Imagine a day full of African border crossings, packing and repacking frozen prawns between coconuts and a freezer to avoid smuggling charges, only to return to a house with dead flowers bordering its walls, a freezer full of rotting meat and a tiled floor covered with 2-week old, congealed blood. Now to top this off, your relationship has met its end and, after countless days in a shared truck cab & small tents in steaming, hot Mozambique with happy-clappy tourists buzzing about sharing the love, you are home. The last thing you want to do is collaborate on cleaning out a death-sentence-evoking refrigerator, and yet you must. Yes, it's true.
Granted, all reactions to my sad news are acceptable. For now, I'd like to keep my explanations under wraps, for it's all a bit intense to be broadcasting this "live" online. Suffice it to say, my heart is sore, sore, sore. However, at the end of the day, Johannes and I are as different as day and night and for all that I embrace difference, it doesn't seem to create any healthy-functioning in our relationship as two very strong-minded people.
Now on to the interesting bit: what next? Obviously I cannot continue to live with Johannes, nor can I survive solo on my teacher's wages. I see that twisting mouth Grand-Dub, hoping I'll be bearing some good news....well, it is, but sadly not the sort grandmothers want to read. Over the last couple of months, in and amongst a whole process of trying to figure out how Johannes and I would ever truly "work," I have been offered an amazing job opportunity. The group I worked with in the Free State in 2008, Dramatic Need, actually approached me with the job opportunity to be their South African Project Manager. Thus, I have accepted and will be returning to Viljoenskroon in July to start my new job.
Two of my main jobs will include overseeing the construction and implementation of a new arts centre on the grounds of Rietpan Farm AND managing other volunteers from the UK and USA who come through to teach art. I will also be liasing with local communities, schools, and initiating adult education programmes. It's a job that combines my interests in art, organizing, youth, education and social justice -- something I've been imagining in my head for sometime, but unable to conceive as coming together in such fashion.
I've been busy making lists of Pros & Cons and trying to decided if it's time I returned to the old U S of A. While the country of my home weighs dearly on my heart, with all the people bound and wound in its arms, I'm excited for such a job opportunity to come my way and cannot let it pass me by. I hope another lengthy stay in SA will not further sever my ties with family, friends, and the hopes that I will someday return for good (I am going to try to be home xmas 2010!). All I know is that it is the right decision for me right now, given that I've been thinking it over the last two months.
Meanwhile, school runs another week and the World Cup bang will submerge South Africa in a delight of foreigners, vuvuzelas (loud horns used at games here), madhouse traffic and an extended school holiday. I will more than likely return to Cape Town in a couple of weeks to clear my head, grab my car, and move into my new slot in Viljoenskroon. It seems as though Johannes and I will part amicably. While in Mozambique, he also got the news that he will be working for the farm owners at their house in Belgium sometime in the next year. So in many ways, my moving to a new job and his opportunity in Belgium would have forged a natural split anyways. We both deserve to be happy, so I'm hoping we can go out with this easily.
In another blog later this week, I will give full details of Mozambique life plus photos....since I've now stepped into a school busy with exams, I'm going to be tearing my hair out over the next few days trying to stay afloat!!!
6.01.2010
5.15.2010
Friday: from Dawn to Starlight
4:53 am: Alarm. Snooze once. Hear the drip, drip, drip of water falling onto the motorbike covering. Wake up, close door to bedroom, every where darkness outside, start the kettle, open the outside doors to let in the cool, chilly air. Lay out yoga mat, stretch calves and lower back for the 3rd time this week after 9 months of no practice. Begin running shower water, breathe some steamy, calcified water deep into my lungs and become more alert. Dry off, contacts in my eyes, lotion on my dry skin, swallow vitamins, dress, pour tea.
5:15 am: Settle onto bed in spare room, laptop on, tea in my right hand; finish creating examination for Grade 10 students sleepily leaning against the wall.
6:00 am: First light of day leaks over the horizon. The mist is thick with the trees creating an incomplete view of the hills beyond. The dew is dripping from the eaves in steady movement, splashing out puddles onto the tiled stoop. The giraffes are out, gnawing on the trees just beyond our front door. You can hear the impala bulls making a bellyaching, "ghaw" gasp from the bush (their usual morning wake-up call).
6:15 am: Wake up Johannes. Set out breakfast food. Quickly make lunch of Johannes' homemade seed bread with Mozambique honey.
6:25 am: Sit on the stoop steps with my yoghurt and another coffee. Listen to the loud chomping of the warthogs deep-throating their grass fodder and snorting as they walk along. They rustle the grass with every step and create a depth to the tall grasses of "what goes there?"
6:45 am: Oh, shoot, gotta go! Brush teeth, grab bags, open gate, wipe condensation off truck, and GO.
6:55 am: Make it to the outer gate and some curious local school children stare as I hop out to unlock, drive forward and close the gate.
alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471426279302177586" />7:05 am: Sibusiso's yellow uniform shirt peeks out from around the bend as I reach the Magudu turnoff. He hops in my car and says, as always, "Good morning Miss Sha-non. How are you?" An older man, sick with TB, approaches for a ride to the clinic. He hops in the back of the truck and off we go. Ride the rest of the way to school in general silence. Gaze at my favorite view of Pongola, just past the Zululand Nyala Lodge, where the rows of farms and their tree borders stack in rows, forming lines between the strips of morning fog, slowly withdrawing its opaque forces.
7:20 am: Arrive at school, along with all the other educators, just in time to hear the hand-held bell be rung by the appointed "Ringer." Students begin to form their lines, according to grade level, gender, and height. Someone in Grade 11 initiates a singing of the song, "Malibongwe" which means "praise." Students steadily stream in the school gates from the dirt road they walk until the whole school has more-or-less collected.
7:25 am: Ma'am Cele, with turban on her head and a shiny, whole expression on her face, begins her husky talks of God, "Xuloxulo." She sets down the wooden stick and trades it for a small, well-worn red Zulu Bible, from which she reads in her left hand. Meanwhile, her right hand attacks the air as she reads with steady, unwavering fervor, repeating sections for emphasis. End of her biblical streams of consciousness, students bow their heads in prayer, some holding a hand to their eyes as is customary here. She tells students "March in" and they go into their respective classrooms.
7:40 am: School starts, as usual, 10 minutes late. Sign in at reception. Gather books, chalk, walk to Grade 10A. Teach visual literacy, how to dissect an advertisement. Discuss marketing, target audiences, factual language and opinionated language. Show posters of “Romeo & Juliet” the film and students gaggle over the kissing figures in foreground.
8:30 am: Second period. Teach the same to 10B, but in a slightly improved way from first period.
9:30 am: Go to moderation cluster meeting with other Grade 10, 11, & 12 educators from the district. Supposed to share marked papers and moderate that each educator is marking fairly and appropriately. Head of cluster nominates moderation as waste of precious time and seeks approval from group to sign and date marked papers as “moderated” without actually moderating. Group agrees. We sign papers without moderating and the meeting finishes in less than 2 hours. The way of South African education.
11:30 am: Wors (sausage) rolls laid out in staff room in celebration of student teachers who leave today, during break time. Teacher Mathabela mocks my Zulu, while all other educators converse in Zulu.
12:00 pm: Planning periods for rest of the day. Print the exam papers I have written, in preparation for 2 weeks I leave to Mozambique. Make sure all assignments are laid out and ready for easy distribution while I’m away. Begin marking over 200 essays that were due this week.
2:00 pm: Bell tolls its final ringing of the day. Students spend the next 20 minutes sweeping their classrooms, stacking their desks and chairs, and mopping the staff room floor in preparation for the weekend. Students leave the school in droves and the educators are quick to follow, very few taking books home for the weekend. I leave with stacks of papers to keep me busy while I’m away.
2:45 pm: Drive to the local Traffic Department, for the fourth time in 2 months. Still attempting to cross the grey areas of my SA Citizenship and USA drivers license to become a SA driver. Take with me a ridiculous letter they required me to bring on my last visit, a letter stating why I was in the USA for 25 years and why I don’t have a SA license. Argh. Wait in line. Rudely, they ask me what I want when it’s my turn. They argue with me about putting the wrong address on the letter, which is irrelevant -- because now they want a letter from the US Ambassador detailing and legitimizing my USA license details. Argh again. So, so rude. Know that it’s because I’m white. Angry because I don’t own any of the racism expressed in this country.
3:15 pm: Give a lift to a woman who has just failed her drivers test into town. Drop her off and leave Pongola. Drive the 30 minutes home in silence and anger.
3:45 pm: Meet Mayoni at the gate, who is leaving the farm. He greets with “Sawbona, Enjani” and I respond with “Yebo, Si’apile.” He always has a huge smile that makes my heart sing. Depart the gate. I’m still angry and drive the last kilometer of dirt road trying to enjoy my surroundings and shake off the racism. Yes, there are my giraffes. Six of them, chomping on trees along the road. And a kudu bull way up on a hill.
4:00 pm: Home at last. Kettle on. Bags down. Cup of tea, lay blanket on grass, hoping giraffes will turn corner and I will get better view. Email from laptop in garden, what I do best in the afternoon.
4:15 pm: Johannes returns home. We both sit and enjoy the end of the day. Notice a beautiful bird fly across the sky, red breast, blue tail, cone-like crown. Look it up in my book: purple breasted turaco (lourie).
5:30 pm: Darkness settles fully. Begin packing in preparation for our 2-week trip to hot Mozambique on Sunday. Piddle. Fuss. Drink more tea. Make popcorn snack, fresh.
7:00 pm: Johannes takes charge of dinner. Tries to use leftovers to make meal: including ball of pizza dough made this week and old spaghetti with venison mincemeat from the farm and tomatoes from our garden. Result: Pizza crust base with parmesan and warmed spaghetti on top. Looks disgusting, but is remarkably nice.
7:30 pm: Inevitably turn on TV because it is Friday night and we’re too tired to be inventive. It’s dark. We should have made use of the afternoon by going to a special spot on the farm, but it’s Friday and we didn’t have the energy. Tomorrow we will make a braai somewhere nice and wild with Marlene and Mike, 2 of my favorites from the farm. We watch a very terrible 70s film called “Cliffhanger.”
9:00 pm: Drink more tea. Make dark chocolate crepes from leftover batter. Eat with ice cream.
9:30 pm: Stop watching terrible movie. Very chilly evening, not so nice for stargazing. Go to bed early.
4.23.2010
Ticket to Ride
I am at my wits end with the school administration and the pointless purpose to pursue government curricula regulations. In the past three weeks of school we have finished unexpectedly early 8 times. It makes it difficult to accomplish anything when you don't know how to plan your week or your day even.
I really do feel like a WASP sometimes and my work ethic seems to defy the African spirit to take a step back and breathe. Somehow, with school resulting in the education of a disadvantaged population, I cannot reckon with the breathing. Too much breath!
In past entries, I know I've dedicated very little to what it's like being so different all of the time. I have to speak quite openly about this because it's a huge part of my experience. My mother mentioned the other day that not many Americans could probably relate to my experience here in Zululand and she's very much so correct. It's not just the color of my skin but also the culture. The white Afrikaaner population here is strictly conservative and they tend to appeal to the "Boer"/farmer mindset that so easily supported Apartheid, though to be fair, I haven't met many of them.
While initially the Zulus at school raised their brows at me in skepticism they have slowly begun to embrace me. However, we will never be one and the same such that we'll be able to relate properly. Issues of gender and religion come into play. Not to mention family and the concepts that I should be well into bearing children by now and that a good wife caters for all her husband's meals. There are much smaller things, like we eat different things. I was seen eating celery one day (which I bought at the grocery store) and everyone was curious what it was! Meanwhile, my fellow educators commonly eat loaves of white bread for lunch, sometimes with the addition of a local spicy meat dish. I cannot imagine eating a loaf of bread for lunch and how that would wrench my stomach into a knot!
Some of the new student teachers simply stare at everything I do, as though they've never been around a white person before. It's unnerving that even to do something so simple as blow my nose becomes a point of interest for someone else. One of the teachers naively asked me what time of day most white people shower. As if I would know! I told her my routine but that's the best I could offer. In a way, I respect that my peers feel comfortable enough to ask me such questions and I hope in my responses I can dispel the myth that we (whites) are all the same. Just as on the flip side, I can easily dispel the notion that all black people are the same as well. Generalizations, as a rule, require great patience though often they evoke great frustration.
....
....
Maybe some of you wonder what it's like to be gone from home so long? I think the edges get more and more blurry with each passing day of where I belong. The longer I stay here the more the foreign aspects become normal, comforting even. Some of the differences are still hard to deal with, but one learns to accept or even expect them as part of the status quo.
I've now melted from a tourist in South Africa into a volunteer, into a resident, into a citizen and now into a working-member of the country. Each way of participating allows a different perspective and provides different struggles. As a government-employed person I am more in the "norm" here than ever before and that has its certain perks. For instance, I'm a little less "special" and I don't seem like an alien from outer space for volunteering my skills to strangers. It also doesn't allow people to interpret my persona as "holier than thou." It's still odd for most white people to hear that I'm teaching in a black school (as the only white educator). However, at least now I'm in a fair trade between my skills and my employment and am doing just like the average Thando.
Being here longer does not mean life is getting easier. It's tough. Sometimes it's even tougher because I no longer have any deadlines attached to my time here. It's free, organic, open to movement and possibility. Many things could happen in an instant that would change my being here as I'm still not so attached. But, admittedly, I am attached. I'm attached to an aura that I cannot even name or put a finger on. I'm attached to being in a position that constantly makes me appreciate what I have and have had in life. It's difficult to imagine myself pulling away from such strong magnetic force.
Meanwhile my family is still overseas and my network of age-old friends. This also doesn't get any easier. The less you hear from people the more you wonder if they resent you for being away. I wonder if some family interpret my being here as "staying away." I wonder if my family and friends understand that I'm here because I'm drawn to this place rather than opposed to my homeland. Then I realize I'm making up all of these dramatic excuses because the real reason I don't hear from people anymore is because I'm so off the radar. Their silence is not personal and I have to remember that. Also, there's little I can do to rectify it.
It's now been eleven months since I was home and I do miss it every day. I am trying to live each day, one by one, with no knowledge or sight of where that will eventually lead me geographically. As a foreign citizen with no ticket home, that's the only way I can live for right now.
I really do feel like a WASP sometimes and my work ethic seems to defy the African spirit to take a step back and breathe. Somehow, with school resulting in the education of a disadvantaged population, I cannot reckon with the breathing. Too much breath!
In past entries, I know I've dedicated very little to what it's like being so different all of the time. I have to speak quite openly about this because it's a huge part of my experience. My mother mentioned the other day that not many Americans could probably relate to my experience here in Zululand and she's very much so correct. It's not just the color of my skin but also the culture. The white Afrikaaner population here is strictly conservative and they tend to appeal to the "Boer"/farmer mindset that so easily supported Apartheid, though to be fair, I haven't met many of them.
While initially the Zulus at school raised their brows at me in skepticism they have slowly begun to embrace me. However, we will never be one and the same such that we'll be able to relate properly. Issues of gender and religion come into play. Not to mention family and the concepts that I should be well into bearing children by now and that a good wife caters for all her husband's meals. There are much smaller things, like we eat different things. I was seen eating celery one day (which I bought at the grocery store) and everyone was curious what it was! Meanwhile, my fellow educators commonly eat loaves of white bread for lunch, sometimes with the addition of a local spicy meat dish. I cannot imagine eating a loaf of bread for lunch and how that would wrench my stomach into a knot!
Some of the new student teachers simply stare at everything I do, as though they've never been around a white person before. It's unnerving that even to do something so simple as blow my nose becomes a point of interest for someone else. One of the teachers naively asked me what time of day most white people shower. As if I would know! I told her my routine but that's the best I could offer. In a way, I respect that my peers feel comfortable enough to ask me such questions and I hope in my responses I can dispel the myth that we (whites) are all the same. Just as on the flip side, I can easily dispel the notion that all black people are the same as well. Generalizations, as a rule, require great patience though often they evoke great frustration.
....
....
Maybe some of you wonder what it's like to be gone from home so long? I think the edges get more and more blurry with each passing day of where I belong. The longer I stay here the more the foreign aspects become normal, comforting even. Some of the differences are still hard to deal with, but one learns to accept or even expect them as part of the status quo.
I've now melted from a tourist in South Africa into a volunteer, into a resident, into a citizen and now into a working-member of the country. Each way of participating allows a different perspective and provides different struggles. As a government-employed person I am more in the "norm" here than ever before and that has its certain perks. For instance, I'm a little less "special" and I don't seem like an alien from outer space for volunteering my skills to strangers. It also doesn't allow people to interpret my persona as "holier than thou." It's still odd for most white people to hear that I'm teaching in a black school (as the only white educator). However, at least now I'm in a fair trade between my skills and my employment and am doing just like the average Thando.
Being here longer does not mean life is getting easier. It's tough. Sometimes it's even tougher because I no longer have any deadlines attached to my time here. It's free, organic, open to movement and possibility. Many things could happen in an instant that would change my being here as I'm still not so attached. But, admittedly, I am attached. I'm attached to an aura that I cannot even name or put a finger on. I'm attached to being in a position that constantly makes me appreciate what I have and have had in life. It's difficult to imagine myself pulling away from such strong magnetic force.
Meanwhile my family is still overseas and my network of age-old friends. This also doesn't get any easier. The less you hear from people the more you wonder if they resent you for being away. I wonder if some family interpret my being here as "staying away." I wonder if my family and friends understand that I'm here because I'm drawn to this place rather than opposed to my homeland. Then I realize I'm making up all of these dramatic excuses because the real reason I don't hear from people anymore is because I'm so off the radar. Their silence is not personal and I have to remember that. Also, there's little I can do to rectify it.
It's now been eleven months since I was home and I do miss it every day. I am trying to live each day, one by one, with no knowledge or sight of where that will eventually lead me geographically. As a foreign citizen with no ticket home, that's the only way I can live for right now.
4.18.2010
zoom broom
Nothing too big to share here, just the delight of an African grass broom. After the disaster of an old broom losing its handle, I tell you, this handy craft provides much domestic pleasure! And it only cost 10 American cents.
4.17.2010
Elephant Release
This is just a peek at an elephant release I witnessed this week. Our game farm received an elephant they were "owed" by another local farm. This large truck carried the elephant in an interior compartment which prevents the elephant from stomping around too much. The compartment is open at the top, as you can see by the tree sticking out (elephant fodder!). Of course the elephant was sedated and he left the truck very slowly. When releasing an animal into the "wild" they first put them into a barbed wire enclosed area to get used to the new land before introducing them to the farm at-large. This particular fenced in area must be at least 2 acres. It's the closest I've been able to get to an elephant since I've been here. There are about 40 elephants total, but only about 6 bulls, so this new male addition will benefit the population greatly. Because the farm is so large, the elephants seem to hide away quite a bit so it was a real treat to get to watch this fella.
4.12.2010
Memorial No.2
Vuyani Nyawo. Victim of one of the common car accidents pervading the area. A bright student in my largest class of 60, a face I can easily conjure up in my mind's eye from the usual blur of students. I cannot begin to suggest how sore and heavy it made me feel to have such a young life taken from my class.
After school all the educators collectively visited his home. At the back of the main house was a traditional round hut where we gathered, once again, women with shoes off and men with shoes on, on the floor. The floor was dark and cool in the heat, covered by a tapestry of mats, some grass woven, some made from recycled chip packs in the most elegant way. We formed a semi circle along the wall; the haunting singing began, while the mother and female relatives perched on mattresses opposite us. In the dense heat of the day the mother was wrapped in heavy blankets, a large woman forming a soft mass of fabric that heaved with the sobs of her great loss. My eyelids were wet with tears as I watched her body completely lose form and meld into the patterns of cloth.
: :
Sibusiso Ntshangase. Twenty-three years old. The man I give daily rides to and from school. He lives in the nearest town, Magudu, and walks at least 5 km just to meet me on the pavement where he hops in. Sibusiso is in my Grade 10 English class, the same as Vuyani was. Except, he's failing with a mere 19% average. I asked him the other day how many times he'd been in Grade 10. He said he didn't remember. I asked, "Two times?" He shook his head, "No." "Three or four times?" Still, "No." "Five times or six times?" He said, "Mistress, I don't remember," but somehow it seemed to suggest he'd repeated this level probably 5 or 6 times.
Sibusiso is quite tall, with a simple look on his face. The other students all call him Mazino and tease him for riding with me, but he always laughs good-naturedly. If I ride into town to go grocery shopping, he comes with and waits by the door to help me carry in my groceries. If I shop at the market, he helps me barter for mangoes, tomatoes, avocadoes and naartjies. I wonder often about Sibusiso's future. Where he will end up and how he will cope. His English is severely limited and I poke at it daily, teaching him the simple differences between when, where, who and what so that I can find out more about him and his life. We haven't gotten too far. I suppose he'll just keep going to school until he finds something better to do with his time. I know, it sounds shameful of me to say.
: :
The 5-Muskateers. They have no names. They walk in lines across the road, sometimes in groups of 3 and 2, sometimes configurations of 4 and 1. These students study at the school just below our farm. They wear sky blue uniform shirts, always unbuttoned on their commute. One student tends to wear either a bright red or blue shirt. If it’s warm, they go bare-chested, their chests hitting the air in such a proud, determined way. The shortest, who must be age 12, always has a stern, constricted look mounted on his face. They always walk the opposite direction to which I’m driving, so I encounter their 5 faces when walking some portion of their 10+ km journey. Waving to them with a flick of my wrist is a part of my daily routine and it cracks something marvelous in their faces. Strangely, it is just important a part of my day as my morning cup of coffee.
After school all the educators collectively visited his home. At the back of the main house was a traditional round hut where we gathered, once again, women with shoes off and men with shoes on, on the floor. The floor was dark and cool in the heat, covered by a tapestry of mats, some grass woven, some made from recycled chip packs in the most elegant way. We formed a semi circle along the wall; the haunting singing began, while the mother and female relatives perched on mattresses opposite us. In the dense heat of the day the mother was wrapped in heavy blankets, a large woman forming a soft mass of fabric that heaved with the sobs of her great loss. My eyelids were wet with tears as I watched her body completely lose form and meld into the patterns of cloth.
: :
Sibusiso Ntshangase. Twenty-three years old. The man I give daily rides to and from school. He lives in the nearest town, Magudu, and walks at least 5 km just to meet me on the pavement where he hops in. Sibusiso is in my Grade 10 English class, the same as Vuyani was. Except, he's failing with a mere 19% average. I asked him the other day how many times he'd been in Grade 10. He said he didn't remember. I asked, "Two times?" He shook his head, "No." "Three or four times?" Still, "No." "Five times or six times?" He said, "Mistress, I don't remember," but somehow it seemed to suggest he'd repeated this level probably 5 or 6 times.
Sibusiso is quite tall, with a simple look on his face. The other students all call him Mazino and tease him for riding with me, but he always laughs good-naturedly. If I ride into town to go grocery shopping, he comes with and waits by the door to help me carry in my groceries. If I shop at the market, he helps me barter for mangoes, tomatoes, avocadoes and naartjies. I wonder often about Sibusiso's future. Where he will end up and how he will cope. His English is severely limited and I poke at it daily, teaching him the simple differences between when, where, who and what so that I can find out more about him and his life. We haven't gotten too far. I suppose he'll just keep going to school until he finds something better to do with his time. I know, it sounds shameful of me to say.
: :
The 5-Muskateers. They have no names. They walk in lines across the road, sometimes in groups of 3 and 2, sometimes configurations of 4 and 1. These students study at the school just below our farm. They wear sky blue uniform shirts, always unbuttoned on their commute. One student tends to wear either a bright red or blue shirt. If it’s warm, they go bare-chested, their chests hitting the air in such a proud, determined way. The shortest, who must be age 12, always has a stern, constricted look mounted on his face. They always walk the opposite direction to which I’m driving, so I encounter their 5 faces when walking some portion of their 10+ km journey. Waving to them with a flick of my wrist is a part of my daily routine and it cracks something marvelous in their faces. Strangely, it is just important a part of my day as my morning cup of coffee.
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!
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