Cont'd

So, the trucker said his name was Mosi, a nickname deriving from that of the standard beer in Zambia. He was super nice, offering us beers and cokes and cookies, alerting us to potential wildlife spottings (unfortunately, nothing appeared that night, but I saw a giraffe the next morning), and regaling us with stories of trucking accidents, attempted hi-jackings in Joberg, and life growing up as an Afrikanner in Namibia. He dropped us at a truck stop on the edge of town in Tsumeb at about 3am where he thought we would be safe to wait until dawn for another ride. The store was closed and the area deserted. We huddled up in a corner with our bags, eventually unpacking them to get out the sh’tangas we’d bought in Zambia to wrap up in to keep warm. We caught a ride up to Ondangwa around 9 the next morning, making it from Katima to Okalongo in less than 18 hrs. That’s gotta be a record.

School’s slowly winding down here. Last trimester, some teachers at the school said we would only be teaching a month and then testing the other 2.5 months, so I hadn’t planned to cover much material. Then my head of department said testing would begin first of November, so I tried to wrap everything up before then. And now the principal says we will begin mid-November. Why didn’t I just go ask the principal you might wonder? Because you can’t take anyone’s word on anything here; it would have only prompted another false expectation that would rile me when broken. So while its nice to have extra time to cover more stuff, I feel I’ve been tying up my classes for about four straight weeks now.

We had our HIV/AIDS awareness club party a couple of weeks ago. I asked the kids what they wanted me to buy in terms of food and drinks . . .
“Let’s get a goat”
“Yeah, and have a braai”
“We need some Smirnoff. Get Smirnoff for me”
“And champaign!”
“But no Tafel”
After reminding them we only had $200 bucks and couldn’t afford an all-out barbeque, I had to break the news that there would be no alcohol.
“But Miss! It’s a party!”
And you’re in school, in the HIV/AIDS responsible kids club, we discourage alcohol, remember? That’s what I said to them in fact. I’m glad our club sessions have been so effective in getting through to them the need to be role models, the danger of poor decision making when drunk, etc.

Jason and I made peanut butter cups, cookies, pizza, and dip for crackers . . . all which were immediately consumed by the club members, who shamelessly stacked and stacked and stacked food on their plates. Latecomers walked around chanting “donations, donations.” Then a few random teachers who’d got wind of the event crashed and requisitioned some of the learners’ plates. We all played charades and made the teachers heads of the teams. When the winning teams got prizes, the teachers kept sending learners up to me to ask where the teachers’ prizes were. I guess I should have made some party-crasher prizes.

OK, so I just paid off a UNAM student to give me his computer where, maddeningly, he was playing solitaire while I desperately try to jack into the internet. I came in, the receptionist said laconically, “All the computers are taken. Wait an hour” which would give me 30 min before they closed IF I even got on. Best ten bucks I’ve spent in a while. Hope you’re all good, below are some excerpts from Jason’s email to his parents

10/25/05
I’m sitting in the library tutoring math kids. Actually, I’m teaching an advanced algebra (take that ‘advanced’ with a box of salt) class for my brighter learners. They’re doing well - much better than I expected. Right now they are doing the classwork/homework and I’m waiting to mark their work. I woke up exhausted this morning and I’ve just been waiting all day to be finished so I can take a nap. It’s just now 5pm and it looks like we will be here awhile – I don’t know when I’ll get home.

I started reading Vonnegut’s Sirens of Titan again. It’s so great, but I really need to get on to other things. My pace has slipped in the last couple of weeks. I’ve been reading a lot of non-fiction/biography stuff that takes a while to get through. I know you don’t care about my reading habits at all, but I have little else to say about my day-to-day life other than complain about my colleagues or talk about my classes and even I’m tired of those topics. Nothing else goes on. Unfortunately, nothing goes on and on.
We haven’t even been to Oshakati in the last couple of weeks. A fact attested to by our empty cabinets – we had pasta with butter today and it was the last of the pasta and the butter. There was nothing to eat with it. I don’t know what we’ll eat come tomorrow. I think we have two potatoes that weigh about a gram each. Friday can’t come soon enough. And then there’s the taxi ride.
I’m winding up here. I’ll write more later.

10/26/05
I’m back, waiting for my guys to finish their homework so I can mark it. Energy is low today, not for me but for everybody. It’s been threatening rain for two days. I wish it would rain good and hard for hours, but the most it will do is sprinkle for seconds and let up. At least it has cooled off slightly. To contrast that advantage, though, it’s caused the water to stop working. Who knows when it will return. It took all my energy to make it through the day today. I wanted so badly to skip my after-tea classes today (they call it ‘bunking’ here) but I managed to hold out. I dragged myself to seventh period with a determined air of responsibility to find an empty classroom. A girl informed me that the class was in the physics lab – I had misread my timetable and was late by forty five minutes to my last and only class of the afternoon. So much for that determined air.
I just noticed that one of my students is wearing ‘Dickey’s’ brown coveralls unbottoned to his ribcage with a large faux-gold chain. The back of his coverall reads ‘NW&S’ in faded marker block letters. He’s probably at the height of fashion. The ‘kids’ at our school are somewhat wealthy compared to the norm, as I’ve said before, so these excursions into fashion are pretty common. Needless to say, it adds a little spice to life to see someone change out of their drab school uniform to change into their gangsterwear. I notice he has a dog tag on his chain. It’s British and I’m wondering where he stole it. I found another boy yesterday with the same type of tags.
‘Good afternoon, Lukas.’
‘Afternoon, Sir.’
‘What is this?’ I asked.
‘This?’
‘Yes. What is it called?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘It’s called a dog tag. Where did you get it?’
‘China.’ This is what they call the Chinese-run shops in town.
‘You stole it.’
‘No, sir.’
‘You stole it.’
‘No, sir.’
‘He stole it,’ I said to his friend, who smilingly nodded.
Thievery, like dishonesty, is a part of life here. It’s not taboo, carries no stigma and, due to the quality of the police, no penalty, and, also like dishonesty (see the above dialogue), is even expected on some levels. Early in the year I asked a fellow teacher why everyone I’d met owned a cuca shop (the concrete block ‘bars’ that dot the landscape like pox) and he replied with incredulity, ‘You can’t invite your friends to your house. You must have a cuca shop.’ The idea is: inviting your friends into your house is tantamount to leaving your TV, VCR, radio, etc. out on the lawn. They won’t be there in the morning. And these are you friends.
On certain levels, of course, thievery is frowned upon and even condemned. When asked, Lukas didn’t volunteer that he had stolen the tags he was wearing, though it was obvious. This can partially be explained by the fact that honesty is not largely valued in Owambo society, but even so, it would have been strange had he stated openly that he had stolen it. There is an oshiwambo word botsotso that, like all oshiwambo words has no direct translation into the romantic languages. However, one could say that a botsotso is a thief, has a bad character and is probably a Rastafarian (think Bob Marley, dreds, mary jane and a too-liberal outlook). This word is thrown around a lot with the usual Owambo propensity for loud, anonymous derision and a lack of real expectation for altered behavior. The principal shouts it regularly during morning devotional. It’s one of his favorite words. His favorite phrases are, ‘I try my level best to . . .’ and ‘I know damn well that . . .’ The pomp is real, but the words amount to the same thing: There must be structrure regardless of substance. The result of all this is that thievery is attacked occasionally, but it’s mostly just a sideshow. Of course, when the target of such thievery is (perceived to be) rich, an outsider, white, or all of the above, even the doggerel botsotso is forgone.
That’s all I have time for today. It’s time to go home and eat the last remaining item in the house. Our last onion and those one gram-potatoes flavored the pot of lintels I cooked for lunch. With a little curry, we’ll eat for two days. Thankfully, we can go to town in two days and replenish the stock because that’s the best we’re going to do for food until then. Will write again soon.

10/26/05
It’s 9:45am and I have an off period before tea after three successive maths classes. We are reviewing simplifying algebra terms in the regular class. We’re tying up multification and division of terms and about to begin a comprehensive multiplication/division and adding/subtacting terms lesson. Putting ideas together here is very difficult. These 'kids’ are not good at building upon previous knowledge, which is made even more difficult as their knowledge base is shaky to begin with. Every day is a new day. Nothing is remembered from week to week and applying knowledge is an unknown concept. According to my students, I should teach every possible method for solving every possible problem humanity has encountered in the field. They don’t put it forth like that but it’s implied in everything they say and do. They don’t understand that I can do these problems in multiple ways because I have a basic knowledge of math and apply it to each problem. They aren’t interested in basic math skills (they have that magic calculator), however, and I have thus far failed to excite them about the idea of attaining them. I’m sure to someone who doesn’t have a basic understanding of the subject would find solving simultaneous equations and manipulating algebraic formulae daunting exercises in memorizing ‘magic’ methods. I have tried to explain that teaching them all methods of a problem would be like attempting to show them this: ∞
Somehow the analogy didn’t help.
A few of the learners in one of my classes are fairly upset that I’m teaching a separate advanced algebra section to which they are not invited. These are the same ones that failed the basic algebra test, failed the last mock exam, failed the April exam. Somehow they think they are ready for the advanced stuff. In class, I’m teaching the basics and they are ignoring me to peruse their IGSCE Extended books where the more difficult problems can be found. By coaxing a correct answer to an advanced question out of themselves now and then, they assure themselves that they are ‘ready’ for the advanced math. I wonder if this is a problem in the States. I don’t remember myself pushing ahead blindly. I don’t remember caring enough to even try, acutally. All this supports the feeling that I’ve been having lately that school is just a game to everyone here, the students, the teachers, everyone. We’re playing school. I hope we’re having fun.
One of my learners, Lukas Linus, was one of those that was most upset. After a heated ‘debate,’ I told him to speak to the principal about it if he thought it unfair. He did, with a group of his friends, and I sat through a four-minute meeting with the principal about it today. Apparently, it was important to discuss the situation with me as it had been discussed with him. In the meeting I was informed of the situation which I, of course, knew all about. There were no suggestions made, no changes desired, no information to glean. Our Head of Department was present. No doubt this is a bureaucratic necessity. There will probably be notes drawn up and typed by the secretary to go into the dusty file in his office, recording everything that was said in the meeting. Once again: Structure regardless of substance. I was dismissed promptly having learned nothing and with no action expected of me. We’re playing school. I hope we’re having fun.
The bell for tea has rung. Crystal is going to Oshakati today for groceries and internet. I’ll try to round this out before she leaves and have her email it today. Until then.
–
Sixth period. My English Second Language class just finished. We are finished for the year which wasn’t difficult as there is no concrete syllabus to direct the topics for class. The class is the plaything of my every whim. All of my marks are collected, tallied and recorded for the year, so I’ve been covering topics that can be covered with a minimum of marking in the upcoming days and weeks. Right now we are half-finished reading the book Amistad (junior version). In class, I read aloud and the learners sit and listen. We stop and review the action after each chapter which is about once every two pages in a book of this reading level. We have only one copy of the book; the one book of which we have multiple copies is The Old Warrior, a story about a young Zulu warrior in South Africa that we read at the beginning of term 2. It works well enough and, for the most part, they are engaged and trying to learn. I also photocopied a world map to describe the setting of the story as it ranges three continents and four countries. On the back of the page they are to complete various assignments such as, ‘4. Draw a box 5cm2 in size in the bottom right corner. Draw the slave ship Amistad inside the box and colour it with coloured pencils. Draw stars spinning in the sky above the Amistad.’ The specific directions help them to improve their English and make it all but impossible for me to assign grades – perfect.
After reading chapters six and seven today, I gave them fifteen minutes to work on their assignments. Everyone in the class immediately drops English and speaks Oshiwambo for the rest of the period. I try punishment. I kick and scratch. I declare that, as nobody wants to learn English, I will be teaching in Spanish come Monday. The idea excites them. I draw a dotted line in my head between their excitement and my grade 11’s desire to forego the basics and study advanced math. They probably think they’ve mastered English and are ready to move on to other things. I erase that dotted line I drew and keep my sanity.
There are exactly sixty-five minutes left in my official work day. In its wisdom, the time table has declared me free for the remainder. Normally, I would be teaching English again, but in its wisdom, the Ministry of Education decreed some time during term two that grades 8 and 9 should reduce their English load by one hour per week. I guess the Ministry thinks them ready to move on as well.
Normally I would ditch at this point and head home as I’ve nothing to do but sit in the ‘staff room’ and listen to loud talk and guffaws in Oshiwambo. Lately, most of the talk centers around one word: ocorruptiona. Pronounced the way it looks, this word is the Oshiwambo equivalent of corruption. I would guess about three-fourths to nine-tenths of all English words have no Oshiwambo equivalent. This is solved through a simple and elegant modification of the word: Add ‘o’ to start; add ‘a’ to end. A few examples to delight you and your friends: ocomputera, oboarda (chalkboard), ocara, etc. In fact, the system works just as well with English words that are translatable into Oshiwambo. Yesterday, Crystal overheard a fellow teacher counting to himself. He said, ‘. . . osixa, osevena, oeighta, . . .’ Oshiwambo does, as of about fifty years ago, have its very own words for numbers. Why that teacher chose to use the strange bastardization of English numbers remains unanswered. I find the idea comical and exasperating in turns.

new posts, finally

I had a brilliant idea this past week that involved fabricating some posting dates on this blog so that
a) I could blame the 3-mo absence of posts on a technicality and
b) produce lots of short, quippy posts for you to digest easily at your leisure.

At your leisure . . . cliché?

Unfortunately I barely know how to make a post to begin w/ and don’t have time to figure out how to get the blogger to help me lie, so you must suspennd disbelief and pretend that the dates below are true.

***

4 Oct. 2005 (real)

I’m in the library typing up emails I can send to professors I have selected from the faculty profile websites of schools to which I’m applying. I am doing what application forms term ‘making contact,’ which involves me looking for holes in degree program outlines that will warrant me sending an email to ask a question. So far I don’t have any questions for NYU of UPENN.

You will be interested to know that I am typing this to you in celebration of Teacher’s Day in Namibia. You didn’t know there was a Teacher’s Day in Namibia? Don’t feel bad. I didn’t know it was Teacher’s Day either until 4th period today when the principal walked into the faculty room and said off-handedly to about five of us that we could go celebrate if we wanted. ‘Does that mean there are no more classes today?’ asked one teacher after he left. ‘Kandi shi-shi’ said another. (For those of you who haven’t condescended to learning Oshiwambo yet, allow me to translate: ‘I don’t know’). So this new schedule for the day didn’t seem entirely legit yet. I had already taught half my classes and still, idealistically, try to keep them on the same lesson, so I planned to go ahead and finish the day. In the middle of my next class, though, a teacher popped in to announce that teaching should cease at 11 am so that teachers could go celebrate. Once the kids know that there shouldn’t really be any teaching going on, it’s not very fun to try to teach them. So, I gave in, am going with the flow, celebrating Teacher’s Day in actually, now that I think about it, the most fitting way that represents teachers in Namibia—by bunking classes.

The library is trashed because yesterday I had forty kids in here doing some extra assignments for me. These assignments have been amazingly popular so far; about 95% of my students chose to earn them when they turned in trash for homework. Here are the assignments, which are to be written ten times each and checked for accuracy by yours truly:
1. When my teacher, Mrs Hickerson, told me to use full-stops and capitalise the first letter of every senttence on Monday, 7 September 2005, I listened. From now on, I will always use full-stops and capitalise the first letter of each new sentence I write. Here are some examples of capital letters: P, Y, I, M, W, G, S, N, F, J, K, O, R, and B.
2. When my English teacher told me it was important to spell words that are written in the article correctly, I believed her. From now on, I will always be sure to copy words I use from an article correctly, and I will check my work to make srue I have done a good job before I say that I am finished.
3. I promise myself that I will always do my best to follow the instructions that my teacher or my assignment gives me. If I am not sure what I am supposed to do, I will ask a friend. If my friend cannot help me, I will ask my teacher to explain the directions. When the teacher is giving instructions to my class on how to complete an assignment, I will always listen and give her my full attention.
I always thought writing lines was a stupid punishment, but as we in grade 11 are still debating whether or not we think it’s important to be the least bit precise when our life futures hang on the results of next year’s exam, I think it’s appropriate this once.

***
On the way to the library the principal called me over and said, ‘These two girls want to talk to you.’ He disappeared, the girls hid their faces in their hands, and I said two or three times, ‘What can I do for you?’

Finally, ‘Miss, we want accomodation from you for exams.’

‘Accomodation? You want to stay at my house?’ She nods.

It seems an absurd request, of course they can’t, until feelings I’ve repressed—guilt over having such a big house and the desire to please my principal, to be a PCV superstar—spew forth and complicate everything. Crap. Really, I know I’ve already decided, but I don’t want to tell them now. I opt for the Owambo method of dodging commitment: ‘I should talk to Jason about it. Come find me tomorrow and I’ll tell you what we decide.’ The idea is that they’ll never come back, or never find me.

Six months ago I might have really mulled this situation over, stressing out. ‘Am I generous or selfish? Should I try to be more like them, more communal, or am I hoarding my possessions like a materialistic, capitalistic jerk? They’ll need a key to the house. . .’ The situation certainly has the potential to be a beautiful story in a collection of PCV profiles, a nice bit of propoganda for recruiters:

I have never felt so fulfilled than when I took in a couple of grade 10 girls so that they could study for their national examinations during my first year in Namibia. The bonding that we did, braiding each other’s hair, quizzing each other with potential exam questions, listening to their stories— I knew I was making a difference in their lives.

But I’m not thinking about that. Instead, I’m reveling in how revealing my principal’s avoidance of the situation is, how it’s completely characteristic of the way he sluffs off anything that might make him look unpopular. ‘What a poor leader,’ I say for the hundredth time to myself. ‘He didn’t want to tell them there’s no place for them to stay so he put it on me,’ I think. And then suddenly, I wonder if maybe he had expected me to accept them instead. Does he think I should let them stay with us? We only have three extra rooms after all. He’ll think we’re complete asses if we don’t say yes, huh? And now I’m waffling again. They will steal everything in our house, they’ll kick my pregnant cat, they’ll eat everything in the fridge. Man am I selfish to worry about that, but I want to go to South Africa next holiday and money is running out. But people will think we’re the most paranoid, selfish bastards ever if we don’t let two little girls stay in our monstrous house. And so on. (Yes, just finished a Vonnegut book).

Thankfully, rationality returns. I gave up rapport-building with the principal shortly after he sent us that text message saying ‘I can make life difficult if you know what I mean,’ so why do I care what he thinks now? I didn’t ask for a huge house, I’d wanted to rough it actually, to have a family and live simply, so too bad for him, misallowcating his accomadation resources at the school. Whether or not these girls pass does not hinge on staying inside the school; I can’t possibly believe they’d actually study more here than at home. They’re not homeless. And I am not paranoid to be afraid of theft after losing so much stuff already. There’s not much left to take, but not being able to find anything because unbeknownst to you it got jacked gets to be stressful after a while. Those girls don’t think stealing is a problem, perhaps even feel entitled to whatever I have and they don’t. They would definitely take something, piss me off, and what would I do then? Go tell the principal who still believes that we accused him of stealing our cameras and doesn’t believe they were ever taken? I’m not a PCV superstar; I’ve got to be realistic. Plus, I’ve got to protect my freedom to walk around naked.

August 4 (fake)
Jason and I are eating breakfast at the backpackers lodge in Livingstone watching the BBC news about Katrina when a middle-aged European-looking woman walks up and comments, "Now they're going to buy up all the oil and make the prices sky-rocket again."

"Mmmm" I manage to get out, through a mouthful of omelette.

She continues, leaning on my chair back over my food: "The U.S. just buys and buys and then no one has any oil or can afford it."

I'm afraid to actually speak lest she recognize my accent, but I venture a lame comment like, "Really" or "It's a problem." Then I ask her where she's from.

"Germany"

"And what types of alternative energy sources do ya'll use in Germany?"

"Oh, solar, wind, we're diversifying. And where are you from."

"The U.S."

"Mmmhmm. Where exactly?"

Wait for it . . .

"Texas."

"Ah hah. You're at the source."

"Yep. I didn't vote for him though."

The conversation goes on like this for a while until I tell her we really must leave to go catch a bus out of town. She happens to be leaving that morning too, taking the Intercape. We're planning to hitchhike, but after buying so many crafts to take home as gifts, I'm dreading it. I envy the easy ride she has in front of her.

After we've checked out and are walking down the main street without any destination in mind, I ask Jason if he'd like to just take the Intercape bus too. "What? We're deciding this now?"

"Well, there's a lot to carry"

"I can't believe you waited until now to decide. I thought you had this all planned."

"Hitchhiking is a rather nebulous plan . . ."

As we're arguing, the German lady walks past us with a determined gait. "Are you taking the Intercape?"

"We're deciding, actually."

"Well, good luck" and she's off. We should steal her ticket! But we are two.

We stand on the side of the road for ten more minutes discussing our options until we decide to just go and try to buy Intercape tickets. The guys at the bus outpost say we have to wait for the bus to arrive before we can try to buy them, so we sit down and calculate how much it will be, when we could get back to our house, and talk ourselves out of the Intercape again. The German lady is there, trying not to stare. We decide to go the adventurous, albeit cheap, route and try to hitchhike after all, once we get to the Namibian border. From Livingstone to Katima, we've decided on the Mazandu Family Bus, locally owned and operated out of Livingstone.

We're impressed when a huge charter bus pulls up to take us all to Namibia. We jump on board, but the only problem is that there are no free seats. I get back off and talk to the ticket-seller, who says, "Ok. I will be right back." I never see him again. When the bus is about to leave, we decide to sit on the steps. It actually turned out to be a comfortable ride, excluding the 50 stops we made to let off kids to pee and let passengers buy raw fish. It only took us all day to get to the Namibian border, putting a hitch in our hitchhiking plans.

In Katima, a guy offers to drive us from Rundu to Tsumeb for only 4x the normal rate. It doesn't always pay to be white. So we stand on the side of the road flagging people down. All the nice cars keep disappearing into a nearby lodge; it's too late to really get a ride out I suspect. I flag down a trucker who stops at a weigh station across the road. He says he's not really allowed to take people, but he'll talk to his driving partner about it. If we're still around when he comes back by after dinner, he'll take us.

I'm exultant! I really want to get home the next day, feeling guilty about our cat starving outside for a week now. I tell Jason the good news, and we wait. and wait. and wait. It's getting dark. I'm so stupid! Of course he wouldn't just say no, he would say I'm coming back. How many times will I fall for this trick?

Jason goes into the service station to ask if there is any cheap accomodation around. He's ready to turn in, I'm desperate to get on the road. "Let's just wait ten more minutes. It's not entirely dark yet." And at that moment, out trucker comes down the road. . .

TO BE CONTINUED