external. The reason we are here, and the way that things will finally, eventually (someday…) change is much harder. Computer labs are great. Explaining policy is great, but at a certain point everything else is just external to good teaching practices. The way the schools will change, the way that things will get better, is just straight up better teaching. Kids here can’t read and they can’t think critically. You ask anybody “why?” and you get the blank stare to end them all. No computer lab or workshop is going to change that, only good teaching will. And I’m willing to help my teachers with that for the next 2 years ceaselessly. I’ll explain classroom management, and open-ended questions, and why essays are fun, and books are good, and sticks are bad until the end of time, but…that doesn’t really mean that they’ll be interested in it.
How do you convince people that the way things have been done practically forever really isn’t the way to do it at all, and instead they should try this? People don’t change their actions unless they see a really good reason, and currently many of my teachers don’t. It was good enough for them when they were in school. Their teachers beat them and they turned out all right. Why should they listen to the crazy PCV with the ridiculous, new, and difficult ideas?
Why indeed?
Turns out these are the small victories those in the know were talking about. When I can convince a teacher to erase the answers from the board and let her kids find it themselves for classwork. When someone else asks to borrow my book of grammar games (I was comp lit, okay?) and really does seem to notice that the ones encouraging creativity are better. When I can make at least one person understand the difference between regurgitating something and knowing it. Those are my victories. Tiny moments that happen maybe once a week, twice if the hippy gods are smiling down on me. I suppose that those are scaled down a bit from my original plans of saving the world, but they are what will make a difference, so I’ll go with it. Besides, I’ve got 18 more months.
*Oh yes, that is one very, very dead cockroach now. Simply unacceptable.
PS
Kelsey! I can't wait to see you!!
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Deep Thoughts With Steenbok
South Africa’s Wisest Village:
(In the spirit of the last few posts titles, I thought that I would compile some of the true gems of wisdom I hear in my village everyday. These are just the ones that have stuck in my head, for one reason or another.)
“If I could be president for a day, I would send half the women in Parliament packing. There’s too many of them, they should be at home cooking.” –Principal
“Hey Nomvula, you look nice today, you must have looked in a mirror this morning!” –Teacher
“Hey Nomvula, you look nice today…must be that week you spent with Bafana [the male volunteer down the road, all of us had just spent a week at training]!” –Teacher
“Where is the phonebook? I tell these people they need to keep track of the phonebook and make sure its always near the phone…we need the pages to smoke dagga [pot], they’re much thinner than newspaper.” –Teacher
“Wait, why are you laughing at us? Explain why ‘boys vs. girls’ is a bad debate topic.” –Teacher
“You know that when a learner gets sick and dies its because the teacher or principal went to a sangoma to curse them, right? And then the parents come, and they’re angry, and they charge us! And it’s the same if a woman’s husband dies, it is because she has gone to the sangoma. But if a husband’s wife dies, its okay, he has more.” –Principal.
And finally
"Unuka!!" [you smell!] - my 2 year old sister.
(In the spirit of the last few posts titles, I thought that I would compile some of the true gems of wisdom I hear in my village everyday. These are just the ones that have stuck in my head, for one reason or another.)
“If I could be president for a day, I would send half the women in Parliament packing. There’s too many of them, they should be at home cooking.” –Principal
“Hey Nomvula, you look nice today, you must have looked in a mirror this morning!” –Teacher
“Hey Nomvula, you look nice today…must be that week you spent with Bafana [the male volunteer down the road, all of us had just spent a week at training]!” –Teacher
“Where is the phonebook? I tell these people they need to keep track of the phonebook and make sure its always near the phone…we need the pages to smoke dagga [pot], they’re much thinner than newspaper.” –Teacher
“Wait, why are you laughing at us? Explain why ‘boys vs. girls’ is a bad debate topic.” –Teacher
“You know that when a learner gets sick and dies its because the teacher or principal went to a sangoma to curse them, right? And then the parents come, and they’re angry, and they charge us! And it’s the same if a woman’s husband dies, it is because she has gone to the sangoma. But if a husband’s wife dies, its okay, he has more.” –Principal.
And finally
"Unuka!!" [you smell!] - my 2 year old sister.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Pictures!!
Okay, todays the day. After 6 months I finally figured out how to make it happen. Ready?
Photos:
At swearing-in on September 21. We are now officially Peace Corps Volunteers. Uh oh.
Some of the kids from Bhambatha Primary School -- my key school -- on a bus on the way to the Pretoria zoo.
A view of Kruger National Park without any animals at all.
Little girls perform traditional Swazi dances at a grade R graduation.
My "pack"from Bundu. They used to follow me around screaming "Nomvula!!!"-- well, me or any other volunteer who might happen to look vaguely white and blonde.
Photos:
At swearing-in on September 21. We are now officially Peace Corps Volunteers. Uh oh.
Some of the kids from Bhambatha Primary School -- my key school -- on a bus on the way to the Pretoria zoo.
A view of Kruger National Park without any animals at all.
Little girls perform traditional Swazi dances at a grade R graduation.
My "pack"from Bundu. They used to follow me around screaming "Nomvula!!!"-- well, me or any other volunteer who might happen to look vaguely white and blonde.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
"If I could be president for a day...
...the very first thing I would do is send half the women in parliament packing.
There are too many, they should be home cooking anyway." ~my key school principal (followed, of course, by a healthy debate. Dana, if you're reading this, that one's for you.)
Its just a good season for quotes or something in the village, I don't know.
The village that I'm living in is a little bit of an anomaly. Its considered 'deep rural' (can you believe I asked for that? In the US I think I've been camping all of 3 times my whole life, and then one day in training I find myself requesting a super-rural village. Where did that come from? But I love it) however it is fairly large -- I think at least 10,000 people, judging by the primary schools. It is in the middle of nowhere though, and I guess thats where the designation comes from. The nearest village to it is about 5 or 6 miles away, through pretty much scrub and nothing. My official 'shopping city' is 45 minutes by car on a good day, 2.5 hours by taxi on a bad one. We have half a tar road and no bodies of water anywhere nearby. There are donkey carts and lots and lots of cattle that parade past my window every day like clockwork (they are quite possibly they only living things in the village that seem to pay attention to any sort of schedule). The sangoma (traditional healer) lives next door, and while apparently she is semi-retired I still hear drum beats every now and again coming from her rondavale. Never on sundays, of course, because thats when the church on the other side of my house has their services. Professional courtesy and all that.
The people here speak 2 languages (well, the people here speak 2 home languages. They probably actually speak at least 4 a piece and smatterings of a few more.). Fortunately one of those languages is the one I learned/am learning -- siSwati -- and the other is tsonga/shongon. (Tsonga or xtsonga is the language, shongon is the culture group but they're used sort of interchangeably. Sort of.) Anyways, people speak siSwati because we're near Swaziland. They speak Tsonga for a couple of reasons. We are pretty close to Mozambique (where tsonga is spoken) and there are refugees who have crossed the border over the years and through the various political upheavals. But mostly, well, my village is like a moment in time. Apartheid's leftovers, one of those messy little things you can't really clean up now.
Nothing where I live dates from before 1954. Thats when the oldest church was erected, when the first school was founded. When I was told this, I thought, "hmmm..." and thought back to my days in Mr. Gray's world history class. Reading through some of the school's files, though, there it all was in neatly printed black and white. So matter of fact.
"The village is a result of the group areas act. Families were uprooted from rich farmland of Komatipoort and the outlying areas and moved to this area, approximately 40k from the nearest town-center."
In komatipoort they speak shongon. All the older people in my village speak shongon. And there's the Group Areas act in its stark simplicity. I'm living in something I read in a textbook nearly 7 years ago.
There are too many, they should be home cooking anyway." ~my key school principal (followed, of course, by a healthy debate. Dana, if you're reading this, that one's for you.)
Its just a good season for quotes or something in the village, I don't know.
The village that I'm living in is a little bit of an anomaly. Its considered 'deep rural' (can you believe I asked for that? In the US I think I've been camping all of 3 times my whole life, and then one day in training I find myself requesting a super-rural village. Where did that come from? But I love it) however it is fairly large -- I think at least 10,000 people, judging by the primary schools. It is in the middle of nowhere though, and I guess thats where the designation comes from. The nearest village to it is about 5 or 6 miles away, through pretty much scrub and nothing. My official 'shopping city' is 45 minutes by car on a good day, 2.5 hours by taxi on a bad one. We have half a tar road and no bodies of water anywhere nearby. There are donkey carts and lots and lots of cattle that parade past my window every day like clockwork (they are quite possibly they only living things in the village that seem to pay attention to any sort of schedule). The sangoma (traditional healer) lives next door, and while apparently she is semi-retired I still hear drum beats every now and again coming from her rondavale. Never on sundays, of course, because thats when the church on the other side of my house has their services. Professional courtesy and all that.
The people here speak 2 languages (well, the people here speak 2 home languages. They probably actually speak at least 4 a piece and smatterings of a few more.). Fortunately one of those languages is the one I learned/am learning -- siSwati -- and the other is tsonga/shongon. (Tsonga or xtsonga is the language, shongon is the culture group but they're used sort of interchangeably. Sort of.) Anyways, people speak siSwati because we're near Swaziland. They speak Tsonga for a couple of reasons. We are pretty close to Mozambique (where tsonga is spoken) and there are refugees who have crossed the border over the years and through the various political upheavals. But mostly, well, my village is like a moment in time. Apartheid's leftovers, one of those messy little things you can't really clean up now.
Nothing where I live dates from before 1954. Thats when the oldest church was erected, when the first school was founded. When I was told this, I thought, "hmmm..." and thought back to my days in Mr. Gray's world history class. Reading through some of the school's files, though, there it all was in neatly printed black and white. So matter of fact.
"The village is a result of the group areas act. Families were uprooted from rich farmland of Komatipoort and the outlying areas and moved to this area, approximately 40k from the nearest town-center."
In komatipoort they speak shongon. All the older people in my village speak shongon. And there's the Group Areas act in its stark simplicity. I'm living in something I read in a textbook nearly 7 years ago.
"Nomvula, you look nice today...
...you must have looked in a mirror this morning"
~One of my teachers. (This may or may not have been far less insulting if said in swati...I think).
Here is a list of things I don’t miss from the US:
*Smog
*WalMart
*Arbys
*Driving through LA at 5pm on a weekday
*Having an action star for a Governor
*The persistent, nagging feeling that eventually I would have to find something to do with my life.
Here is a list of things in South Africa that make me think of home:
*My sister lying on a mat in the shade and chatting with her best friend
*The weird steel cans coke uses here instead of aluminum
*The mall in Nelspruit
*The flashing clock in a taxi that looks just like the one in my mom’s car
*The way the busses all pull out of the station together, and the drivers flash thumbs up and jocky for position…I used to do that, too.
Its strange, and you hear it a lot, but it really is the little things in life that grab you in an immediate and abrupt way. The busses and the drivers in Malelane make me think of Davis and of Unitrans so much. The way we were almost playing games with our 40 foot, 10 ton toys, the way they do it too. It makes me smile on a few levels – at the memory, at the sense of kinship, at the knowledge that of all the people on the bus they would never suspect that I’m the one who ‘gets it.’ The way my teachers joke around in the staff room brings me back to the time I spent subbing, and the times when I got the in-jokes, too.
Here I am the perpetual outsider, by my skin color of course, but also by my language, my clothes, by my expectations of friends and family, even my very thought processes are strange and different -- untaught. I hear young men walk down the street in front of my house at dusk. They’re laughing, and talking, yelling at each other. Its probably closer to a stumble than a walk, if I wanted to get close enough to examine it. How many times have I done the same march home, surrounded by my friends? How many times have I roamed a neighborhood at an hour when ‘respectable’ people were in bed and becoming severely irritated by whatever those damn university hooligans were up to? I want to smile as the men walk by my house, but instead I melt back behind the door, hoping that they don’t see me. I’ve been there, yes, they should not be so alien, so frightening to me, but…they are. How many little old ladies do you think we frightened on our midnight walks? How many people felt like the outsider because of something I said or did? Who always felt like they were on the margins, unable to quite fight their way through that invisible boundary of voice and thought and color?
Its me now, trapped by the little things.
~One of my teachers. (This may or may not have been far less insulting if said in swati...I think).
Here is a list of things I don’t miss from the US:
*Smog
*WalMart
*Arbys
*Driving through LA at 5pm on a weekday
*Having an action star for a Governor
*The persistent, nagging feeling that eventually I would have to find something to do with my life.
Here is a list of things in South Africa that make me think of home:
*My sister lying on a mat in the shade and chatting with her best friend
*The weird steel cans coke uses here instead of aluminum
*The mall in Nelspruit
*The flashing clock in a taxi that looks just like the one in my mom’s car
*The way the busses all pull out of the station together, and the drivers flash thumbs up and jocky for position…I used to do that, too.
Its strange, and you hear it a lot, but it really is the little things in life that grab you in an immediate and abrupt way. The busses and the drivers in Malelane make me think of Davis and of Unitrans so much. The way we were almost playing games with our 40 foot, 10 ton toys, the way they do it too. It makes me smile on a few levels – at the memory, at the sense of kinship, at the knowledge that of all the people on the bus they would never suspect that I’m the one who ‘gets it.’ The way my teachers joke around in the staff room brings me back to the time I spent subbing, and the times when I got the in-jokes, too.
Here I am the perpetual outsider, by my skin color of course, but also by my language, my clothes, by my expectations of friends and family, even my very thought processes are strange and different -- untaught. I hear young men walk down the street in front of my house at dusk. They’re laughing, and talking, yelling at each other. Its probably closer to a stumble than a walk, if I wanted to get close enough to examine it. How many times have I done the same march home, surrounded by my friends? How many times have I roamed a neighborhood at an hour when ‘respectable’ people were in bed and becoming severely irritated by whatever those damn university hooligans were up to? I want to smile as the men walk by my house, but instead I melt back behind the door, hoping that they don’t see me. I’ve been there, yes, they should not be so alien, so frightening to me, but…they are. How many little old ladies do you think we frightened on our midnight walks? How many people felt like the outsider because of something I said or did? Who always felt like they were on the margins, unable to quite fight their way through that invisible boundary of voice and thought and color?
Its me now, trapped by the little things.
Friday, January 12, 2007
So There's These Two Pies Chilling in an Oven
Partially because I am lazy, and partially because I always wished that people would, on the myriad Peace Corps blogs I myself used to read before landing here, today let me describe to you a typical day in the life of Nomvula (whom absolutely nobody calls Becca). Also let me provide the caveat that to label any of my days here with words like "typical" or "routine" is sort of a vast stretch of anything resembling the truth, one that I assume can only make the gods laugh. But hey, you know, who doesn’t like a good joke?
At 5am my alarm goes off, at just the time I conscientiously set it last night. I immediately turn it off and go back to sleep.
5:07am – alarm goes off again
5:14am – and again
5:21am – and again.
5:28 – and one more time. This time I actually get up. I would just throw the stupid thing across the room, but my alarm happens to also be my cellphone, which I love because it keeps me in contact with the outside world.
I roll out of bed, put some sandals on, unroll some toilet paper, and head for the outhouse. Hopefully I get there early enough that the goats haven’t already started hanging out in it for the day.
After wandering back to my room, I plug in my electric kettle to the outlet that I assume is going to horribly electricute me at some point in the very near future. It hasn’t yet though, score. While the water heats up, I get the clothes I plan to wear today together (the sniff test has never been so gloriously useful as when laundry involves 2 hours of scrubbing in a bucket under a hot sun). I roll them up in my towel along with my fabulous Dr. Bronners. When the water gets hot I pour just enough into my watering can (yes, watering can). I then trek everything out to the enormous water tank next to the main house, fill the watering can up, and head for the outdoor "shower." Said shower actually consists of a cement stall where I can dump water out of my watering can and onto myself, but it still beats a bucket bath. It works surprisingly well. The only trick is to get there early enough that the adjacent outhouse hasn’t started to smell too bad. I dress in the shower and head back to my room.
I usually leave for my schools somewhere in the neighborhood of 6:30, and once there…who knows. I may be observing classes, chatting with teachers, re-typing obtuse department of education documents, putting on a workshop, trying to put together a school newspaper, or just writing in my journal and plotting how, exactly, I’m going to manage to take over the world from this tiny village. It varies, really.
School gets out about 2, unless I’m mean and keep my teachers late for a workshop (this makes them grumpy, so I try to avoid it). I head home, where I now have approximately 5 hours to kill until bed. I read (a LOT), or talk to my sisters, or write, or sms other volunteers until I think I have thumb sprain. I go for walks or head to the post office. I really should work in regular siSwati tutoring sessions, but I sort of suck and haven’t yet. Occasionally I’ve been known to knit (one hat, one sock, and 2.5 phone cozies down. It’s the one sock that’s really the pain).
I make some dinner in my sweet kitchen (hotplate on a TV stand next to a mini-fridge). Currently I’ve been eating a lot of beans and rice and cereal. Maybe I’ll read some more, maybe use my phone to check my email. When we had a TV I would watch Generations religiously every night at 8:00pm (South Africa’s favorite polyglot soap opera. Its awesome). And by 9pm…I’m in bed.
Exciting, no?
Of course all of this ignores the possibility that somewhere in there I might also meet the President at a Memorial dedication, or find myself giving an ad hoc inspirational speech to a group of graduating grade 7 learners, or chatting about the biblical ramifications of corporal punishment with the local pastor, or making friends with a bus driver, or discovering that at some point in the near future I will probably be expected to eat a grasshopper, or making kushe with my family, or hanging out with a random gogo on a mat next to a mud hut, or having an intense debate about the value of the women’s movement to South Africa (that I did NOT initiate, but had no problem giving my opinion in), or…
The possibilities are endless.
Also:
Happy Birthday Hortensia!
Emily I got your package and I'm so excited to have your address.
Kelsey kicks ass, AND:
My baby brother just got accepted to Chico State. Hooray Robbie!!
At 5am my alarm goes off, at just the time I conscientiously set it last night. I immediately turn it off and go back to sleep.
5:07am – alarm goes off again
5:14am – and again
5:21am – and again.
5:28 – and one more time. This time I actually get up. I would just throw the stupid thing across the room, but my alarm happens to also be my cellphone, which I love because it keeps me in contact with the outside world.
I roll out of bed, put some sandals on, unroll some toilet paper, and head for the outhouse. Hopefully I get there early enough that the goats haven’t already started hanging out in it for the day.
After wandering back to my room, I plug in my electric kettle to the outlet that I assume is going to horribly electricute me at some point in the very near future. It hasn’t yet though, score. While the water heats up, I get the clothes I plan to wear today together (the sniff test has never been so gloriously useful as when laundry involves 2 hours of scrubbing in a bucket under a hot sun). I roll them up in my towel along with my fabulous Dr. Bronners. When the water gets hot I pour just enough into my watering can (yes, watering can). I then trek everything out to the enormous water tank next to the main house, fill the watering can up, and head for the outdoor "shower." Said shower actually consists of a cement stall where I can dump water out of my watering can and onto myself, but it still beats a bucket bath. It works surprisingly well. The only trick is to get there early enough that the adjacent outhouse hasn’t started to smell too bad. I dress in the shower and head back to my room.
I usually leave for my schools somewhere in the neighborhood of 6:30, and once there…who knows. I may be observing classes, chatting with teachers, re-typing obtuse department of education documents, putting on a workshop, trying to put together a school newspaper, or just writing in my journal and plotting how, exactly, I’m going to manage to take over the world from this tiny village. It varies, really.
School gets out about 2, unless I’m mean and keep my teachers late for a workshop (this makes them grumpy, so I try to avoid it). I head home, where I now have approximately 5 hours to kill until bed. I read (a LOT), or talk to my sisters, or write, or sms other volunteers until I think I have thumb sprain. I go for walks or head to the post office. I really should work in regular siSwati tutoring sessions, but I sort of suck and haven’t yet. Occasionally I’ve been known to knit (one hat, one sock, and 2.5 phone cozies down. It’s the one sock that’s really the pain).
I make some dinner in my sweet kitchen (hotplate on a TV stand next to a mini-fridge). Currently I’ve been eating a lot of beans and rice and cereal. Maybe I’ll read some more, maybe use my phone to check my email. When we had a TV I would watch Generations religiously every night at 8:00pm (South Africa’s favorite polyglot soap opera. Its awesome). And by 9pm…I’m in bed.
Exciting, no?
Of course all of this ignores the possibility that somewhere in there I might also meet the President at a Memorial dedication, or find myself giving an ad hoc inspirational speech to a group of graduating grade 7 learners, or chatting about the biblical ramifications of corporal punishment with the local pastor, or making friends with a bus driver, or discovering that at some point in the near future I will probably be expected to eat a grasshopper, or making kushe with my family, or hanging out with a random gogo on a mat next to a mud hut, or having an intense debate about the value of the women’s movement to South Africa (that I did NOT initiate, but had no problem giving my opinion in), or…
The possibilities are endless.
Also:
Happy Birthday Hortensia!
Emily I got your package and I'm so excited to have your address.
Kelsey kicks ass, AND:
My baby brother just got accepted to Chico State. Hooray Robbie!!
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
And a Happy New Year
I've been hanging out in Durban for Christmas break for the past week or so, and its been really fun. We started out at a backpackers that was not at all far from the beach -- only 5 minutes -- so of course first thing in the morning we all grabbed our suits and towels and quite literally sprinted for the ocean. And just as naturally I instantaneously got a vicious sunburn that decided to haunt me for the rest of vacation and severely cut down on my beach-going time. But just having the ocean nearby, having that familiar smell in the air, watching enormous tanker ships navigate into port, seeing the waves and the vastness of the gray Indian Ocean blend up into the horizon -- its been like visiting a little bit of home. Not to mention the fact that we found a Mexican restaurant just up the street from where we're staying. You can NOT find Mexican food in South Africa, its just impossible. There's some Portugese from time to time, but its not even remotely the same (despite the occasional viciously deceptive name like "Amigos." How can you call a restaurant something like 'amigos' and then not sell tacos? Its just wrong.) But we found Taco Zulu, which was amazing, and large groups of PCVs have been invading it lunch and dinner (and possibly breakfast) for the last 10 days.
All in all its been a good Christmas and an excellent New Year's as well -- a nice way to bring in 2007 -- but I'll be happy to get back to my village. School starts on the 8th and I'm ready to roll up my sleeves and actually get to work -- my observation time is over and I am itching to actually do something. Wish me luck.
Shortly I should have a power cord for my computer again, so I'll be able to type these in advance and go back to more and better updates.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 2007, its been a good Summer break.
All in all its been a good Christmas and an excellent New Year's as well -- a nice way to bring in 2007 -- but I'll be happy to get back to my village. School starts on the 8th and I'm ready to roll up my sleeves and actually get to work -- my observation time is over and I am itching to actually do something. Wish me luck.
Shortly I should have a power cord for my computer again, so I'll be able to type these in advance and go back to more and better updates.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 2007, its been a good Summer break.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Renovations
Now its really Summer break, and consequently I have absolutely nothing to do. So I decided that I would renovate my room, which is essentially a glorified garage. The walls are smurf-orgy blue, and the cracks are big enough to allow all my friendly little lizards free access whenever they want in or out. Which I guess is okay since at least they eat the cockroaches. There was also a random bookshelf full of dusty strange old textbooks (some of them, especially the history books from the mid 80's are interesting little pieces of history in their own right) and a huge pile of papers, boxes, and what I can only and accurately describe as crap. So I spent a day dragging the bookshelf from my room into the storage room next to it, and then I organized all of the books on it -- including adding my little collection to the bottom shelves. I even found a couple good short story collections, so that made it all worthwhile. The next day I hauled the random pile of junk into the same spare room, and swept out the literally inches of dirt and junk that had accumulated under it. Fortunately, no spiders. (Or at least no living ones). Thursday was move all the furniture into the middle of the room and scrub down the walls day. Honestly, I gave that up about an hour in when I realized that I was mostly just moving the dirty around more than anything else. I at least got rid of the larger scorch marks and the enormous dirt tracks left over from -- well, I'm not really sure what. Yesterday was patch the huge cracks and buy some paint day, and later this week...new paint will be on the walls.
I'm going to be honest, the workmanship is a lot closer to "man, I hope the landlord gives my my deposit back" then "This sure is great and mom would definitely approve." But...I've never done this before, and anything is better than living in a glorified garage.
Someday I will figure out how to post pictures and do so.
Wish me luck.
PS
Hi Tierrans!
I'm going to be honest, the workmanship is a lot closer to "man, I hope the landlord gives my my deposit back" then "This sure is great and mom would definitely approve." But...I've never done this before, and anything is better than living in a glorified garage.
Someday I will figure out how to post pictures and do so.
Wish me luck.
PS
Hi Tierrans!
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