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.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Photos!
Hey all! This is just a quick post to let you know I updated my photos and think you may find they tell better stories than I do. . .
http://picasaweb.google.com/chermurph3
Enjoy:-)
http://picasaweb.google.com/chermurph3
Enjoy:-)
Friday, November 14, 2008
pula pula pula!
So what has happened with me in the past month? I spotted 2 green mambas and ran. I witnessed my first South African rain on 10/18. I celebrated my golden birthday (10/25) on a mountaintop. Obama was elected! The rat accompanied me many times to the toilet. I danced and sang at a farewell function. I met the queen of Seletang. I went to a wedding for 2 Americans! . . . and more.
At Mannyetha School I finished “phase 1” of my library project last week. This means essentially I sorted through a room stuffed with hundreds of books, sports equipment, dead insects, broken computers, shelving, ancient encyclopedias, and magazines. After weeks of being covered in dust from head to toe I am proud to now walk through aisles of shelves with organized rows of books.
The Department of Education has changed their curriculum an obnoxious amount of times in recent years. For each curriculum they create new text books to meet the learning outcomes and assessment standards. This school has been fortunate to have the funds to purchase books for nearly each change of curriculum. Let’s see there are books for: Outcomes Based Education (OBE), Curriculum 2005, National Curriculum Standards (NCS) & Revised National Curriculum Standards (RNCS). Do we really need 4 texts books for the same subject and same grade? I tried to minimize the mass of books and now the entire back wall of the library is stacked from floor to ceiling with books organized by grade and subject (Arts & Culture, Life Orientation, Technology, English, Sepedi, Economic Management Science, Natural Science & Maths (not a typing error)).
I’m not sure if I wrote about the ridiculous amount of horror and explicit romance novels that are in the library. . . let me tell you it’s shocking! Of over 300 adult fiction books at least 60% will need to be packed away from these young ones. We have an impressive 7 sets of encyclopedias (Britannica, World Book, Funk & Wagnall’s, etc) dated from 1965 to 1990. Finally we have maybe 80 early chapter books and maybe 200 children’s books. The children’s books are in decent condition but I’m going to start looking for book donations. Some of the best leveled readers in this library came from the Department of Education’s “Stars of Africa,” Cambridge, and other book series’. The sets contain different reading levels and all books have bright pictures, relatable topics, and children of all colors. Kids need to see themselves represented in the books they read. Stories I particularly like are: Be Quiet! Sit Still! Don’t Wriggle! (a book about going to church), The Lost Headband (a bride loses her wedding headband and in Zulu tradition can’t get married without it), and Lizzie and the Water Spirit (spirits have great powers in this culture).
I’ve been thinking about starting a Junior Authors program at this school. I’m not sure yet what it will look like but I’m thinking each of the 720 learners will write a book and we will go through the entire publishing process. Since learners here have and know how to use computers we can really turn this into something beautiful! Plus I have seen amazing doodles on the notebooks and arms of learners . . . (Some children already have tattoos from drawing so deep and hard into their arms, it’s sad-)
What else am I thinking about starting at Mannyetha? At the end of October teachers submitted their Eco School report and are looking to earn their 2nd certificate of recognition as an International Eco School. But the teacher’s do all the work. . . so maybe we can have a Eco School Student Council? To promote the library maybe we can have a Great Books program where learners read and then discuss books. I would like to possibly make use of the unused science lab and teach some classes. Then I have some teacher workshop ideas: critical thinking, financial literacy, maybe Natural Science, English, and Maths.
Next week the learners will be out of school until January for their summer vacation. However the educators remain at school until December 9th grading and preparing for next year. During this time I am going to hold computer workshops on excel and power point. Although in the US I consider myself minimally computer literate here my skills are plentifulJ
For six days it has been raining! Yesterday it poured from 4pm until I woke up this morning. There are massive drums at each gutter spout to collect water and I don’t think we’re going to commute to the river for some time. In less than 5 minutes I filled my 20L jug. Last night the sheep circled a small tree and appeared to be on an island. Drenched, they shoved their faces into each other as usual. The goats took a different approach and leaned against the neighbor’s home. They were still getting wet, all expect for the half of their bodies touching the wall. The chalky ground is sprouting grass all over, giant centipedes and chachas roam the village.
Before the rain began maabane (Sepedi word for the day before yesterday!) afternoon I was playing “bread” in the street with maybe 20 kids. To play you draw a large rectangle in the dirt and put an end zone on each side. Then team 1 tries to go from end to end 30 times while the team 2 tries to hit them from just outside the rectangle with a small ball made of bread & orange bags. Those who are hit are out of the game. If when team 2 throws the ball it hits the ground it is fair gamed to be kicked far away from the Bread court by Team 1s players who have been knocked out. I hope this makes some sense. . .but I am not writing about Bread because it’s an exceptionally creative or stimulating game. I am writing because my sister Karabo tried to kick the ball away from the Bread Court yesterday when her barefoot landed in the barbed wire fence. By barbed wire I don’t mean the usual knots of wire with sharp tips- instead I am speaking of the razor blade-sized barbed wire that surrounds prisons (and my home). Anyhow my brain kicked into turbo-panic mode and I ran over, swept her sobbing body into my arms and quickly walked (she’s 10 and tall) to my porch. I broke out the PC medical kit and applied pressure for ten minutes. The cut was at least a ¼ of an inch deep, and gushed thick blood. It certainly required stitches but knowing that wouldn’t happen I mended her with gauze, tape, Tylenol, and a coloring book (thanks Morg!). Two days later its still oozing. . .
My greatest difficulties thus far are: the heat, sexism, and insects. The heat I guess I just have to deal with. . I’ve invested in a fan. The insects. . I keep my windows closed most of the timeL, I have a draft dodger for the giants that creep under my door at night (best investment!), and I use my headlamp with vigor.
The sexism. . grrr. This issue began with one of my principals before I even moved to my site. We were having tea at the supervisors workshop, he finished first and said “Do you know the role of a woman? You should take this tea cup.” To which I hastily responded “Ahh. . in my culture we each take care of ourselves. In fact if you take my empty cup I would call you a gentleman.” He said “Ahh. . if I took your cup I wouldn’t be a man.” This led to a 40 minute discussion between 4 male principals, Meg and I. We tried to speak calmly as the steam from our ears condensed on their spectacles.
The following week I made a visit to the school and sat in the board room for lunch. Him: “Do you notice something cultural here?” Me: “Yes, there are only men here- I will not be sitting here when I return permanently.” Him: “Yes, it’s fine you’re here; we just eat separate. No problem.” But upon further thought – there was a problem. You see the four male teachers eat in a board room with plush chairs and the cooks bring platters of food to the table. Meanwhile the 18 female teachers serve the learners and then eat alone in their classrooms while supervising the students.
One more brief convo: Him: “You must never walk alone to the tar road, a man could attack you.” Me: “I’m strong, I know self-defense.” Him: “You have strength, but not like a man, you could never be stronger than a man.”
As you may imagine each day holds at least a small spice of sexism. The trouble is the intersection/separation of cultural roles and equality.
Some more cultural notes:
My host father is amazing; each time we speak I come away with a better understanding of his faith-based mentality. I asked him some time ago about the rondaval in our yard. It has maybe a 10 foot diameter and is well built with cement blocks and has a thatched roof but I’ve never seen anyone enter it. He told me the ancestors came to him in a dream and told him to build this rondaval. He is the only one who enters and does so every 3 months or so. What’s inside? He couldn’t tell me.
Yesterday my father told me about a dilemma. Today there is a funeral for a relative- a baby passed away. Tomorrow there is a church event with the congregation in Jo’burg. He wants to attend both events but as a priest he cannot. If a priest attends a funeral he is not supposed to travel for 7 days otherwise “the God will be mad.” But if he doesn’t give sympathy to the family he will be disrespectful. Then he has the congregation in Jo’burg also counting on him.
If you sweep and the dust/debris lands on a man’s feet he will not get married. If you eat food from the pot it will rain on your wedding day. I only know about these 2 beliefs because I have done both. . .
At Mannyetha School I finished “phase 1” of my library project last week. This means essentially I sorted through a room stuffed with hundreds of books, sports equipment, dead insects, broken computers, shelving, ancient encyclopedias, and magazines. After weeks of being covered in dust from head to toe I am proud to now walk through aisles of shelves with organized rows of books.
The Department of Education has changed their curriculum an obnoxious amount of times in recent years. For each curriculum they create new text books to meet the learning outcomes and assessment standards. This school has been fortunate to have the funds to purchase books for nearly each change of curriculum. Let’s see there are books for: Outcomes Based Education (OBE), Curriculum 2005, National Curriculum Standards (NCS) & Revised National Curriculum Standards (RNCS). Do we really need 4 texts books for the same subject and same grade? I tried to minimize the mass of books and now the entire back wall of the library is stacked from floor to ceiling with books organized by grade and subject (Arts & Culture, Life Orientation, Technology, English, Sepedi, Economic Management Science, Natural Science & Maths (not a typing error)).
I’m not sure if I wrote about the ridiculous amount of horror and explicit romance novels that are in the library. . . let me tell you it’s shocking! Of over 300 adult fiction books at least 60% will need to be packed away from these young ones. We have an impressive 7 sets of encyclopedias (Britannica, World Book, Funk & Wagnall’s, etc) dated from 1965 to 1990. Finally we have maybe 80 early chapter books and maybe 200 children’s books. The children’s books are in decent condition but I’m going to start looking for book donations. Some of the best leveled readers in this library came from the Department of Education’s “Stars of Africa,” Cambridge, and other book series’. The sets contain different reading levels and all books have bright pictures, relatable topics, and children of all colors. Kids need to see themselves represented in the books they read. Stories I particularly like are: Be Quiet! Sit Still! Don’t Wriggle! (a book about going to church), The Lost Headband (a bride loses her wedding headband and in Zulu tradition can’t get married without it), and Lizzie and the Water Spirit (spirits have great powers in this culture).
I’ve been thinking about starting a Junior Authors program at this school. I’m not sure yet what it will look like but I’m thinking each of the 720 learners will write a book and we will go through the entire publishing process. Since learners here have and know how to use computers we can really turn this into something beautiful! Plus I have seen amazing doodles on the notebooks and arms of learners . . . (Some children already have tattoos from drawing so deep and hard into their arms, it’s sad-)
What else am I thinking about starting at Mannyetha? At the end of October teachers submitted their Eco School report and are looking to earn their 2nd certificate of recognition as an International Eco School. But the teacher’s do all the work. . . so maybe we can have a Eco School Student Council? To promote the library maybe we can have a Great Books program where learners read and then discuss books. I would like to possibly make use of the unused science lab and teach some classes. Then I have some teacher workshop ideas: critical thinking, financial literacy, maybe Natural Science, English, and Maths.
Next week the learners will be out of school until January for their summer vacation. However the educators remain at school until December 9th grading and preparing for next year. During this time I am going to hold computer workshops on excel and power point. Although in the US I consider myself minimally computer literate here my skills are plentifulJ
For six days it has been raining! Yesterday it poured from 4pm until I woke up this morning. There are massive drums at each gutter spout to collect water and I don’t think we’re going to commute to the river for some time. In less than 5 minutes I filled my 20L jug. Last night the sheep circled a small tree and appeared to be on an island. Drenched, they shoved their faces into each other as usual. The goats took a different approach and leaned against the neighbor’s home. They were still getting wet, all expect for the half of their bodies touching the wall. The chalky ground is sprouting grass all over, giant centipedes and chachas roam the village.
Before the rain began maabane (Sepedi word for the day before yesterday!) afternoon I was playing “bread” in the street with maybe 20 kids. To play you draw a large rectangle in the dirt and put an end zone on each side. Then team 1 tries to go from end to end 30 times while the team 2 tries to hit them from just outside the rectangle with a small ball made of bread & orange bags. Those who are hit are out of the game. If when team 2 throws the ball it hits the ground it is fair gamed to be kicked far away from the Bread court by Team 1s players who have been knocked out. I hope this makes some sense. . .but I am not writing about Bread because it’s an exceptionally creative or stimulating game. I am writing because my sister Karabo tried to kick the ball away from the Bread Court yesterday when her barefoot landed in the barbed wire fence. By barbed wire I don’t mean the usual knots of wire with sharp tips- instead I am speaking of the razor blade-sized barbed wire that surrounds prisons (and my home). Anyhow my brain kicked into turbo-panic mode and I ran over, swept her sobbing body into my arms and quickly walked (she’s 10 and tall) to my porch. I broke out the PC medical kit and applied pressure for ten minutes. The cut was at least a ¼ of an inch deep, and gushed thick blood. It certainly required stitches but knowing that wouldn’t happen I mended her with gauze, tape, Tylenol, and a coloring book (thanks Morg!). Two days later its still oozing. . .
My greatest difficulties thus far are: the heat, sexism, and insects. The heat I guess I just have to deal with. . I’ve invested in a fan. The insects. . I keep my windows closed most of the timeL, I have a draft dodger for the giants that creep under my door at night (best investment!), and I use my headlamp with vigor.
The sexism. . grrr. This issue began with one of my principals before I even moved to my site. We were having tea at the supervisors workshop, he finished first and said “Do you know the role of a woman? You should take this tea cup.” To which I hastily responded “Ahh. . in my culture we each take care of ourselves. In fact if you take my empty cup I would call you a gentleman.” He said “Ahh. . if I took your cup I wouldn’t be a man.” This led to a 40 minute discussion between 4 male principals, Meg and I. We tried to speak calmly as the steam from our ears condensed on their spectacles.
The following week I made a visit to the school and sat in the board room for lunch. Him: “Do you notice something cultural here?” Me: “Yes, there are only men here- I will not be sitting here when I return permanently.” Him: “Yes, it’s fine you’re here; we just eat separate. No problem.” But upon further thought – there was a problem. You see the four male teachers eat in a board room with plush chairs and the cooks bring platters of food to the table. Meanwhile the 18 female teachers serve the learners and then eat alone in their classrooms while supervising the students.
One more brief convo: Him: “You must never walk alone to the tar road, a man could attack you.” Me: “I’m strong, I know self-defense.” Him: “You have strength, but not like a man, you could never be stronger than a man.”
As you may imagine each day holds at least a small spice of sexism. The trouble is the intersection/separation of cultural roles and equality.
Some more cultural notes:
My host father is amazing; each time we speak I come away with a better understanding of his faith-based mentality. I asked him some time ago about the rondaval in our yard. It has maybe a 10 foot diameter and is well built with cement blocks and has a thatched roof but I’ve never seen anyone enter it. He told me the ancestors came to him in a dream and told him to build this rondaval. He is the only one who enters and does so every 3 months or so. What’s inside? He couldn’t tell me.
Yesterday my father told me about a dilemma. Today there is a funeral for a relative- a baby passed away. Tomorrow there is a church event with the congregation in Jo’burg. He wants to attend both events but as a priest he cannot. If a priest attends a funeral he is not supposed to travel for 7 days otherwise “the God will be mad.” But if he doesn’t give sympathy to the family he will be disrespectful. Then he has the congregation in Jo’burg also counting on him.
If you sweep and the dust/debris lands on a man’s feet he will not get married. If you eat food from the pot it will rain on your wedding day. I only know about these 2 beliefs because I have done both. . .
Monday, November 3, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
Snakes.
Alright I’m really into animals . . . and reptiles I guess.
So during our training we somehow had a large group discussion on animals that we should be cautious of. For instance, Heather can’t walk from one of her schools to the other because she may get attacked by lions (she’s next to Kruger Park). I have alligators in my river, or so I’ve heard from many mouths.
Many of us live in areas where there are poisonous snakes, specifically mambas. They come in green and black. Thanks to one hilarious Joanna we learned that mambas can have bursts of speed up to 15 feet/second! Yes, we should fear them.
A couple of weeks ago I heard from Andrew that his host brother, Mamakgeme, saw a mamba cascading in front of the drop-in center. What does Mamakgeme do? He saves the children’s lives by jumping in his truck and running over the snake a few times!
Yesterday I was in my “office”, Mannyetha’s library and heard screaming and saw running. I checked out the situation in the courtyard and found hundreds of children beating a small snake (not a mamba). Later a teacher placed the corpse in a clear bottle for observation. She also found a complete scale that had been shed nearby.
Today during morning assembly the headmaster spoke to the learners about the green mambas in the toilets. His words went something like this . . .
“Do not just run to the toilet. You must look up, down, and all around, you must have a friend look up, down, and all around. Do you know why? (In unison 700 children say no) There are mambas, green mambas, in the toilets. They bite. Do you know what happens if they bite you? (again a resounding no) You will not be eating porridge any longer, you will not see your parents, you will be buried. So for the junior phase learners be careful and look around before you do whatever you do there. Small ones, there is a bush over there, just go to the bush. It is not safe to go to the toilet.”
As I look out my window I can see 7 children, 7 children with pants dropped to their ankles.
I’ve never been afraid of animals or reptiles- just spiders, roaches, chachas, etc. But I am thinking if I saw a mamba I would probably freak out.
In my bedroom the main issue is flies, they are everywhere! Sometimes I encounter huge bugs with antennas, beetles, a roach or so, mammoth sized wasps, etc. Then outside at night I have centipedes the length of my hand and width of a pinky finger, black insects with red spots that are the size of my palm, frogs in the water buckets, rats in the toilet, roaches in the main house, chickens on my back porch, and so on.
Just after the sun sets I usually gather with my family in the front cement courtyard. We drink tea, the kids do homework, and I usually play with Toka, my adorable 5-yr old brother. We are in love. He tells me every day In Sepedi how beautiful I am, he tells his friends he loves me, he falls asleep on my lap, he hangs on my feet, he calls my name even though he has nothing to say. We walk home from school holding hands, I hold his backpack. He’s adorable. At night he “protects” me. He crushes beetles and chachas with his bare feet, stomping until the guts cover his already dirty soles. Then he points to them and says in Sepedi “They are dead, they can’t breathe!” Toka occasionally tries to kill insects on the gravel by peeing on them. Thanks bouti.
So during our training we somehow had a large group discussion on animals that we should be cautious of. For instance, Heather can’t walk from one of her schools to the other because she may get attacked by lions (she’s next to Kruger Park). I have alligators in my river, or so I’ve heard from many mouths.
Many of us live in areas where there are poisonous snakes, specifically mambas. They come in green and black. Thanks to one hilarious Joanna we learned that mambas can have bursts of speed up to 15 feet/second! Yes, we should fear them.
A couple of weeks ago I heard from Andrew that his host brother, Mamakgeme, saw a mamba cascading in front of the drop-in center. What does Mamakgeme do? He saves the children’s lives by jumping in his truck and running over the snake a few times!
Yesterday I was in my “office”, Mannyetha’s library and heard screaming and saw running. I checked out the situation in the courtyard and found hundreds of children beating a small snake (not a mamba). Later a teacher placed the corpse in a clear bottle for observation. She also found a complete scale that had been shed nearby.
Today during morning assembly the headmaster spoke to the learners about the green mambas in the toilets. His words went something like this . . .
“Do not just run to the toilet. You must look up, down, and all around, you must have a friend look up, down, and all around. Do you know why? (In unison 700 children say no) There are mambas, green mambas, in the toilets. They bite. Do you know what happens if they bite you? (again a resounding no) You will not be eating porridge any longer, you will not see your parents, you will be buried. So for the junior phase learners be careful and look around before you do whatever you do there. Small ones, there is a bush over there, just go to the bush. It is not safe to go to the toilet.”
As I look out my window I can see 7 children, 7 children with pants dropped to their ankles.
I’ve never been afraid of animals or reptiles- just spiders, roaches, chachas, etc. But I am thinking if I saw a mamba I would probably freak out.
In my bedroom the main issue is flies, they are everywhere! Sometimes I encounter huge bugs with antennas, beetles, a roach or so, mammoth sized wasps, etc. Then outside at night I have centipedes the length of my hand and width of a pinky finger, black insects with red spots that are the size of my palm, frogs in the water buckets, rats in the toilet, roaches in the main house, chickens on my back porch, and so on.
Just after the sun sets I usually gather with my family in the front cement courtyard. We drink tea, the kids do homework, and I usually play with Toka, my adorable 5-yr old brother. We are in love. He tells me every day In Sepedi how beautiful I am, he tells his friends he loves me, he falls asleep on my lap, he hangs on my feet, he calls my name even though he has nothing to say. We walk home from school holding hands, I hold his backpack. He’s adorable. At night he “protects” me. He crushes beetles and chachas with his bare feet, stomping until the guts cover his already dirty soles. Then he points to them and says in Sepedi “They are dead, they can’t breathe!” Toka occasionally tries to kill insects on the gravel by peeing on them. Thanks bouti.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
