4.10.2010
Bubble of life
At the beginning of April I had two dear friends, Sophia & Helena, visit from Cape Town. It was incredibly lovely to share a slice of this farm with some others and have them see into the window of this Pongola life! This followed a week's visit I made to Cape Town over my Fall Break. Both great moments for me -- I don't think I've ever talked so much in my life. Breathing out the isolation in words was a much needed detox. Not to mention the giggling!
3.20.2010
Garden Times and "the Beach"
Our garden is coming along swimmingly. Apart from an "ingunbumbane" (porcupine) visit and some nasty slugs, we've avoided too much wildlife damage! I'm hoping the impala and warthog skulls we've found and placed around it will haunt the other critters away. Note the powerful green of the spinach zucchini soup I made fresh from the garden! It's exciting, now we're having full meals of venison and fresh salads 100% local to our farm.
As for "the beach," it's a glimpse into another one of the dozens of rivers running throughout the farm. It actually has a beach, but geeze, I don't know if I'll get over the thought of a creepy indigenous crocodile making his way over to my towel. It certainly is more difficult to relax outside here than it would be by the seaside! The great outdoors really are quite scary.
A few weeks ago when Johannes was out fishing, he and a friend noticed two lionesses creeping up on them through the grasses. A wee bit scary and now I'm fast to close the gates to the farm on my way to work, lest my legs get nipped by one of these gargantuan beasts.
We've had a few encounters with snakes in our house and a couple of rats, but I'm getting friendly with the geckos and the frogs who are anything but menacing. There is unwritten law between snakes and man here....if a snake enters your house it's a goner. No two questions asked, because if you don't kill it, it will continue to lurk around your house. The snakes here are just too dangerous. I was sitting on the toilet the other day when I heard a thud on the hallway floor....my pants around my knees, my adrenaline sky high, I saw this "Boerslaang" (farm snake) creep down the hall. Nothing could make you feel more vulnerable when on the pot, I swear! With the help of the next-door gardener, we managed to locate it under the fridge whereupon he swiftly stabbed it with a pole. Johannes has also had a couple success stories with some "boomslaangs" (tree snakes) and his mean belt. Me, I'm not so sure about my aim! I think I'll be a bit of a Calamity Jane when the moment produces itself that I have to whip off my belt and beat the life out of a snake. Let's just hope that I can avoid that moment....
3.01.2010
battle of education
By this point, after almost 20 months in South Africa, I've traveled the country more than most South Africans have. I've yet to see Mpumalanga, Limpopo, Northwest or the Northern Provinces, however I've covered a substantial territory for the other 5 provinces this country has to offer. While Cape Town provided me access to a diverse community of the mixed locals and foreigners, Pongola is much less diverse. It is host primarily to the Zulu population and, as its all-grade, "white" school of 300 pupils shows, a small Afrikaaner grouping as well.
Much like in the Free State where I first worked with the Sotho people, the Zulus love to sing. Constantly! In the staff room, the teachers will spontaneously break into song (usually Christian tunes for they're deep God-believers) and they will start to dance and egg eachother on, elbows out, hips in the air, legs in a semi-squat position. The passing student will pop in and join right in. It's amazing to watch and makes me think that Anglican worshippers might be missing the true spirit of God when I witness them in action.
Every morning school starts with a formal assembly, consisting of lines of all students grouped into grades and genders, ordered smallest to tallest from front to back. Usually one female will initiate a song and lead the rest. Every morning! The songs are amazing and vary greatly, from sombre, gentle tunes to joyful ululations of praise. It is in this that I certainly feel apart but blessed to observe this culture.
: :
Because I'm the only outsider I think most of my colleagues have known, I feel quite let in and accepted into the folds of their Zulu culture. However, there are parts for which I still remain white and provide an obvious access to other things - namely rides to town in my bakkie and even toilet paper (there is none provided at school). My whiteness may indicate a certain wealth, but they fail to look at my shoes to see that I'm the most poorly and casually clad of the lot.
Beyong my colleagues, my students seem excited to have a white teacher. To them it's a strange, unusual and rare privilege. The learners all call me Mistress and they greet me constantly at all times of the day. Not that I deserve such formality or honor! I am struggling. Phew! Struggling to understand the purpose of teaching literary techniques to students who cannot understand the difference between "across" and "around" and who fail to write succint, complet sentences. I'm struggling to assign work and then grade the 55 papers that pour in at a time (if I'm so lucky they all do their work). Mostly, I'm struggling to accept being a tight-ass teacher because that's the only way I know how to cope. Because these students are used to being smacked as a reproach, the only tool I have to save face is to show little mercy and to infuse the class with a firm work ethic. I surprise my constantly with the harsh things that run out of my mouth, "An empty slate makes for an empty mind," and "Your grades are so terrible you should go cry in the corner." Woah?! Is this really me?
I am starting to get inside the heads of my students and to understand the backgrounds from which they're coming. Each week they have journals due, 5 entries per week, and it is a massive stack of work for me to wade through. However, I'm only getting a 15% turn-in rate which is deplorable so I shouldn't complain about the little that I have to do TOO much! Most of my students have very little to say. They have long walks to school. They wash their clothes by hand every second day and help their mothers with dinner. Many do not live with their mothers or fathers, who either work in another town or have since deceased. Some students live under the care of their siblings if both parents have died. If both parents are gone, you know it's the product of AIDS. Some students reminisce about days past when they lived in more rural areas and had to walk to the river to fetch water. They see living in a place with a running tap as a significant step up in the world. Other students seem to have life a bit easier and follow a more mainstream course of life, listening to the radio all weekend long and going to church on Sundays, finding great joy in a new dress or present from a boyfriend/girlfriend. It's amazing to me how many students actually write about their relationship with God in their journals - God is deeply embedded in the culture here.
: :
My difficulties with my students make me think back to Myers Park High School's Humanities class led by Mrs. Goodloe & Mr. Leighton and the 50 bright, strong, eager students and the college-level curriculum. They were superb educators and so I wonder what they would say to me, how I should make it work with so many students, such a lacking work ethic and the void of little parental support . And then I think they would struggle to advise me because I have the load equivilent to 10 American high school classes.
I lack the resources to know how to manage my situation and find no comfort from the colleagues who suggest the only way to get work from black children is to use the rod. I feel poorly educated in what I'm trying to achieve, trying to elicit work that I barely have time to grade, trying to achieve learning in a room stifling with heat and where the students are constantly distracted by sitting 3 or even 4 to a desk on shared, broken chairs that frequently collapse and require an uncomfortable effort in balance.
I think how U.S. teachers are so endowed with resources like classroom budgets and class sets of books where each student can take them home to read. I think of the technology available and how it enables the classes to succeed because less time is devoted to rote learning and copying. Even a simple device such as an overhead projector would be a life-saver -- saving me the time from having to write on the board again and again and again as I have to move from classroom to classroom. Do these U.S. teachers know how much they take for granted?
I'm caught in a rift between these 2 sets of educators - teachers who are qualified and equipped to teach from a perspective of freedom learning in well-resourced classrooms with comfortable teacher-student ratioes AND these educators here who are unqualified but who have learned to cope with large class szies (be it effective or not). I long to meet the teacher who has seen both worlds and who can advise me in how to move forward in these difficult circumstances. I long to know more about how I can make this work in a way that is sustainable and enjoyable for all ... Ish (as all the Africans say for "yikes"), I feel a dissertation coming on!
Much like in the Free State where I first worked with the Sotho people, the Zulus love to sing. Constantly! In the staff room, the teachers will spontaneously break into song (usually Christian tunes for they're deep God-believers) and they will start to dance and egg eachother on, elbows out, hips in the air, legs in a semi-squat position. The passing student will pop in and join right in. It's amazing to watch and makes me think that Anglican worshippers might be missing the true spirit of God when I witness them in action.
Every morning school starts with a formal assembly, consisting of lines of all students grouped into grades and genders, ordered smallest to tallest from front to back. Usually one female will initiate a song and lead the rest. Every morning! The songs are amazing and vary greatly, from sombre, gentle tunes to joyful ululations of praise. It is in this that I certainly feel apart but blessed to observe this culture.
: :
Because I'm the only outsider I think most of my colleagues have known, I feel quite let in and accepted into the folds of their Zulu culture. However, there are parts for which I still remain white and provide an obvious access to other things - namely rides to town in my bakkie and even toilet paper (there is none provided at school). My whiteness may indicate a certain wealth, but they fail to look at my shoes to see that I'm the most poorly and casually clad of the lot.
Beyong my colleagues, my students seem excited to have a white teacher. To them it's a strange, unusual and rare privilege. The learners all call me Mistress and they greet me constantly at all times of the day. Not that I deserve such formality or honor! I am struggling. Phew! Struggling to understand the purpose of teaching literary techniques to students who cannot understand the difference between "across" and "around" and who fail to write succint, complet sentences. I'm struggling to assign work and then grade the 55 papers that pour in at a time (if I'm so lucky they all do their work). Mostly, I'm struggling to accept being a tight-ass teacher because that's the only way I know how to cope. Because these students are used to being smacked as a reproach, the only tool I have to save face is to show little mercy and to infuse the class with a firm work ethic. I surprise my constantly with the harsh things that run out of my mouth, "An empty slate makes for an empty mind," and "Your grades are so terrible you should go cry in the corner." Woah?! Is this really me?
I am starting to get inside the heads of my students and to understand the backgrounds from which they're coming. Each week they have journals due, 5 entries per week, and it is a massive stack of work for me to wade through. However, I'm only getting a 15% turn-in rate which is deplorable so I shouldn't complain about the little that I have to do TOO much! Most of my students have very little to say. They have long walks to school. They wash their clothes by hand every second day and help their mothers with dinner. Many do not live with their mothers or fathers, who either work in another town or have since deceased. Some students live under the care of their siblings if both parents have died. If both parents are gone, you know it's the product of AIDS. Some students reminisce about days past when they lived in more rural areas and had to walk to the river to fetch water. They see living in a place with a running tap as a significant step up in the world. Other students seem to have life a bit easier and follow a more mainstream course of life, listening to the radio all weekend long and going to church on Sundays, finding great joy in a new dress or present from a boyfriend/girlfriend. It's amazing to me how many students actually write about their relationship with God in their journals - God is deeply embedded in the culture here.
: :
My difficulties with my students make me think back to Myers Park High School's Humanities class led by Mrs. Goodloe & Mr. Leighton and the 50 bright, strong, eager students and the college-level curriculum. They were superb educators and so I wonder what they would say to me, how I should make it work with so many students, such a lacking work ethic and the void of little parental support . And then I think they would struggle to advise me because I have the load equivilent to 10 American high school classes.
I lack the resources to know how to manage my situation and find no comfort from the colleagues who suggest the only way to get work from black children is to use the rod. I feel poorly educated in what I'm trying to achieve, trying to elicit work that I barely have time to grade, trying to achieve learning in a room stifling with heat and where the students are constantly distracted by sitting 3 or even 4 to a desk on shared, broken chairs that frequently collapse and require an uncomfortable effort in balance.
I think how U.S. teachers are so endowed with resources like classroom budgets and class sets of books where each student can take them home to read. I think of the technology available and how it enables the classes to succeed because less time is devoted to rote learning and copying. Even a simple device such as an overhead projector would be a life-saver -- saving me the time from having to write on the board again and again and again as I have to move from classroom to classroom. Do these U.S. teachers know how much they take for granted?
I'm caught in a rift between these 2 sets of educators - teachers who are qualified and equipped to teach from a perspective of freedom learning in well-resourced classrooms with comfortable teacher-student ratioes AND these educators here who are unqualified but who have learned to cope with large class szies (be it effective or not). I long to meet the teacher who has seen both worlds and who can advise me in how to move forward in these difficult circumstances. I long to know more about how I can make this work in a way that is sustainable and enjoyable for all ... Ish (as all the Africans say for "yikes"), I feel a dissertation coming on!
2.25.2010
Uh oh, there goes February!
Hmm, for lack of a better title, can you tell that I am a bit stretched! Teaching has me up till 11 o'clock some nights tackling the ever-surmounting grading. I'm finding it impossible to want to mark papers when I come home....thus I've been spending my afternoons baking and cooking up a storm, even finding vast amounts of pleasure in cleaning Johannes' bakkie or weeding the garden. Ay yai! The evenings are thus spent with the buzzing stick insects, praying manti, and moths (who I hope and pray don't attack me with acid again - my leg is still oozing blisters) and the entertainment of my students' english skills (spelling words like conflict get mistaken for cornflake because of the speech patterns!).Thus, with little time to say too much, I'm going to leave this short and sweet with pictures for fodder. Please enjoy the friendly host of giraffes who wander not far from my backyard and the in-progress photos from the bar Johannes has been building (providing a backdrop for some painting). Enjoy a nibble from Johannes' homemade February 11th birthday cake and an angry snort from the teed off elephant (only one I've seen on the farm).
2.16.2010
Bewitched
Life is unfolding rapidly and every day presents some new twist or turn. I now have 2 weeks of school under my belt. Some days I am impressed with how well it is all going. Other days I manage to be stunned by some facet or other.
It’s been an eventful 2 weeks. Finding my place in the school, getting to know and relate to the other educators, creating a platform with my students, balancing home life with school and negotiating the differences of living on a game farm and working in a town with black locals (2 very alternate realities).
I am always amazed with how steep my learning curve can be. When do we as humans ever know enough? When does our learning serve us and when does it stunt our growth?
I had one of the blondest and scariest moments of my life last week when I opened the electric gate to leave in the morning. While out of the car, I heard a noise from behind….only to witness Johannes’ bakkie rolling down the dirt road towards a ditch. Imagine the simultaneous amazement and panic on my face when I realized I wouldn’t make it there in time! Once the car finally stopped (luckily it didn’t have to roll far before stopping, thus little momentum for damage), I hopped in and tried my darndest to drive it over the rocks it had settled on. No such luck. It didn’t help that 2 days earlier I’d flooded my phone in the river! Alas, on my 4 km walk to the farm entrance, I saw the farm manager and he drove me back to winch Johannes’ car out. Where were my brains? By the grace of God, sometimes things do work out okay.
Today I witnessed the byproducts of black magic for the first time. I am still sitting with a heavy, thick fog in my chest. While working out of the staff room for my planning period, 4 boys brought in a limp, dead weight girl into the room. I was the only adult there and made sure someone had called her parents. They set her down on the dusty floor and within minutes a loud, high-pitched scream emanated from 2 classes down. The seemingly lifeless girl on my hands, Zandile, immediately jumped up and ran for the door and started fighting the boys, kicking and punching at them. The boys, stalwart, held her securely when she started tearing at her throat and fell to thrashing on the ground. Mind you, this was no epileptic seizure. Her eyes were tearing, but finally she resisted the need to thrash and I held a cool, damp cloth to her head, having no idea what else to do.
A few minutes later another girl (supposedly the one who had been screaming) was brought, limp and lifeless to another spot on the staffroom floor. She began screaming again and Zandile took to screaming as well. While it was obvious these two girls were on totally alternate planes, their behavior was absolutely similar. I was so impressed with the young gentlemen who brought the girls in, sweetly untying their neck ties, unbuttoning their collars so they could breathe more easily, smoothing down their skirts so their underwear didn’t show. They were clearly practiced in this routine.
I had seen a girl last week, lying on the floor in the staff room and had been told she’d been bewitched and infected with evil spirits. At the time, I had no sense of how on earth that could result in an inert girl who needed to be taken away by an ambulance. I though maybe she was epileptic and these other educators were not educated enough to identify it. But that moment last week prepared me to understand some of what was happening today while these girls’ spirits unfolded on the floor today.
After the girls had tired out, they lay on the floor at haphazard angles, and I looked at my grading sheet trying to figure out how to resume my work. Their dark demons, whether they were real or not, had poured something toxic into the air that made me feel heavy. I talked to some other teachers to understand what I had seen. It felt something like watching a National Geographic episode on tribal culture in anthropology class to see these girls absolutely fall apart.
Apparently there are at least 6 girls haunted by evil spirits at our school. They experience these demons at home and at school. The teachers try to keep the girls separated because they spur each other on. At least two of them see the same black man dressed in a suit chasing them. Because this only seems to be affecting females, I inquired as to it being related to rape trauma. I was told a few of these girls have been raped, so I wonder if culturally this is a way to let go of what we have even in Western culture: inner demons.
Solace. I am lucky to have a place that pours out beauty in a variety of forms. Today, that is what is needed to recover from the weight of such a deep day. Unfortunately, I’m feeling a bit leery of my local insect friends who zoom around at all intervals through the day. Including the moth that excreted some poison onto my leg, resulting in a long 7 inch, burn-like, blistering wound. I tell you, everyday brings something new! Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
It’s been an eventful 2 weeks. Finding my place in the school, getting to know and relate to the other educators, creating a platform with my students, balancing home life with school and negotiating the differences of living on a game farm and working in a town with black locals (2 very alternate realities).
I am always amazed with how steep my learning curve can be. When do we as humans ever know enough? When does our learning serve us and when does it stunt our growth?
I had one of the blondest and scariest moments of my life last week when I opened the electric gate to leave in the morning. While out of the car, I heard a noise from behind….only to witness Johannes’ bakkie rolling down the dirt road towards a ditch. Imagine the simultaneous amazement and panic on my face when I realized I wouldn’t make it there in time! Once the car finally stopped (luckily it didn’t have to roll far before stopping, thus little momentum for damage), I hopped in and tried my darndest to drive it over the rocks it had settled on. No such luck. It didn’t help that 2 days earlier I’d flooded my phone in the river! Alas, on my 4 km walk to the farm entrance, I saw the farm manager and he drove me back to winch Johannes’ car out. Where were my brains? By the grace of God, sometimes things do work out okay.
Today I witnessed the byproducts of black magic for the first time. I am still sitting with a heavy, thick fog in my chest. While working out of the staff room for my planning period, 4 boys brought in a limp, dead weight girl into the room. I was the only adult there and made sure someone had called her parents. They set her down on the dusty floor and within minutes a loud, high-pitched scream emanated from 2 classes down. The seemingly lifeless girl on my hands, Zandile, immediately jumped up and ran for the door and started fighting the boys, kicking and punching at them. The boys, stalwart, held her securely when she started tearing at her throat and fell to thrashing on the ground. Mind you, this was no epileptic seizure. Her eyes were tearing, but finally she resisted the need to thrash and I held a cool, damp cloth to her head, having no idea what else to do.
A few minutes later another girl (supposedly the one who had been screaming) was brought, limp and lifeless to another spot on the staffroom floor. She began screaming again and Zandile took to screaming as well. While it was obvious these two girls were on totally alternate planes, their behavior was absolutely similar. I was so impressed with the young gentlemen who brought the girls in, sweetly untying their neck ties, unbuttoning their collars so they could breathe more easily, smoothing down their skirts so their underwear didn’t show. They were clearly practiced in this routine.
I had seen a girl last week, lying on the floor in the staff room and had been told she’d been bewitched and infected with evil spirits. At the time, I had no sense of how on earth that could result in an inert girl who needed to be taken away by an ambulance. I though maybe she was epileptic and these other educators were not educated enough to identify it. But that moment last week prepared me to understand some of what was happening today while these girls’ spirits unfolded on the floor today.
After the girls had tired out, they lay on the floor at haphazard angles, and I looked at my grading sheet trying to figure out how to resume my work. Their dark demons, whether they were real or not, had poured something toxic into the air that made me feel heavy. I talked to some other teachers to understand what I had seen. It felt something like watching a National Geographic episode on tribal culture in anthropology class to see these girls absolutely fall apart.
Apparently there are at least 6 girls haunted by evil spirits at our school. They experience these demons at home and at school. The teachers try to keep the girls separated because they spur each other on. At least two of them see the same black man dressed in a suit chasing them. Because this only seems to be affecting females, I inquired as to it being related to rape trauma. I was told a few of these girls have been raped, so I wonder if culturally this is a way to let go of what we have even in Western culture: inner demons.
Solace. I am lucky to have a place that pours out beauty in a variety of forms. Today, that is what is needed to recover from the weight of such a deep day. Unfortunately, I’m feeling a bit leery of my local insect friends who zoom around at all intervals through the day. Including the moth that excreted some poison onto my leg, resulting in a long 7 inch, burn-like, blistering wound. I tell you, everyday brings something new! Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
2.03.2010
Sebenzakanzima Secondary School
I certainly thought I'd be writing Farm, Part II well before I had fodder for any other writings. Instead, I have news to share: today was my first day at my first paid job in almost 19 months! In what must be my shortest job search to date (1 week), I got an SMS on Monday from one of the local principals I was introduced to last week. I drove to the school, Sebenzakanzima, just outside of the limits of Pongola expecting to fill out the paperwork for an official job application. Instead, I was handed papers titled "Assumption of Duty." I was perplexed, not quite expecting what I was being offered, only to find out another position had opened at the school due to the death of a teacher.
And so, after filling out more paperwork yesterday and obtaining all the available English books possible, I assumed the available English teaching post for Grades 8, 9 and 10. I encountered a few of the other educators yesterday and they, too, were perplexed about me. Not being announced as a foreign volunteer come to save the day, they all assumed I was a white South African. A few made comments about how white South Africans have been fleeing overcrowding at the schools - with raised eyebrows and a glare made for cowering. However, I'm not really the white South African they think they're refering to and I'm also not fleeing.
With almost 250 names on my roster for 6 classes, it's going to be a crazy while ahead for me! I have no government curriculum to work from in a no-child-left-behind based system, so it should be interesting. I inquired today as to the discipline code at the school and, well, beating is an unofficial part of the game. So I made a strong point with my students today that I will never hit them, but that they shouldn't opt for pulling one over on me just because they think they can. In the end, my biggest threat is to send them to the principal, who will mostly likely give them a hiding or 3. It's the best I can do apart from alienating myself from the get-go and losing my new job. So, it's a bit harum scarum.
The classrooms are bare, bare, bare. The students stay with the same classroom all day long and the teachers float. Meaning the teachers all share 2 common spaces as their staff rooms. I'm sharing a desk with 2 other educators, one who kindly befriended me today. She even gave me a hamburger for lunch - it feels like school all over again! The teachers slowly started to talk to me today, but conceptually they don't seem to grasp that I'm foreign....and that I'm not living with my father on his farm nearby (a very strange rumor circulating). Everyone speaks Zulu as it is a Zulu-medium school. I don't understand a word excepting hello (sawubona) and work (sebenza), although I'm surely in the right place to start picking it up.
My work with the students went seemingly well, though there's not too much to report yet. I was so anxious yesterday, sleeping fitfully and eliciting words of comfort from Johannes. I don't know if I've ever been quite so nervous about teaching before. I think I realize that these students have never had a white educator before and was nervous that they wouldn't want to take me seriously. Luckily, they all seem to love learning English which will work fabulously to my advantage in the future!
One encouraging moment today came as the day was closing and I was invited to go to the visitation for the teacher who's place I'm filling. I gave about 8 teachers lifts in the back of the bakkie and we set out for Ncotshane (very difficult to pronounce with a click at the front of the word), the local township from where most of the students hail. The former teacher passed away Saturday, presumably from AIDS as many teachers here are dying from it. The visitations take place during the week, before the funeral which always takes place on a weekend. There is a huge ceremony involving a cow slaughter, so the weekend timing is a must.
When we arrived at the house of this teacher, all the women took off their shoes. As the women were filing in, the first teacher down on the ground, Disa, immediately started singing. The others joined in as they positioned themselves crosslegged on the straw mats. The men slowly entered as well (their shoes still on) and they joined the singing. It was incredibly beautiful and the moment's hesistation where I had not wanted to go (due to a long first day) melted instantly. Different teachers led the singing and the same ones led the group in Zulu prayers and passages from the Bible. It was a quiet house, where the sounds of the contracting tin roof made distinct clickings, along with the chorus of the roosters crowing outside. The old, old black women family members sat back, against the wall, letting the words wash over them, their eyes solemn and distant, but deeply open and watchful, their faces puckered with wrinkles from too much death and too much life.
At the end, I saddled off home after dropping the other teachers in town and carried on my long ride home. Home: where I shocked myself on a game fence yesterday and today where the warthogs greeted me through the long grasses and monkeys cried out from the trees. Not to mention the nice little poop our resident frog, Gregory, left for me right inside the doorstep. This feels like an impossibly unusual life I'm living right now. Truly African, in some ways endlessly authentic -- something I've been after with the culture for a long time. It felt good to be invited in today.
And so, after filling out more paperwork yesterday and obtaining all the available English books possible, I assumed the available English teaching post for Grades 8, 9 and 10. I encountered a few of the other educators yesterday and they, too, were perplexed about me. Not being announced as a foreign volunteer come to save the day, they all assumed I was a white South African. A few made comments about how white South Africans have been fleeing overcrowding at the schools - with raised eyebrows and a glare made for cowering. However, I'm not really the white South African they think they're refering to and I'm also not fleeing.
With almost 250 names on my roster for 6 classes, it's going to be a crazy while ahead for me! I have no government curriculum to work from in a no-child-left-behind based system, so it should be interesting. I inquired today as to the discipline code at the school and, well, beating is an unofficial part of the game. So I made a strong point with my students today that I will never hit them, but that they shouldn't opt for pulling one over on me just because they think they can. In the end, my biggest threat is to send them to the principal, who will mostly likely give them a hiding or 3. It's the best I can do apart from alienating myself from the get-go and losing my new job. So, it's a bit harum scarum.
The classrooms are bare, bare, bare. The students stay with the same classroom all day long and the teachers float. Meaning the teachers all share 2 common spaces as their staff rooms. I'm sharing a desk with 2 other educators, one who kindly befriended me today. She even gave me a hamburger for lunch - it feels like school all over again! The teachers slowly started to talk to me today, but conceptually they don't seem to grasp that I'm foreign....and that I'm not living with my father on his farm nearby (a very strange rumor circulating). Everyone speaks Zulu as it is a Zulu-medium school. I don't understand a word excepting hello (sawubona) and work (sebenza), although I'm surely in the right place to start picking it up.
My work with the students went seemingly well, though there's not too much to report yet. I was so anxious yesterday, sleeping fitfully and eliciting words of comfort from Johannes. I don't know if I've ever been quite so nervous about teaching before. I think I realize that these students have never had a white educator before and was nervous that they wouldn't want to take me seriously. Luckily, they all seem to love learning English which will work fabulously to my advantage in the future!
One encouraging moment today came as the day was closing and I was invited to go to the visitation for the teacher who's place I'm filling. I gave about 8 teachers lifts in the back of the bakkie and we set out for Ncotshane (very difficult to pronounce with a click at the front of the word), the local township from where most of the students hail. The former teacher passed away Saturday, presumably from AIDS as many teachers here are dying from it. The visitations take place during the week, before the funeral which always takes place on a weekend. There is a huge ceremony involving a cow slaughter, so the weekend timing is a must.
When we arrived at the house of this teacher, all the women took off their shoes. As the women were filing in, the first teacher down on the ground, Disa, immediately started singing. The others joined in as they positioned themselves crosslegged on the straw mats. The men slowly entered as well (their shoes still on) and they joined the singing. It was incredibly beautiful and the moment's hesistation where I had not wanted to go (due to a long first day) melted instantly. Different teachers led the singing and the same ones led the group in Zulu prayers and passages from the Bible. It was a quiet house, where the sounds of the contracting tin roof made distinct clickings, along with the chorus of the roosters crowing outside. The old, old black women family members sat back, against the wall, letting the words wash over them, their eyes solemn and distant, but deeply open and watchful, their faces puckered with wrinkles from too much death and too much life.
At the end, I saddled off home after dropping the other teachers in town and carried on my long ride home. Home: where I shocked myself on a game fence yesterday and today where the warthogs greeted me through the long grasses and monkeys cried out from the trees. Not to mention the nice little poop our resident frog, Gregory, left for me right inside the doorstep. This feels like an impossibly unusual life I'm living right now. Truly African, in some ways endlessly authentic -- something I've been after with the culture for a long time. It felt good to be invited in today.
2.01.2010
The Farm, Part I: the land & the trees
This weekend I had much more opportunity to view the vastness of the farm where I’m living. It is gargantuan. It spans 30km along one stretch of road and cascades across many hills and mountains deeper into the bush. The property is comprised of 13 previously independent farms, many of which were used for cattle farming.
The conservation tasks that lay before the manager at the inception of the farm, 9 years ago, were colossal. Part of what makes the bush-veld (field) so attractive to animals is the natural cycles of the land. In cattle farming the farmers resist the veld fires and attempt to suppress the natural burning and regeneration of the land. It became obvious to me on our drives this weekend the difference: in the former cattle grounds the veld is overgrown with bushes, especially those called “aliens” or plants that were brought in from overseas that overtake. In the conserved lands, the veld is vast, full of long tall grasses, velvety and rich. The acacia trees in the fields stand alone and aren’t choked out by other voracious plants. In the valleys are lush and thick with water loving trees, such as the tall mung’aro (African teak) trees.But even in the conserved lands there are some nice groves of trees, filled with names like Acacia Tortilis, Red Ivory, Mung’aro, Kiat, and Mahoghany. All very different types of woods, all offering Johannes the chance of a lifetime to work with some very raw material. The friendly elephants of the farm have a nasty habit of knocking down the trees that get in their way. Which leaves many felled trees, ripe and ready for removal.
Just as Johannes and I arrived, another local woodworker brokered a deal with the farm to bring in a special saw to cut some huge logs on location. For the last 2 weeks, Johannes has been busy every day sourcing new logs in the woods and valleys. The Mung’aro is by far the largest, complicating matters a lot with heavy rains and waterlogged dirt roads. The first big project they tackled was a fallen Mung’aro log, about 5 feet in diameter and at least 12 feet long. The drawing I’m posting here was of this particular log, as the guys were setting up the saw to cut planks. What’s incredibly awesome for a furniture maker in this situation is that they get some very unusual cuts of wood, including edges with the bark along the sides. Additionally, Johannes has the control to keep planks together that originally matched in the tree itself - giving him the chance to make some seamless work that would be otherwise difficult to accomplish with store-bought wood.
The Mung’aro trees grow in the valleys along the rivers. They are thick and strong, with tall trunks uninterrupted by branches, making for nice long planks. But in-situ, they are even more beautiful, with incredibly complicated root structures grappling and curling around the rocks at its base. The saw dust has a divine smell, something equivalent to the smell of cedar, though entirely different at the same time.
There are so many trees to know and I’m lucky to have a good guide giving me their names. Our perusal of logs on Saturday and Sunday gave me a good view into the scope of the farm, though at any given point I probably couldn’t tell you exactly where I am! There are dozens of rivers, including the great Mkhuze River that flows into one of the country’s largest lakes, Lake St. Lucia. There are several incredible cliff-faces, including one that boasts a platform for camping and braaing while overlooking the Mkhuze River (Johannes and I are planning a weekend getaway on this farm, in this place for next weekend!). And what’s more, there are countless entrances and roads to navigate the farm from, making it feel impossibly large. But, with time, hopefully Johannes and I will get to make a lot out of that!
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