Pictures I stole from Omar

Just another day at the civic center


One Big Happy PCV Family


Moletsi


Moletsi



Traditional Dancers


The end of the sheep


The going away party (from left: Eric, Allison, Melissa, Omar, Tom, Me, Dan)


The Sleepover (the only time it was ever cold)

Thanksgiving

Being in Africa often skews my vision to what is occuring in the rest of the world. Thus, when I received a phone call from my family wishing me a Happy Thanksgiving I was shocked to realize that I had forgotten the holiday all together. I was slightly depressed to know that all I had eaten for dinner was green beans and potatoes. Sam enjoyed telling me about all the turkey, pumpkin pie, and mashed potatoes he was going to eat. I was exceptionally jealous.

As a result, a few volunteers and I decided to meet up and celebrate on the weekend. I don´t think anything I anticipated about the event remotely equaled the experience.

Friday I headed to my nearest neighboring volunteer to spend the night before we met up with the rest of the PCV crew. Three of us met her in town where we decided to get food for the night to cook for her family. I discovered an important item of information while traveling to her village: I may live in rural Africa but she lives in the middle of nowhere rural Africa. In order to get there we had to ride in the back of a decrepit pick up on wodden benches down a long, bumpy dirt road. To the left of the dirt road: miles of unciviled shrubs to the right of the dirt road: miles of uncivilized shrubs. At one point during the drive she said ¨It looks like we´re going to take the off road.¨ The rest of us glanced incredulously at one another: ¨What the hell are we on now?¨ Eventually the shrubs parted and her village appeared. I consider the nature in my village to be beautiful but the asthetics of the buildings in hers were incredible. Most of the structures in my village are brick buildings with tin roofs. Her village was made up of mud huts with thatched roofs painted bright shades of yellow and turquoise with zig-zag patterns. It belonged on a post card: not in my reality.

In the evening we made dinner for her family which is always an entertaining experience as the Africans tend to be exceptionally hesitant to eat anything we cook as it often differs greatly from their food. After, we brought out a carton of ice cream and soon all of usn, in addition to her family, were gathered around it chowing down, eating straight from the carton. It was definitely a stereotypical girl´ś night as we all attempted to sleep squeezed side by side in bed.



The next morning we were up at dawn in anticipation of long taxi rides to get to our Thanksgiving feast. It is exceptionally difficult to gauge traveling time when you are unsure of how long it will take to get a taxi and how long it will take to leave once you get one (the taxi doesn´t leave until every seat is full). Plus, depending on who you ask everywhere you want to go takes from ten minutes to four hours to get to and no one seems to be able to give a more specific time frame. In addtion, no matter where you are going you inevitably get the following response: ¨Oh, that´s so far!¨ It doesn´t matter once again if it´s ten minutes away or four hours. It is still ¨so far.¨

As a result we were on our first taxi before 7am. We were supposed to be meeting the rest of the volunteers at noon and wanted to make sure we were on time. As we left the village the shrubs and nothingness did have its benefits. As I attempted to shield my head from reaping the consequences of the bumps a giraffe appeared to my left. Yes, chilling at the side of the road, was a full grown giraffe munching on leaves. I believe the rest of the taxi´s passengers found our squeals of delight to be a bit odd but hell I´ve only ever seen a giraffe in a zoo. I was rightfully impressed. The ride only got better when we spotted a herd of zebra. I have come about as far from suburban California as possible.

Eventually we switched to the next taxi (I feel like it takes at least two different taxis to get anywhere) and it soon became evident that we were going to be at least three hours early. We sent a text message to the volunteer that we were meeting but unfortunately he was in twon picking up food and wouldn´t be home untill 12:00 so he told us we would have to wait at the taxi stop.

To interject, the taxi stop we were going to was not a definitive stops so before we got on the taxi we told the driver where we were going so that he could tell us when to get off as we girls were completely clueless to the locality. After riding the taxi for about an hour the driver suddenly perked up and said ¨Oh no I forgot to tell you about your stop, we passed it forty minutes ago.¨ (I´m not exactly sure how you forget you have four Americans in your back seat- three of which are white and probably the only Caucasians to ever step into his taxi but what can you do). His solution was that he would finish his route and then drop us off on his way back. Then ended up being fine with us as we had so much time to kill. Eventually we made it to our stop with only two hours left to wait.

Now when we told the volunteer we were going to be early he warned us that the only thing at the stop was dirt. He was not joking. Where we were dropped off had a little shop selling soda and beer and a stand that had fruit and rolls. We decided to make the best of it so we bought some rolls and cold drink (what they call soda), spread out a sarang and got comfortable. Luckily, we had Scrabble with us to entertain ourselves with. So there we were, the four of us sitting under a tree, in the middle of nowhere, playing Scrabble. Within ten minutes, every child in the remote area had come to stare at us. Now news in the village travles fast, and I sure we were the most exciting thing that had happened in the area in the last year. Sure enough, half an hour later we look up and here comes a line of about half a dozen police cars.



Unlike in America, I don´t find the police intimidating in South Africa. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that half of the ones in my area have proposed to me or mybe it´ś because they take any chance to stop me for a conversation about getting a law enforcement job in America. As a result, when the cars pulled up, and twenty police men filed out, all four of us simply started laughing uncontrollably. The sensation we were causing had reached immense heights. The police were quickly laughing too and asking to see our papers (which I know wasn´t about proving ourselves as legitimate but because they were curious and wanted to know where we were from). I was so nonpulsed about the whole situation that I told them I would show them my papers after they posed for a picture. They happily obliged. After their curiousity was finally satisfied they were on their way. As they left, we realized from reading their vehicles that they were all from different cities, some as far as 45 minutes away. I still curious the radio call that went out and the collaboration that took part for them to all come ¨visit us.¨ I imagine it went something like this:
¨There are three white girls and a black girl sitting in the dirt next to the village.¨
¨What the hell are they doing?¨
¨We better go check this out.¨
I didn think we were particularly intimidating but it was evident reinforcement was called for so who knows.

Eventually, the rest of the volunteers showed up and we finally headed out. Now when we showed up to his village it was evident our celebrity ability was overwhelming. His village is small. It´s in the middle of nowhere and 15 Americans had just invaded it. I don´t think anything half as exciting had ever happened there. In addition, it was evident once we got to his village that we were definitely in Africa: the entire village was huts and there was no electricity. For the first time I felt was in a National Geographic Magazine and as evening progressed this feeling would only intensify.



Everyone had brought food and, to a group of people who are used to trying to get down chicken feet, it was miraculous to behold: two turkeys, stuffing, salad, rice, mashed potatoes, apple cider, pumpkin pie, etc. Before we ate we all went around and said what we were thankful for. As corny as I usually think that is, this time it almost brought tears to my eyes. The fact that we were all together and had pulled this off was better than I could have ever anticipated.


After we ate we decided to go on a walk. I want to put something into perspective and I think Carrie put it nicely: ¨At home after we eat we always go for a walk and take the dogs but this is definitely the most surreal after Thanksgiving walk I´ve ever taken.¨ You see this village has a river running rhough it and this river has crocodiles and hippos. So the 15 Americans and every child in the village went to the river for hippo and crocodile sight seeing. This river may have been one of the most breathtakingly beautiful surroundings I´ve ever encountered. We never did find a hippo but we did encounter a few crocodiles. There is no downplaying the fact that I live in Africa now.

Eventually we returned where we spent most of the rest of the night engulfed in deep conversation and killing spiders the size of my hand. It was, by far, the most memorable holiday I´ve ever experienced and worth every one of the six taxis it took me to get home.

Mr. Mosquito

In the middle of my village I challenged the mosquito, but I found him reduced to laughing at me.
¨You don´t know what you´re up against,¨ he droned mercilessly.
¨But Mr. Mosquito, I see that you´re wrong, I came to this place prepared for anything. I have endured chicken feet and cow intestines. I have stepped on locusts of termites. I have dealt with the cat calls of drunken men at all hours of the day. I have ridden my bike continuously up and down the giant hill. You don´t have anything on me.¨
He had a gleam in his eye and continued to say ¨You may have big dreams of changing the world. I see the goals you have set, but you underestimate my power. I have only one goal, to hunt you down.¨
Disgustingly I glanced in his direction. ¨You are such a puny creature. You make idle threats that will amount to nothing. Be on your way.¨

Later that night I lay in bed drenched by a pool of my own sweat. I abhor inhaling the blistering air. I might as well bond a breathing tube to a blow dryer and suck oxygen from the vacuum it creates. It feels like Las Vegas in my room, only there is no alcohol to dull the effects of the habitual heat.
It has just occurred to me: this is Africa! There is a wide availability of alcohol as proven by the continuous stream of drunken persons frequenting the local pub. The pub scares me but there is yet another alternative to the aquisition of ale: we brew our own beer here. Perhaps I could use this solution to dull the effects of the the heat. Then again, it takes at least three days to brew beer, and somehow the end result would miss the Vegas glamour.
The pool of sweat runneth over. There are small tributaries forming. Soon erosion will begin and ravines will form throughout my skin. I ponder if going into a coma and not moving for a number of years would cause a scaled version of the Grand Canyon to materialize. I think the cockroaches in my room would enjoy that. They could bring their child roaches to visit, forever carving an image of awe in their tiny brains. Perhaps some thrill seeking roaches would crawl carefully to the bottom of the abyss:
¨Wow! Joe look at that crater.¨
¨Yes, they call it the belly button.¨
I would be fearful that some depressed cockroach (perhaps he accidentally inhaled a small portion of doom insect repellant) would attempt to commit suicide by jumping in the canyon. I don´t know if I want the responsibility of that tragedy bearing wait on my soul.
I have come to regard the weather woman as the devil. I see it as a fitting persona considering that the information she provides to me proves that taking a vacation to hell would in fact provide cool relief from my time spent in Rasewana. In the end, I don´t know if I actually fall asleep in this heat. I think ¨passing out¨ would be a more accurate representation. I experience fitful dreams of air conditioning, igloos, and icecapades.
I awake abruptly to a loud drone. There is something on my face! The mirthful giggle of Mr. Mosquito erupts in one of my ears as I ferociously scratch at the rapidly forming swell on my cheek.
In the morning I drag myself from bed. My body feels bloated from:
a. the heat
b. dehydration
c. the mosquito bites
d. lack of sleep
e. all of the above
I begin to count the number of mosquito bites that have overwhelmed my body. I soon realize that doing this would be as fruitful as attempting to count the stars overhead. How is it that I have a bite on my knuckle? There seems to be little skin or blood to draw from that particular spot. My knuckle is swollen and itchy. In fact, all of my body parts have sections of swollen itchiness. I need more fingers to reach all the itches at once. My body is on fire in agony; I might as well have caught chicken pox again, at least I could have gotten more sympathy. Perhaps, I would have a acquired a trip to Pretoria to recover from my illness at the Peace Corps medical office. I suppose I still have the opportunity to get malaria. There are always more things to look forward to.
¨Mr. Mosquito, you have won, I bow out graciously. No longer will I challenge your dominance. If I surrender will you let me go peacefully?¨
Mr. Mosquito has a knowing gleam in his eye and a smug grin on his face: ¨This is war. There are no sympathies afforded to the victims.¨

Soccer

I have not played in a soccer match since high school Then the game was one of my passions: I couldn't wait to chase down an opposing player and steal the ball away or feel the mounting anticipation before the referee twilled his whistle signaling the start of the game. Some of my most thrilling moments growing up stemmed fro the soccer field: playing a tournament in Hawaii, playing a game on the perfectly manicured lawn of the Rose Bowl Stadium. I never was a sensational player; I was simply a solid player with an adoration for the game.
College took away my ability to play competitively. Other events came up taking my mind away from the perfect corner kick and the high arc of a well executed throw in. Different passions occupied my mind and soccer slipped to the background.
Being in Africa has reawakened the subconscious desire to play. I crave being on the dirt field across from my house like I long for air conditioning while I fall asleep in a pool of my own sweat. My feet twitch with the necessity to stand in front of the goal and execute the perfect shot.
Yesterday I got out my silver soccer ball that I purchased instead of getting a pillow case for my pillow or hangers for my wardrobe. I gently convinced Mapula to come to the field with me, appealing to her excessively competitive nature and promises that I would play goaley as she practiced shooting. Within ten minutes of this initial arrangement and entourage of twenty young boys had joined our game through the draw of a new soccer ball and an opportunity to see the "white girl" try to play a game that they have ingrained in their heads that no female can play. Though they were less than half my age, they each possessed more skill than I could ever hope to acquire: I suppose that growing up with such an intense passion for a game that you will used a plastic bag filled with garbage as your ball only leads to this possible scenario.
As I attempted to play goaley: not a very good one as I was not particularly willing to make dives onto the rock strewn ground, a new desire in me was awakened: I wanted to coach these children. Though their skill was better than mine, they didn't know how to unite as a team. These children could be stars but first they need to be reintroduced to the basics in order to work on specific aspects of their play. I may not be a spectacular soccer player, but I do know the game and I do know how to teach. I have found a new project.

South African Lesson #52

Don't ever look down a short drop pit toilet at night with a flash light. Simple as that: just don't look down. What you find living there will haunt you for the rest of your life.

Toys

In America shelves of toys greet consumers in stores that entice children with a loveable mascot and the promise of hundreds of thousands of products to provide them with entertainment. These same children many a time find themselves bored with their newly purchased entertainment in the matter of a few days. The store provides more lucrative materials to fulfill this incessant need of the child. Once again a child indulges and gets their new fix of contentment.
A world away material goods are scarce and the promise of food overrides the insatiable desire for play things. Here, children create their toys from discarded materials haphazardly strewn across the village. They spend time in large groups making up games and other fantasies during their recreational time.
Currently, my brother, Khutso, has embarked on a journey of epic proportions. Attached to each of his shoulders are the straps of a grocery bag. As it trails behind him it is transformed into a glorious cape. He runs in the yard, as noble a superhero as any person could hope to be.
Many of the boys here have made toys cars through the manipulation of scrap wires. They are impressive creations putting many beginning engineers to shame. They drive their vehicles through the rough terrain of the village mimicking engine sounds as they progress.
The girls use rocks as manipulatives for their "board games" drawn into the dirt. With rope they create string art and skip rope without any guides. They teach each other and create new methods and songs with their own ingenuity.
Perhaps we have forgotten the basics in America. Children are inherently creative and resourceful individuals. We shouldn't stifle this by telling them not to play in the dirt or that certain items are "trash." They can lead a normal and well adjusted childhood without Toys R Us or Playstations.

The Evenings

The evenings here present a calming atmosphere which only a village could provide. Often my family sits under the pine tree that graces our small yard to relax and enjoy one and other's company. Here I can lean back and attempt to retrieve bits of conversation in a language I can barely begin to comprehend. To my left I can watch the sun sleepily make its descent behind the silhouette of the mountains. Each sunset is a unique treasure often accented with low clouds reflecting it ever changing colors. The air cools during this period and provides a blanketed feeling of peacefulness.

Life teams everywhere: the birds make loud evening calls to one another like gossiping neighbors catching up on the unsuspecting sparrow's latest love affair. Children run, meandering through the paths, filling any vacancy of silence left by the birds with their taunts and giggles.

The village has its own soundtrack: each neighbor competing to play his music louder than his counterpart. Today the melody from a CD of traditional music graces the air. I am fully aware that tomorrow night may be overtaken by the lyrics of Eminem or Tupac.

Directly in my line of sight are the waters of the dam. Currently they are a dull grey but tomorrow their colors will change again as the sun makes its path across the sky.

There is a vibrant sense of mixture here: traditional huts survive as heartily as the brick structures next door. Goats and pigs wander freely under electrical lines. Women wash their clothes in buckets as trucks drive by on the paved road. A child is wearing a Roxy shirt while holding the had on her mother dressed in brightly colored traditional clothes. Grannys carry everything on their heads: wood, buckets of water, televisions. Tradition and culture come together and evolve in a multitude of ways. Africa is rooted in traditions but life in this world must make certain strides in order to achieve development. How much do we give up and how much do we retain in these dynamics?

"The Miner"

I have the most intriguing neighbor whom I consider near and dear to my heart. Everytime I see him his face becomes engulfed with a broad grin as he claps his hands at me, a sign of his respect.
He stands slightly shorter than me: just under 5'5. His most distinguishing trait is the mining hard hat that never leaves his head.
The children refer to him as "the crazy man," but he is harmless. He would be labeled as mentally ill in the U.S. but labels are irrelevant here; he is simply another man trying to survive.
His home is an intricate mixture of traditional structure and ood materials. He lives in a small mud hut with a thatched roof. He has erected a sign in front of his house made of materials the unsuspecting eye would dismiss as trash: attached to a pole is a sheet of tin decorated with cans, random papers, and a pale, yello, diamond sign with the word "Sagre" printed across it. His fence is thin sticks strung with wire. A proud, strutting rooster stands guard in his yard.
Each morning he sets off from his hut wearing a white button-down shirt tucked half in half out of his severely frayed khaki pants. Though the clothes are encompassed by tears they are immaculately clean. His white mining hat is placed derisivedly on his head, a strap under his chin holding it firmly in place. In each hand is a bundle held together by cords and belts. When he returns in the evening the bundles will be stretched full with papers and other odd objects. He will bear the weight in his arms as he trudges down the dirt path with an obvious limp.
At night he will sit in front of his hut as he cooks his dinner in a large black pot over a hand made fire. After, he will sit in a chair created from pieces of wood, while he eats this dinner and flips through a large "book" he has compiled from the papers he has found. Later, he will got about his chores and have intermitent conversations with his neighbors.
He will end his evening peacefully in this way, seemingly more content than most.

Mail

Peace Corps finally got its act together and forwarded me my mail so this morning I got bombarded with about ten letters. It was wonderful!! After reading the letters I have some quick responses to get out there:

-Debbie, Cathy, and anyone else who sent packages to my old address I still have not received your packages. I don´t know if theyŕe lost or Peace Corps simply didn´t forward them to me
-I want to post pictures as much as you all want to see them. My hindrance is that my puppy Riley chewed throught the cord to transfer the pictures from the camera to the computer before I left. Until I get a new one I can´t do anything.
-I´m receiving mail quickly now, about one week after it´s sent out. I got packages from Joni, my mom, and Kim. They were great.
-Ive had numerous requests for my wish list. I will post it and if you want to send me something :) post it in the comment section so there´s not a lot of repeats:
-Books (I´m on my last one. I getting desperate for new ones. My mom has my book list. I will try to get her to email it to me so I can post it on here. Right now I really want the new book by Gregory Maguire...Son of the Witch and any of the Harry Potter books)
-I turning into a grandma: any kind of knitting or cross stitch stuff would be incredible. Make sure it includes instructions.
-Subscription to National Geographic (for someone who really wants to spoil me)
-Candy (I´m dying for Snickers and M&Ms) or things like chewey granola bars
-My mom to send my jewelry :)
-Any kind of New York Times cross word books or anything else to entertain me when I get bored at night
-A cassette of the movie Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants....my host sister is so into the book and is dying to see the movie but we haven´t been able to find it here
-Any pictures or anything funny and entertaining to make me smile.

Thanks so much for all the mail and I love hearing from everyone. It´s been great being able to share all you send me with my family and friends here...it really helps with cultural exchange.

The Library Project

The idea of reading for pleasure here is practically nonexistent due to the fact that there is little to no access to books. The closest library I’ve been able to find is in Tzaneen which is two taxi rides away. In addition, books are expensive and when you can barely afford to feed your family, buying books is the last desire on a long list of other things needed in your life.

I feel very strongly about the fact that education is the most essential precursor to community development and success. In order to help the communities rise above the constraints that both poverty and the legacy of apartheid have imprinted, there is a need for much personal development. I see hope in the younger generations. The children have all the desire to succeed they simply need to be given more tools in which to further their journey.

It is vital to create a love for learning amongst the youth. Only then will they strive to better themselves through further education. One necessary step in this process is to provide a welcoming place of opportunity and learning. My first step towards this necessary goal is the creation of a library.

At two of my schools thus far I have been allocated rooms to create this goal. My main hindrance is a lack of books. This is where you all come in. I want books, all kinds, from the youngest level to the highest, from fiction, to history, to science, etc. The books don’t need to be new they just need to be books.

My goal is to start this project at the beginning of the next school year (currently it is summer here so school holidays are opposite ours). This means that school reopens for a new year in mid-January. I would love to start creating a library then.

The children at the schools would appreciate and obtain more value from a library that you could ever imagine. If you’re interested then send me your old books or have a book drive. I’m working on getting books in Sepedi over here, but I feel that my best resource for English books is from my friends and family at home.

As far as getting the books to this side of the ocean, I am still working out the logistics. I’m going to talk to my post office here about seeing what I can do to not incur massive fees. I have also heard that shipping books in M-Bags (?) is the most cost efficient for both you and me. As soon as I get an idea of who is interested in this project I will obtain more specific information for them.

Feel free to pass this information on to anyone else who might be interested in getting involved.

Measures of Beauty

In the U.S. I showered every morning and always wore makeup regardless of whether or not I was just hanging around the house or going out. My how times change.

Through strict mathematical calculations I have discovered that if I put my hair in a French braid I can get away with washing my hair twice a week (I look really hot on Wednesday and Saturday with my clean hair). It’s amazing how contending with a bucket bath will change your standards.

Rain

Things I have learned during the rainy season:

-Rain combats heat. Thank God. I thought I was going to melt. I have never sweat so much in my life and I once ran a marathon. I find it intriguing that today I may be wearing pants and a jacket and tomorrow may be a skirt and a tank top. I guess it keeps life interesting.

-I have a tin roof. It keeps out the wind. It does not keep out the rain. Depending on the severity of the storm I count anywhere between four to eight leaks in my room. The one directly over my bed takes 53 minutes to fill a coffee mug.

-After it rains the termites come out in droves. You literally can’t put a foot down without stepping on a termite. I get the feeling that this is what the locusts sent down by God to punish the people must have looked like.

-I have come to find that rain and electricity don’t coexist here. When it rains the electricity seems to be more scarce that countries who approve of Bush. It’s a big disappointment when all I want is a hot glass of tea.

Running

Every morning I wake up at five minutes to 5:00 to go running. In terms of my previous life, this is nothing short of miraculous. In the U.S. I moaned about waking up at eight “It’s too early. No human being should have to get up now. I can’t function.” Since being here I have not “slept in” until 8am. The latest I have made it is 7:15.

I enjoy my running, and 5:00am is the only opportunity I have to partake in the activity. I can’t do it in the evening for safety and security reasons (a multitude of drunk men) and because, since it would be impertinent on my part not to greet everyone I meet, if I ran in the evening I would get no exercise as I would be forced to stop to have an exchange with yet another granny walking on the road with a bucket on her head.

I did try doing the 6am run. It was too hot. If I’m not done running by about 5:40am then my ultimate conqueror, the sun, has made its way over the mountain to antagonize me. 5am it is.

I have come to enjoy this alone time in the morning. It’s quiet outside: just about the only time around the village that it is quiet. That is one thing that did surprise me about rural Africa life: all the noise. Yes, I did expect to hear roosters and donkeys. The blasting of Eminem and Marvin Gaye came as a surprised. I have never heard “Sexual Healing” so many times in my life.

Here I constantly am struggling to please everyone. When I run all I have to do is please myself. It allows me to think. I can have my big dreams of major community development while I’m too tired and breathing too hard to think of obstacles. By 7am the heat has blotted out many of my inspirational thoughts, but 5am is for me alone.

I love running up the hills and seeing the first pink tinges appear in the sky. I adore knowing that by the time my watch beeps and tells me my thirty minutes is over that the bottom of the enormous red sun will be even with the tips of the mountains. I appreciate the cool morning air that, even while I’m covered in sweat from running, still feels more refreshing than the rest of the day. I love running next to the dam and watching the color of the water change: first an unappealing, murky brown that is next replaced by a dazzling cerulean blue as the sun reflects from the sky during its gradual ascent.

I enjoy waiting for the two dogs to run out of their house in a barking frenzy as I pass by their territory. I am comforted by the fact that a barbwire fence prevents them from giving me rabies. I feel that we have a mutual understanding: I run a certain distance from the house and they yelp themselves hoarse so they feel they have protected their abode.

I like that running is one routine I can control: the path I choose, how fast I run, how long I go for, the way I finish. I like knowing that when I’m done I will go home and turn on my radio, listen to the news, and stretch. I can’t control much else in my life but I can this.

Singing

Some days are difficult to get through: it’s hot, I’m thousands of miles from home, I’m the only white person in the area, and the day can be long and tedious. Regardless, I have found one past time that always lifts my spirits (besides watching Passions): visiting the preschool children.

Innocence is always so appealing: fresh, smiling, eager, easy to please faces. As it is my highlight of the day to visit them, I know in turn that it is their highlight of the day to receive me. I adore being this loved. I think I substitute the attention for other aspects missing from my life.

My favorite part is the singing of the songs. These children are still so eager and ready to learn, a factor not displayed by the children only a few years older. They are so adorable as they sing the music in their youthful extravagance all the while executing various hand movements to accompany the words. The entire endeavour is nothing short of heart warming.

Inevitably, as they have come to expect, I will teach them a new song. It doesn’t matter that the song is in English and they don’t understand. Children’s songs are repetitive, hell even I can sing some of the Sepedi ballads that they do. By the fifth time we go through the music they have picked up the general idea. They definitely have mastered the hand movements. They love the hand movements.

Today I’m teaching “Five Little Monkeys Swinging in a Tree:”

Five little monkeys swinging in a tree

Teasing Mr. Alligator “Can’t catch me. You can’t catch me.”

A long comes Mr. Alligator

Quiet as can be

And snaps that monkey right out of the tree!

I suppose it is a violent song but the hand motions and voice changes are enough fun to overlook this. Plus, they don’t understand it so it doesn’t really matter.

My favorite part is when we violently clap our hands together in the “snap” part. It inevitably starts with growing anticipation, as the hands come down excitement mounts, and post clap giggling ensues. I love the giggling. Perhaps I have not lost my inner child.

The Desk Graveyard

Behind one of the schools I work at is a desk graveyard. After years of torture and abuse from young children the desks silently die. Their remains, often simple metal frames their wooden tops long since expired, are tossed haphazardly behind the classrooms where I assume they will spend the rest of eternity.

I look at the voluminous stack of metal and see clutter. There is not a waste disposal system in the village, save burning trash, thus the result is a multitude of trash in every location. In my new corner of the world broken pieces of glass are just as common as rocks. In my opinion, we need a school beautification plan.

If I were to implement a school clean up plan what would be the result? Inevitably, a few situations would occur:

1. The girls would do all the work. The boys would play. This is what often happens in this culture. Do I want to give even more work to the females?

2. Once we collect a mountain of trash what will we do with it? Burn it? Is it better to release those toxic fumes that plastics and other materials will give off?

3. A lot of the waste is glass. Some learner is going to get hurt when dealing with the glass. Do I want to be responsible for sending a six year old to the clinic to get stitches?

Perhaps this problem of clutter is part of this engrained mental image of what constitutes beauty in the world. I see broken glass on the ground. Perhaps the children see buried treasure. I see plastic bags littering the area. The seven year old sees the outer covering for his soccer ball. Much of my “junk” is another person’s entertainment. Maybe the problem is my thinking, not theirs.

As I contemplate the trash issue children are swarming the desk graveyard. The stacked metal frames provide the only play equipment available to the children. A little boy has made it to the top and smiles in triumph. He is the picture of accomplishment and endurance: king of the jungle gym. Other children follow his lead and attempt to master his feat. He alone is the one who has defied natural odds: a fight against height and unsteadiness.

In all my focus on beauty, I have lost my inner child. Am I to be the one responsible for dashing that boy’s sense of accomplishment by tearing down his “mountain” to clean my “junk?”

Siren

Once again a grade 5 boy is in the corner laughing at me. Four times a day he enters the office where he plugs in the siren that means one of the following: start of the day, break starting, break ending, end of the day. The siren is loud. Rock concert loud. This boy will have hearing damage for the rest of his life. I should get him earplugs for Christmas.

He is laughing at the routine we have established:

He knocks and then enters the room. I check my watch. It is time. He gives me an expectant smile. I shove my fingers in my ears. He mirthfully laughs. The siren goes off. From outside the vibrations of hundreds of running children begins. He smiles and leaves the office.

I have no idea the name of this child. He is by far my favorite.