Woke diagonal, limbs flailed on my brand new, never used double bed. Phenomenal. . practically open the windows and scream to the goats “I am alive!”- Phenomenal. After 59 nights alternating between a yoga mat and hammock, the Department of Education literally delivered.
Walked to school in a dress that I knew my coworkers would love (bright green, cute shape that shows off all my new curves). The learners did not have to go to school. Therefore I heard cries of “M-oh-lly”, “Maam M-oh-lly”, and my favorite “M-oh-lly Murrrrphy” from most homes. I am not sure I have stressed the celebrity status that follows PC volunteers. Let me tell you, it’s intense. Kids call my name from the distance of a city block on a daily basis. This is met by my looking in the general direction of the sound and squinting to see if I can see a small waving outline. I am pretty honest and don’t wave back unless I can actually see the child. Then there are usually 2 kids who accompany me on the walk to school.
Came into school by 7 and attended assembly at 8 in the boardroom. Before the headmaster arrived at assembly Serepo, a boastful teacher, told me “Molly, lead the song today.” I looked at him and told him I do not like to sing in front of people. He again said “Molly, why don’t you lead.” Just then the headmaster entered and said “How can a man you has never led a song tell another to?” About half of the 23 teachers laughed and I gave Serepo the eye. The friendly “HA” eye and smirk.
After a song, Bible reading, and Our Father I met with Constance to discuss what content I should plan to cover next year. I will be teaching 4th grade Natural Science for 2 periods a day. I then met with Nora to discuss the “Junior Authors” project we will be beginning next year. Finally, I met with the Deputy-Headmaster to discuss creating a master timetable for next year. He was amazed at how quickly I whipped up an excel file. We knocked-off at about 1 after another song and prayer.
Walking home I heard my name- looked, saw no one. Again my name being called from the same place. I shaded my eyes with a hand and noticed two children in the tree. I called “I see a pink and blue mamba up in a tree!”
Opening the gate to my yard I saw nothing, no one. You see it’s summer vacation. My sisters and brothers went to the cities to stay with their mothers for the holiday. So I sprawled on my bed until I decided to make kipi-kipi (popcorn). Just as it started to burn Athlida called out “ko-ko” (knock-knock). For the next 4 hours we enjoyed each others company . . we drew with colored pencils, she combed my hair, I painted her nails, we were silent for the most part. How I love that Just interruptions for sporadic comments and laughter. Such as: how boys holding hands in America would not be normal, that there are flies in America, that although I wear a ring I am not engaged, that although I wear an anklet I am not ill, that Althida finds the chicken feet good, but chicken brains to be the best- but the eyes. . .no way they ::burst:: in your mouth!, that in Sepedi there is a different word for the boogers that drip (mamina) and those that stay there all day (konkodi).
Once Athlida’s mom called her home for the 3rd time I walked her to the gate and found my mama working. She was repaving? fixing? the courtyard. She was mixing fresh cow feces (as the children here call poop prior to poking it with a stick) with dirt and cementing the courtyard. I thought that feces was just a polish to make the cement have a nice green color. But who would have thought- mixed with dirt it’s a great cement!
My day ended with a trip to the field to burn my rubbish. No longer does it take half a box of matches. I have mastered the art of burning garbage- I use a lighter. As Leah said a few weeks ago “I wonder if we will ever again question what can be thrown in the campfire.” True. Once the fire started I took a victory leap over the fire and took a deep inhale of the trash. . . which surprisingly smells like cinnamon.
I just sat down to write this and put on some Sufjan Stevens. As the song “Illinois” played I opened my internet and laughed at the headlines concerning our comically ignorant soon to be imprisoned governor, Blago!
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
sick cycle
In a previous log I mentioned the man with hundreds of goats. Well last Thursday he was found dead near the river surrounded by his cattle. Mr. Mokoena was not only responsible for hundreds of goats, a dozen cattle, and 6 dogs. He was also the father of 8 children, the youngest being 9 years. He was a night watchman at Mannyetha School. He was a husband of over 40 years.
Since moving here I have experienced more death than I ever imagined possible. Nearly half of any given South African community is likely to be at a funeral any given Saturday from 5- 10am. Generally the cause of death is not disclosed. Therefore I am not sure how many people actually die of AIDS.
In the case of Mr. Mokoena, I gather that he had a seizure in the heat of day. Since he passed on a Thursday the family decided to have his funeral the following Saturday so that those who live far could make travel arrangements. The Mokoenas live just across the street from me and one of the daughters, Althida, 15, is a great friend of mine. So upon arriving home last Sunday I immediately wanted to walk over and give her a hug. Luckily I stopped home to drop off my bags. I say luckily because my host father spoke for 15 minutes in Sepedi to Pleasure regarding how I was supposed to act/dress. I only know this because of his vivid body language; he sat on the bench, placed his hands on his locked knees, and hunched over. He speaks English well so I was a bit unnerved that he didn’t address the issues directly with me. When they finished the talk I began speaking to him and asking questions about the proper manner for giving sympathy. He explained that I need to wear a skirt and nice top, upon arriving take a seat and wait for the family members to approach me, and finally I must not speak too much. (Clearly he thinks I often cause too much noise )
With his guidelines in mind I entered into Mokoena’s yard and sat on a bench in the compound, silently. Athlida sat on the stoop, eating. After five minutes Athlida waved me over so I walked up the steps, gave her a hug, and took a seat. We spoke briefly about her feelings but mostly she wanted to avoid the subject. So she took up a commentary on my American friends who visited the previous week. I don’t have any practice in speaking to a child who has lost a parent. I told her that I am all ears whenever she wants to talk. What else can I offer?
Throughout the week village women brought bowls, plates, firewood, water, and food. They cooked all day and stayed up late for many nights. The men sat under trees talking, they brought dirt from the fields to patch the road in front of the house, set up tents, and dug the grave. My host father put up a tin barrier around the corner of the yard so that the men could “pass urine” without having to walk far.
On Friday Mr. Mokoena’s body arrived at the home. They put his coffin in the bedroom he shared with his wife. She had been bound to the bedroom since his death (by tradition). That night a priest and female relatives slept in the room. Around 5:30 the next morning dozens of cars and hundreds of people arrived. There was a service in the family compound, but Pleasure insisted I not intrude. So instead of hearing prayers and memories I could only hear the sorrowful songs from the dirt street. The womens voices are powerful enough to make me cry.
Upon completion of the service there was a procession to the cemetery. The hearse was followed by a van carrying family members which was followed by a crowd of women with head and shoulders covered. The singing continued along the walk with each woman who felt the power choosing the next song. A slow gallop ensued as we made the way to the cemetery. Never have I seen African women walk so quickly. We arrived at the grave site and women stood behind the family. The men stood near the grave. The coffin was set and covered with a traditional blanket, pillow, and flower arrangements. Upon prayer and the lowering of his body his wife, children, and close friends threw dirt over the coffin. Men completed the burial, shoveling the dirt to a heaping mass. The sorrowful songs continued throughout the ceremony.
As we made our way out to the cemetery a drunk man caused a scene by grabbing me and telling me I was going to be his husband- yes husband. Many women came to my rescue and we swiftly walked back to the Mokoena’s home to wash our hands clean of the spirits.
Later that day all the children shaved their heads and Mrs. Mokoena donned the green garments that she will wear for the next six months or so of mourning.
Since moving here I have experienced more death than I ever imagined possible. Nearly half of any given South African community is likely to be at a funeral any given Saturday from 5- 10am. Generally the cause of death is not disclosed. Therefore I am not sure how many people actually die of AIDS.
In the case of Mr. Mokoena, I gather that he had a seizure in the heat of day. Since he passed on a Thursday the family decided to have his funeral the following Saturday so that those who live far could make travel arrangements. The Mokoenas live just across the street from me and one of the daughters, Althida, 15, is a great friend of mine. So upon arriving home last Sunday I immediately wanted to walk over and give her a hug. Luckily I stopped home to drop off my bags. I say luckily because my host father spoke for 15 minutes in Sepedi to Pleasure regarding how I was supposed to act/dress. I only know this because of his vivid body language; he sat on the bench, placed his hands on his locked knees, and hunched over. He speaks English well so I was a bit unnerved that he didn’t address the issues directly with me. When they finished the talk I began speaking to him and asking questions about the proper manner for giving sympathy. He explained that I need to wear a skirt and nice top, upon arriving take a seat and wait for the family members to approach me, and finally I must not speak too much. (Clearly he thinks I often cause too much noise )
With his guidelines in mind I entered into Mokoena’s yard and sat on a bench in the compound, silently. Athlida sat on the stoop, eating. After five minutes Athlida waved me over so I walked up the steps, gave her a hug, and took a seat. We spoke briefly about her feelings but mostly she wanted to avoid the subject. So she took up a commentary on my American friends who visited the previous week. I don’t have any practice in speaking to a child who has lost a parent. I told her that I am all ears whenever she wants to talk. What else can I offer?
Throughout the week village women brought bowls, plates, firewood, water, and food. They cooked all day and stayed up late for many nights. The men sat under trees talking, they brought dirt from the fields to patch the road in front of the house, set up tents, and dug the grave. My host father put up a tin barrier around the corner of the yard so that the men could “pass urine” without having to walk far.
On Friday Mr. Mokoena’s body arrived at the home. They put his coffin in the bedroom he shared with his wife. She had been bound to the bedroom since his death (by tradition). That night a priest and female relatives slept in the room. Around 5:30 the next morning dozens of cars and hundreds of people arrived. There was a service in the family compound, but Pleasure insisted I not intrude. So instead of hearing prayers and memories I could only hear the sorrowful songs from the dirt street. The womens voices are powerful enough to make me cry.
Upon completion of the service there was a procession to the cemetery. The hearse was followed by a van carrying family members which was followed by a crowd of women with head and shoulders covered. The singing continued along the walk with each woman who felt the power choosing the next song. A slow gallop ensued as we made the way to the cemetery. Never have I seen African women walk so quickly. We arrived at the grave site and women stood behind the family. The men stood near the grave. The coffin was set and covered with a traditional blanket, pillow, and flower arrangements. Upon prayer and the lowering of his body his wife, children, and close friends threw dirt over the coffin. Men completed the burial, shoveling the dirt to a heaping mass. The sorrowful songs continued throughout the ceremony.
As we made our way out to the cemetery a drunk man caused a scene by grabbing me and telling me I was going to be his husband- yes husband. Many women came to my rescue and we swiftly walked back to the Mokoena’s home to wash our hands clean of the spirits.
Later that day all the children shaved their heads and Mrs. Mokoena donned the green garments that she will wear for the next six months or so of mourning.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
post office
December 3, 2008 was a great day.
My principal called at 7am to say that I was not needed at school because the teachers were nearly finished marking. I turned off the snooze that had been ringing for a half hour and embraced the morning heat in my makeshift bed (a thick traditional blanket). Around about noon my body roused and I threw on my favorite dirty outfit of boy shorts and t-shirt. Walked into the heat of day and immediately laid back down in the shade. This time on the benches that surround my courtyard. Pleasure and Karabo were also on the benches and my mama was sprawled belly down on a rug on the concrete. Kelly, a nearby PCV, and I share a mailbox so we were going to meet in the main village, Masemola, for mail and food. I called Mohomu, one of the 3 taxi drivers that come to my remote village. He said he would be over “just now.” Just now is the probably the all vaguest of African time frames. It can mean anywhere from 20 minutes to 2 hours. Whereas “now” means within the next 10-20 minutes and “now now” means right now.
So an hour and a half later Mohomu arrived in his baby blue truck. The back of his pick up is covered with a lid that has small windows and wooden benches around the edges. As we left my village the distant sky was spitting lightening. What a beautiful site-relief from the heat!
An hour late I arrived at the post office. Kelly has befriended a group of women who were having a society meeting. (Society is a group that pools together money each month for funeral expenses. So if a family member dies then the society pays for food, the women bring bowls and dishes, help cook, in general they support each other.) Together we opened the po box and thankfully we were greeted by an abundance of papers! One paper said packages were ready to be claimed so we had to go into the post office. Due to the wind gusts and approaching storm the electricity was out in the post which means the computers were out, which means we couldn’t go through the customs payment process to claim the boxes. The postal man was persistent that without power he could not give the packages. He said just come back tomorrow. I tried persuading him by explaining how much it costs to get to and from the post (R20 or $2) and that tomorrow I wouldn’t be able to return. No luck.
But I was able to claim a package from my friend Ryan because it was fee free. So I opened it and took out some of the contents on the post office desk. Swedish fish. Kelly and I popped a few in our mouths and I whined about the other packages. Meanwhile the postman stared at us and finally asked for a taste of American candy. Ah-ha! Well, I said, if you can just give me these packages then I can give you some delicious American candies AND I bet the other packages have even more. So it was settled. 6 Swedish Fish and R50 customs fee for 2 great boxes packed with American goodness! I practiced great patience and did not open the boxes.
Instead we announced we would go to the butchery next door and pick up some meat to braii (grill). Hearing our plans the postman insisted we have his friend, Phil, show us the way. So Kelly, Phil, and I walked 100ft to the butchery. Phil chose the finest pieces of beef for us ladies. To the braii across the dirt lot we went. Phil set our meat on the brick wall and turned to the braii. Thump! Our newspaper wrapped meat landed on the dusty ground. Mmm. Phil didn’t flinch. Meanwhile a man in a half-buttoned black collar shirt with sunglasses and a gold dolphin chain introduced himself. We humored him for a bit then requested he leave us so we could talk alone. After three requests he left. Quickly another man approached, he stuck out his pinky fingers and after staring at him for a minute of so we put up our pinky fingers. He locked them and cut off circulation with the grip. He then moved our hands to behind his neck, then to the front and kissed each hand. Weird. At that point we decided to abandon Phil with our meats and take a seat away from the commotion.
It turns out commotion is not dependant on where others are but rather where we are. It began raining. Men continued greeting us with “Lehowa” (derogatory name for a white person), can I have money, can I have meat, I love you, will you take me to America, will you be my second wife, etc. Plus there was one man who came over with 6 ¼ teeth and frail thinness. He spoke in and out of Sepedi, English, and Africaans. Plus he mentioned Chinese and other really random things . . Later Phil told us he was crazy. By the time our meats were ready and we collected the pap from the spaza, the crazy man sat across from us with his frail legs crossed and pulled out a wad of newspaper stuff with dagga (pot). By the time we finished our meal he had smoked a very large joint and began singing jibber jabber to himself. We decided to give our cardboard box of bones and scraps to him. So I pushed it not even a foot on the cement and he jumped up, lifted the box and started gnawing and moaning. Hehe
From there we caught a free ride to the taxi rank. Kelly caught her coombi home and a kilometer later it broke down! Meanwhile I sat under a tin roof at a “kitchen” and the rank and enjoyed a free cup of tea as I waited for Mohomu.
The rest of my evening consisted of enjoying the goodies mom sent and then travelling around sharing small talk with my neighbors. At one home a grandmother had 10 foot long contraption that began with a pot over a fire- moved into a hollowed piece of wood- and ended with a straw going into an empty cold drink glass bottle (1.5L pop bottle). There was a clear liquid. Turns out they were making “Smirnoff” by heating water, mabele, and sugar. I took one smell and knew it was ultra flammable and not suitable for consumption.
My principal called at 7am to say that I was not needed at school because the teachers were nearly finished marking. I turned off the snooze that had been ringing for a half hour and embraced the morning heat in my makeshift bed (a thick traditional blanket). Around about noon my body roused and I threw on my favorite dirty outfit of boy shorts and t-shirt. Walked into the heat of day and immediately laid back down in the shade. This time on the benches that surround my courtyard. Pleasure and Karabo were also on the benches and my mama was sprawled belly down on a rug on the concrete. Kelly, a nearby PCV, and I share a mailbox so we were going to meet in the main village, Masemola, for mail and food. I called Mohomu, one of the 3 taxi drivers that come to my remote village. He said he would be over “just now.” Just now is the probably the all vaguest of African time frames. It can mean anywhere from 20 minutes to 2 hours. Whereas “now” means within the next 10-20 minutes and “now now” means right now.
So an hour and a half later Mohomu arrived in his baby blue truck. The back of his pick up is covered with a lid that has small windows and wooden benches around the edges. As we left my village the distant sky was spitting lightening. What a beautiful site-relief from the heat!
An hour late I arrived at the post office. Kelly has befriended a group of women who were having a society meeting. (Society is a group that pools together money each month for funeral expenses. So if a family member dies then the society pays for food, the women bring bowls and dishes, help cook, in general they support each other.) Together we opened the po box and thankfully we were greeted by an abundance of papers! One paper said packages were ready to be claimed so we had to go into the post office. Due to the wind gusts and approaching storm the electricity was out in the post which means the computers were out, which means we couldn’t go through the customs payment process to claim the boxes. The postal man was persistent that without power he could not give the packages. He said just come back tomorrow. I tried persuading him by explaining how much it costs to get to and from the post (R20 or $2) and that tomorrow I wouldn’t be able to return. No luck.
But I was able to claim a package from my friend Ryan because it was fee free. So I opened it and took out some of the contents on the post office desk. Swedish fish. Kelly and I popped a few in our mouths and I whined about the other packages. Meanwhile the postman stared at us and finally asked for a taste of American candy. Ah-ha! Well, I said, if you can just give me these packages then I can give you some delicious American candies AND I bet the other packages have even more. So it was settled. 6 Swedish Fish and R50 customs fee for 2 great boxes packed with American goodness! I practiced great patience and did not open the boxes.
Instead we announced we would go to the butchery next door and pick up some meat to braii (grill). Hearing our plans the postman insisted we have his friend, Phil, show us the way. So Kelly, Phil, and I walked 100ft to the butchery. Phil chose the finest pieces of beef for us ladies. To the braii across the dirt lot we went. Phil set our meat on the brick wall and turned to the braii. Thump! Our newspaper wrapped meat landed on the dusty ground. Mmm. Phil didn’t flinch. Meanwhile a man in a half-buttoned black collar shirt with sunglasses and a gold dolphin chain introduced himself. We humored him for a bit then requested he leave us so we could talk alone. After three requests he left. Quickly another man approached, he stuck out his pinky fingers and after staring at him for a minute of so we put up our pinky fingers. He locked them and cut off circulation with the grip. He then moved our hands to behind his neck, then to the front and kissed each hand. Weird. At that point we decided to abandon Phil with our meats and take a seat away from the commotion.
It turns out commotion is not dependant on where others are but rather where we are. It began raining. Men continued greeting us with “Lehowa” (derogatory name for a white person), can I have money, can I have meat, I love you, will you take me to America, will you be my second wife, etc. Plus there was one man who came over with 6 ¼ teeth and frail thinness. He spoke in and out of Sepedi, English, and Africaans. Plus he mentioned Chinese and other really random things . . Later Phil told us he was crazy. By the time our meats were ready and we collected the pap from the spaza, the crazy man sat across from us with his frail legs crossed and pulled out a wad of newspaper stuff with dagga (pot). By the time we finished our meal he had smoked a very large joint and began singing jibber jabber to himself. We decided to give our cardboard box of bones and scraps to him. So I pushed it not even a foot on the cement and he jumped up, lifted the box and started gnawing and moaning. Hehe
From there we caught a free ride to the taxi rank. Kelly caught her coombi home and a kilometer later it broke down! Meanwhile I sat under a tin roof at a “kitchen” and the rank and enjoyed a free cup of tea as I waited for Mohomu.
The rest of my evening consisted of enjoying the goodies mom sent and then travelling around sharing small talk with my neighbors. At one home a grandmother had 10 foot long contraption that began with a pot over a fire- moved into a hollowed piece of wood- and ended with a straw going into an empty cold drink glass bottle (1.5L pop bottle). There was a clear liquid. Turns out they were making “Smirnoff” by heating water, mabele, and sugar. I took one smell and knew it was ultra flammable and not suitable for consumption.
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