Happy New Year! I danced into 2009 at a club in Durban to a song that is currently popular in South Africa – “Where’s your head at?” Yea, I know- flashback- they may as well have played “Party like it’s1999.” But welcome to South Africa, where any song you thought had passed its prime still has a future as a remix.
This holiday season was far different from any other I’ve experienced in my 25 years. For one, it took place over summer vacation and summer in Africa is HOT! Needless to say I only dreamt of snowflakes on my nose and eyelashes. Then it was my first Christmas away from home. I missed out on mounds of wrapping paper and presents, Dad’s French toast, Mom’s homebrewed too-strong Starbuck’s and best of all the remains of Santa’s cookies and milk on the fireplace.
In place of a “traditional” holiday season I experienced a phenomenal three week vacation across Mozambique, Swaziland, and South Africa! I travelled over 6000km with 7 other Peace Corps volunteers in 2 air conditioned (!) VW’s. I saw the landscapes of Southern Africa that until now only existed in photo calendars. What did I actually do for three weeks? Well here is my attempt to bring you a taste of my unforgettable trip. (Minus the inside jokes, laughs, and well. . . the good stuff that can’t be conveyed- only experienced)
We began by meeting at LaTosha’s home which is in the Mpumalanga province. Day one- we drove into Kruger Park and saw zebras, impalas, other animals that looked like impalas, massive pink toed birds, and monkeys. . . then we walked onto a covered viewing platform/deck. We broke out the binoculars and saw yellow, purple, and brilliant blue birds building nests. After hearing a gargling noise underneath we crouched down and looked through the deck planks. Our eyes were met by the massive nostrils of a pregnant hippo. I felt and smelled the pungent noise spray as she exhaled!
The next day we planned on travelling to Blyde River Canyon. On our way we passed through Graskop and saw a canyon with people gliding across! We pulled over. Kristy, a fearless free spirit wanted to do the canyon swing and I agreed to go tandem with her ($22-why not?) - without much thought. As we were geared up for the dive I began laughing ridiculously (in a oh my, what am I doing? Way). The man told us to walk backwards to the edge and place our feet on the footprints. I was shrieking by this point and Kristy was pulling me towards the edge. He then said lean back- I didn’t but all it takes is one and in no time I was screaming- free falling backwards facing the sky. Looking up and falling down, down, down 68m! Until a waterfall came into view and then the swing took over! Instead of bouncing like a bungee cord we swung out across the canyon gorge. What a sight!
Next up we travelled to Blyde River Canyon (which I plan to hike in the near future), 3 Rondavels, God’s Window, and the Potholes. All of these are spectacular lookout points along the Drakensburg mountain range. Final stop for our busy day was to the Echo Caves.
Onto Sabie we went. . . misty, rainy Sabie. I soaked in the backpackers hot tub for too many hours, drank too much wine, and played a ridiculous amount of charades. The next day we planned on river rafting but due to the intense rains we couldn’t. So instead we went kloofing (canyoning) which is essentially rafting without the tube. Donning wetsuits and helmets, we traversed down numerous waterfalls, rocks, vines, and one long stream of cascading water. For those three hours I felt alive and powerful beyond recognition- I loved it. Crawling on all fours to maintain balance on the moss, shimming down a tree, floating in swift moving shallow waters, jumping over fallen trees . . . ahh. The trip ended with a dip in the water of the Mac Mac falls and a hike straight up and out of the canyon. Upon reaching the top we had to crawl through a fence that kept those who were viewing the Mac Mac Falls away from danger! So here we are with mud covered wetsuits and helmets crossing the path of hundreds of fully clothed, camera handy visitors. Someone asked if we were scuba diving! HA
Next came Mozambique. Just for the pure story of it we paid men at the border R50 per car to speed up the immigration process. 2 hours later we had our passports stamped and were on our way to Maputo. (Apparently on a busy day paying these men lets you jump the line.) We entered the coastal city after dark and read signs in Portuguese. We had two great drivers who avoided most of the potholes that we had been warned of. After many hours in the car we were looking forward to our air-conditioned backpackers. With great difficulty we eventually found our backpackers . . . which was without electricity.
As a general rule of thumb throughout the trip we found ourselves making U-turns, getting slightly off course, driving through taxi ranks, and best of all finding the sketchiest areas of town. So it was no surprise when the following day we found not only a delicious coffee shop, our next backpackers, the US embassy, the Peace Corps Mozambique headquarters- but also the shanties of Maputo.
Peace Corps Mozambique headquarters put ours to shame- a view of the ocean, a sundeck, and a personal mail room for volunteers with couches and computers. We met a 3 year PCV who was leaving the following day. He told us he was returning to the states for a month and then moving back to teach at a university! Plus he mentioned where to go out, where to eat, and about his favorite parts of the country.
That night we ate at an open air fish market (that the PCV suggested)- lobster, prawn, red snapper, calamari. . . mmm. We chose the food and then a few men prepared it for us right there. As we waited for our meal to be cooked we were bombarded by men selling crafts- bead work, purses (I bought one!), bracelets, hand-painted posters. Those with the posters held them so that only their eyes would peak over the top. Then they circled our table as we ate- I felt like I was in a rotating museum!
From Maputo we traveled some 8 hours up the coast of Mozambique to Tofo Beach. Beauty took over as we saw the rural villages. Unlike South Africans, the people of coastal Mozambique make homes of thatched palms and other organic material. The land was lush. We saw brick huts that appeared to be for baking bread and women hoeing the fields. Along the road we stopped intermittently for men selling fresh cashews. I loved it.
In Tofo we spent a few days being lazy on the beach, hiking sand dunes, spotting crabs, reading, dancing all night at a club, eating more fresh seafood, and swimming in the cool clear waters of Tofo. (You must see the photos on picasa!)
Swaziland was our next stop. We entered the country with just about a quarter of a tank in each car and glided along some 60 plus km with the gas light on and the gauge below zero. There was NO PETROL in Swaziland (3 gas stations in a row-empty). Later I found a map of this, the smallest country in Africa, and it included the locations of gas stations! HA!
In Swaziland we stayed at a game reserve that has an obnoxious amount of ostriches roaming freely. The first night there we decided to splurge ($22) and rent a thatched roof hut- was it ever worth it! Fresh clean white linens, a bath tub, shower, and best of all. . . AIR CONDITIONING! I slept divinely, needless to say. We braiied (BBQed)- Kelly grilled all sorts of meats, Jeff made pap, and I was in charge of vegetables. We went on a private game drive- by private I mean unauthorized game drive where we spotted warthogs, impala, kudu, and what Andrew thought was a lion. . . ok it was a cow with a lion’s tail? When camping the second night I awoke to a lion moaning. One day we drove literally across the country and went to a great little glass blowing factory. . .I came home with beautiful pieces
The final week and a half of the trip led us back to South Africa. Christmas was in St. Lucia where we camped near a sign that said “Beware of hippos at night.” We saw hippos in their natural environment, mongeese swarmed our campsite, as well as monkeys, we ate more fresh seafood, exchanged “white elephant” gifts, drank mimosas for breakfast, and danced the night away at Monkey Bar. (I’m getting tired of typing, can’t you tell? But mom, I’m doing it for you!)
Next Eshowe – a backpackers and brewery- where we met a strange Africaaner whose sole job was to make sure we had a good time (and we did!) I went for a great hike through the forest, saw massive trees and a short canopy walk. I briefly whipped out the Macarena that night with a random group of Zulu men and Africaaner women.
Onto Warner Beach- I vote this place to be the best backpacker in spite of one feisty manager. Blue Sky Mining was on top of a great hill and you could see the Indian Ocean from our campsite. There was a 3rd story rooftop deck from which you could view both the water and Durban. They had decent food, 2 crystal clear pools, and free boogie/surf board rental. While others went to see Twilight in the theatre (they’re obsessed!) Andrew and I rented a boogie board, strolled down the street, over the railroad, past the drunken men, onto a sand dune . . . straight to the Indian Ocean No one was there- amazing! We took out the boogie board to an area of the raging sea that appeared to be without rocks. . . wrong! I was dragged under and spit out time and again over the rocks and knocked over from waves. For the remainder of the overcast day I stood up to my knees. Later I had a delicious fresh mango smoothie and saw the more populated area of the beach where men were fishing with their poles placed in an extremely phallic place (they even had holsters right there)! Upon returning the boogie board we found out that we shouldn’t have been in the water since the shark nets broke earlier in the month. . .
About this time in the trip I began a head cold and cough- the cough remains. . . New Year’s was spent in Durban- we ate delicious Thai food, Cuban cuisine, drank espresso martinis, bargained for Fedoras, covered the length of Florida street. . . and rang in the New Year’s soaked in sweat on the dance floor! It couldn’t have been any better.
Oh and in regards to the vehicles: in addition to putting many kilometers on them we also lost a hubcap, put 2 holes in the windshield, and lost a cd in the player. . . I’m told it began smoking!
Monday, January 12, 2009
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
School's Out
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!
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!
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
