If Rustenburg (Rusty, Rusters, Rustafarian) had lived, today would have marked 1 year since he came into my life. I still miss him. He was a wonderful dog.
The people here in Loopeng seem to agree with me. They actually liked Rusty. He was (relatively) calm, well-behaved and friendly. Shaka Zulu, on the other hand, is nuts. Totally and completely crazy. Insane. The vet seems to think this is good. He's got plenty of energy. It means he's healthy. I keep trying to convince myself of that every morning at 5 a.m. when he decides to start using my feet as chew toys. There may be less pleasant ways to wake up, but I don't know them.
I was afraid that Shaka's ferocity would set me back a couple light-years in my quest to convince people that animals can be pets, companions, not punching bags. Sometimes even I want to punch that little beast. Anyhow, it seems that my fears were unfounded. I got home from school today to find a half-dozen neighbor kids playing with Shaka. They were tossing around his rope toy and, of course, playing tug-of-war as "Drop it" is not yet a phrase the dog recognizes. Anyways, it warmed my heart to see children actually having fun with a dog in a respectful manner (i.e. not causing the dog any physical harm). While I doubt people will soon start putting collars and leashes on their dogs and going for evening walks, at least the concept of "play" has been adopted.
Since the kids had Shaka and his evening exercise under control, I wandered around to the background where my host father keeps his donkeys. I like donkeys. I think they're pretty cute. Most people here treat them like, well, I'm not sure there exists an American equivalent of the village donkey. Let's just say these animals are literal beasts of burden. Rather than harass or mistreat them, as many Loopeng-ers are apt to do, I decided to pet them. They seemed scared at first, but loosened up eventually. Just call me the donkey whisperer.
Petting a donkey is pretty weird, but what I did next was truly bizarre. I wandered into my hovel empty-handed and wandered out with 2 carrots. I wanted to feed the donkeys. This was probably not the most culturally-sensitive thing I've ever done. The carrots were perfectly suitable for human consumption, and those neighbor kids looked hungry enough, but I was intent on my donkey feeding mission.
Do you know what a donkey likes to eat?
Neither do I, but not carrots.
That's right, I could not convince them to eat my carrots! At least not in my presence. I left them on the ground and walked away eventually. The donkeys ate them then. Maybe they're just very polite? In any case, I am definitely the crazy animal lady. Who knows what creature I'll adopt next?
Friday, November 19, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Middle of Nowhere
Rolling into Kuruman on a taxi from Pretoria is a bit of an exercise in contradiction. On the one hand, it is generally a relief to be that much closer to "home", but on the other hand it is usually late in the evening when I arrive and I am instantly presented with a conundrum. Where to sleep for the night? Guesthouses are nice, but expensive. Friends are welcoming, but I hate to take advantage. On my last trip to the big city, I decided to avoid the issue altogether. I decided to stay with a friend in Vryburg.
It was great. I met her in town and we took a taxi to her village. I love visiting other volunteers' sites. It's so interesting to see how differently we live in such similar circumstances. We did some baking, a lot of dishwashing, but mostly just gabbed the night away. I was sad to leave the next morning, but leave I did.
This volunteer had managed to get to my site from Vryburg before. She had no difficuly, so I didn't anticipate any. Silly me. Once at the taxi rank I was informed that there were no taxis to Loopeng, but I could take one to a nearby village and then catch another taxi from there. At the time, this seemed not only plausible, but possible.
After waiting several hours for the taxi to leave the rank, I was crushed when we suffered a flat tire just after leaving Vryburg. It took a while to fix, but eventually we were on the road again.
Instead of taking a direct route through the Moshaweng valley, this taxi went wandering through the bush. It was scenic, but as the day wore on I started getting nervous. Where was I? How close to home?
Fading hopes started to turn to panic when the taxi suffered another puncture. Once again it was repaired, but by then the sun was setting. We drove on.
Eventually I was the only passenger left on the taxi. The driver arranged a ride for me to a village I recognized as only about 30 km from mine. When we arrived it was completely dark. There were no taxis. I was in trouble. Panic turned into a giant ocean of despair and I was beginning to drown.
Luckily, there was a tuck shop not too far from the road. I wandered in and lo and behold! A learner from Moshaweng was perched on the counter. She took me under her wing and tried valiantly to get one of her friends to come rescue us. I clung to this faint hope, but alas, rescue in the form of a motor vehicle never arrived. Rescue in the form of a kindly tuck shop owner who gave me a blanket and a place on her floor surely did arrive. I was exhausted and slept like a rock, despite the constant hum of house music.
The next day we woke up bright and early and walked out to the tar road, where we sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and waited for a taxi to come along and take pity on us. I read Morality for Beautiful Girls by Alexander McCall Smith. I had almost finished when salvation, in the form of four wheels and an engine, finally showed up.
24 hours after I left my friend's place, I made it home to choirs of "Sego, where have you been?"
It was a long story.
It was great. I met her in town and we took a taxi to her village. I love visiting other volunteers' sites. It's so interesting to see how differently we live in such similar circumstances. We did some baking, a lot of dishwashing, but mostly just gabbed the night away. I was sad to leave the next morning, but leave I did.
This volunteer had managed to get to my site from Vryburg before. She had no difficuly, so I didn't anticipate any. Silly me. Once at the taxi rank I was informed that there were no taxis to Loopeng, but I could take one to a nearby village and then catch another taxi from there. At the time, this seemed not only plausible, but possible.
After waiting several hours for the taxi to leave the rank, I was crushed when we suffered a flat tire just after leaving Vryburg. It took a while to fix, but eventually we were on the road again.
Instead of taking a direct route through the Moshaweng valley, this taxi went wandering through the bush. It was scenic, but as the day wore on I started getting nervous. Where was I? How close to home?
Fading hopes started to turn to panic when the taxi suffered another puncture. Once again it was repaired, but by then the sun was setting. We drove on.
Eventually I was the only passenger left on the taxi. The driver arranged a ride for me to a village I recognized as only about 30 km from mine. When we arrived it was completely dark. There were no taxis. I was in trouble. Panic turned into a giant ocean of despair and I was beginning to drown.
Luckily, there was a tuck shop not too far from the road. I wandered in and lo and behold! A learner from Moshaweng was perched on the counter. She took me under her wing and tried valiantly to get one of her friends to come rescue us. I clung to this faint hope, but alas, rescue in the form of a motor vehicle never arrived. Rescue in the form of a kindly tuck shop owner who gave me a blanket and a place on her floor surely did arrive. I was exhausted and slept like a rock, despite the constant hum of house music.
The next day we woke up bright and early and walked out to the tar road, where we sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and waited for a taxi to come along and take pity on us. I read Morality for Beautiful Girls by Alexander McCall Smith. I had almost finished when salvation, in the form of four wheels and an engine, finally showed up.
24 hours after I left my friend's place, I made it home to choirs of "Sego, where have you been?"
It was a long story.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Uncontrollable Rage
After more than a year here in South Africa, one would think that I had developed a tolerance for all of the little things that make life here what it is. Instead, I find myself growing less tolerant as time goes on. When the school staff breaks into song while I am grading papers in the library, I no longer consider it a cultural quirk. I am deeply annoyed by it. When men in the taxi rank decide that I must give them my phone number, I have no patience to smile and brush them off politely. Instead, I am all but quivering with rage. It takes very little to set me off. I called an Afrikaans friend, and when she answered the phone in Afrikaans, as I knew she would, it bothered me. Listening to people speak seTswana, a language in which nearly every word ends in a vowel, can drive me to the brink of insanity. My anger is baseless and aimless. There's no reason to explain it and certainly no appropriate outlet to express it.
This shamed me for a while. I felt guilty about being unable to enjoy some of South Africa's quirkier elements. It seemed like everyone else I knew had managed to make the adjustment and wasn't suffering bouts of fist-clenching anger in response to perfectly innocuous incidents. Alas, things are not always what they seem, and, as it turns out, I am not the only volunteer suffering from the effects of extreme frustration.
On my last trip to Pretoria, I met a friend. We hung out, did the usual things, got caught in a rainstorm, hopped a taxi... and a perfectly lovely day was nearly destroyed by our lack of tolerance for what we should have come to expect.
The taxi stopped so passengers could get out and switch to taxis more appropriate for their destination. We were headed to Bloed Street and it seemed as soon as we were directed to the Bloed Street taxi, it disappeared within the crowded, busy, muddy, rainy melee. Everyone was perfectly unhelpful. My friend and I were separated at one point. Some yelling ensued. All in all it was rather unpleasant, but instead of just letting it roll off our backs, our emotions ran a little high. We dubbed our feeling U.R., which stands for uncontrollable rage.
Hopefully this will subside soon. I think I just need a vacation.
This shamed me for a while. I felt guilty about being unable to enjoy some of South Africa's quirkier elements. It seemed like everyone else I knew had managed to make the adjustment and wasn't suffering bouts of fist-clenching anger in response to perfectly innocuous incidents. Alas, things are not always what they seem, and, as it turns out, I am not the only volunteer suffering from the effects of extreme frustration.
On my last trip to Pretoria, I met a friend. We hung out, did the usual things, got caught in a rainstorm, hopped a taxi... and a perfectly lovely day was nearly destroyed by our lack of tolerance for what we should have come to expect.
The taxi stopped so passengers could get out and switch to taxis more appropriate for their destination. We were headed to Bloed Street and it seemed as soon as we were directed to the Bloed Street taxi, it disappeared within the crowded, busy, muddy, rainy melee. Everyone was perfectly unhelpful. My friend and I were separated at one point. Some yelling ensued. All in all it was rather unpleasant, but instead of just letting it roll off our backs, our emotions ran a little high. We dubbed our feeling U.R., which stands for uncontrollable rage.
Hopefully this will subside soon. I think I just need a vacation.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
American Democracy: The View from Zimbabwe
I was sitting in a taxi, stuck in commuter traffic between Pretoria and Johanessburg, the day after the midterm elections in the US. The radio was tuned to a program I had never heard before, some talk program out of Zimbabwe. After the usual morning cracks about the trials and tribulations of the working masses midweek, the discussion got a little more serious when it turned to the recent elections.
While most Americans seem to be oscillating between disgust, anger, frustration and total apathy, the Zimbabweans went straight to the silver lining of the Republican take-over of the House. In America, so they claimed, there are no second chances. If an elected official tries, and then fails, to meet a campaign promise or the duties of the office, that's it. After just a couple years in power, the Democrats are out. In Africa, on the other hand, the people are far too forgiving. "He just needs more time. He'll fix the economy in the next term," the people say. They've been saying this about Robert Mugabe for thirty years now.
So while our political system may grind to a halt as the parties bicker, at least it is unlikely that any of our newly elected officials are likely to stay elected for long. Meanwhile who knows how long the current governments will maintain their iron grips on the continent of Africa?
While most Americans seem to be oscillating between disgust, anger, frustration and total apathy, the Zimbabweans went straight to the silver lining of the Republican take-over of the House. In America, so they claimed, there are no second chances. If an elected official tries, and then fails, to meet a campaign promise or the duties of the office, that's it. After just a couple years in power, the Democrats are out. In Africa, on the other hand, the people are far too forgiving. "He just needs more time. He'll fix the economy in the next term," the people say. They've been saying this about Robert Mugabe for thirty years now.
So while our political system may grind to a halt as the parties bicker, at least it is unlikely that any of our newly elected officials are likely to stay elected for long. Meanwhile who knows how long the current governments will maintain their iron grips on the continent of Africa?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Pioneer Days
At most American elementary schools (in the Northeast at least), there is a delightful period of study often known as "Pioneer Days" in which young students are invited, to some degree, to reenact, through field trips and hands-on activities, the lifestyle of real pioneers. The definition of "pioneer" is generally loose. I've seen it applied to everyone from the earliest colonists at Roanoke to those preoccupied with Manifest Destiny centuries later. I suppose technically the "Pioneer Day" equivalent of the former should properly be called "Colonial Day".
In any case, I always enjoyed "Pioneer Days". There were visits to one-room school houses, days on end spent playing dress up and even one field trip all the way out to Plymouth. Unfortunately, try as I might, I never really felt like a pioneer. Not even weeks of playing Oregon Trail on the computer, or essentially LARPing it in Mr. C's fifth grade class ever gave me a genuine sense of what a pioneer's daily life looked and felt like.
Finally, a decade later, Peace Corps has given me that experience. I realized this while elbow deep in flour, kneading bread. I wasn't making bread for the sheer joy of baking. I was making bread out of an actual need. The shop was out and I was hungry. Similarly, I do not always go for long walks in the desert for pleasure. I go because I need to get somewhere and my two feet are all I've got. The same goes for hopping rides on donkey carts going to fetch water, doing laundry outside in a bucket and any number of other things that you may consider quaint or old-timey, but I now consider part of everyday life.
Living like a pioneer in the Peace Corps isn't so bad, but I do miss the costumes. It's pity I left my bonnet back in the States.
For those of you who don't know what LARPing is, it stands for live action role-playing. I can't remember my character from fifth grade, but I think my husband almost drowned while fording the Platte. I definitely lost of few oxen, and my children died of cholera. Fifth grade was pretty scarring for me, but at least my table (ahem, wagon) didn't turn into the Donner Party.
In any case, I always enjoyed "Pioneer Days". There were visits to one-room school houses, days on end spent playing dress up and even one field trip all the way out to Plymouth. Unfortunately, try as I might, I never really felt like a pioneer. Not even weeks of playing Oregon Trail on the computer, or essentially LARPing it in Mr. C's fifth grade class ever gave me a genuine sense of what a pioneer's daily life looked and felt like.
Finally, a decade later, Peace Corps has given me that experience. I realized this while elbow deep in flour, kneading bread. I wasn't making bread for the sheer joy of baking. I was making bread out of an actual need. The shop was out and I was hungry. Similarly, I do not always go for long walks in the desert for pleasure. I go because I need to get somewhere and my two feet are all I've got. The same goes for hopping rides on donkey carts going to fetch water, doing laundry outside in a bucket and any number of other things that you may consider quaint or old-timey, but I now consider part of everyday life.
Living like a pioneer in the Peace Corps isn't so bad, but I do miss the costumes. It's pity I left my bonnet back in the States.
For those of you who don't know what LARPing is, it stands for live action role-playing. I can't remember my character from fifth grade, but I think my husband almost drowned while fording the Platte. I definitely lost of few oxen, and my children died of cholera. Fifth grade was pretty scarring for me, but at least my table (ahem, wagon) didn't turn into the Donner Party.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Examinations and the Last Term
They should call the fourth and final school term of the year the lost term. It seems like there were only a few weeks of actual teaching. Already we are in deep into National Senior Certificate Exams with local exams to start on Wednesday. Following a couple weeks of testing, educators will spend another week on paperwork before schools officially close for the "summer" break. The learning process ceased long, long ago, but the school calendar continues for another month.
During the examination period teaching is replaced by invigilating, or proctoring for all you Americans. Generally I don't mind invigilating. Yes, it is exceptionally boring, but there is nothing tortuous about monitoring an exam, passing out scrap paper and facilitating the sharing of calculators, rulers and rubbers. The NSC exams, however, are awful.
Invigilators for these nation-wide exams must be appointed and are expected to attend a training session prior to the start of exams. I was appointed and attended the training, led by the principal in the library afterschool one day. It, like most trainings, was incredibly lengthy and mind-numbingly boring. Essentially, the trainees were read a list of the many things invigilators are not permitted to do during an examination, such as: eat, drink, chew gum, wear heels, sit down or stand still. These exans are often three hours long. Invigilators are permitted one break.
If the rules don't shock and horrify you sufficiently, picture this: a regular sized classroom crammed with three rows of writing tables, two lined up againts the walls with the third arranged in the middle. This leaves two narrow rows and some space near the blackboard for walking. Now imagine that you must remain in constant motion for several hours contained in that tiny space. If that sounds like something you would enjoy, you are more than welcome to hop on a plane, move to my village and come do it for me because it is just about the least fun I've had all year.
While generally I have found the classroom experience a bit less of a drag from the teacher's side of the desk, I find myself wishing to be a student during exam time. I would rather take the NSC exams than invigilate them.
During the examination period teaching is replaced by invigilating, or proctoring for all you Americans. Generally I don't mind invigilating. Yes, it is exceptionally boring, but there is nothing tortuous about monitoring an exam, passing out scrap paper and facilitating the sharing of calculators, rulers and rubbers. The NSC exams, however, are awful.
Invigilators for these nation-wide exams must be appointed and are expected to attend a training session prior to the start of exams. I was appointed and attended the training, led by the principal in the library afterschool one day. It, like most trainings, was incredibly lengthy and mind-numbingly boring. Essentially, the trainees were read a list of the many things invigilators are not permitted to do during an examination, such as: eat, drink, chew gum, wear heels, sit down or stand still. These exans are often three hours long. Invigilators are permitted one break.
If the rules don't shock and horrify you sufficiently, picture this: a regular sized classroom crammed with three rows of writing tables, two lined up againts the walls with the third arranged in the middle. This leaves two narrow rows and some space near the blackboard for walking. Now imagine that you must remain in constant motion for several hours contained in that tiny space. If that sounds like something you would enjoy, you are more than welcome to hop on a plane, move to my village and come do it for me because it is just about the least fun I've had all year.
While generally I have found the classroom experience a bit less of a drag from the teacher's side of the desk, I find myself wishing to be a student during exam time. I would rather take the NSC exams than invigilate them.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
I'm Back!
The test is over, and I will return to intermittent blogging soon. I look forward to boring you all with exciting tales of taxis, examinations, baboons, piracy and, of course, the elections (from a bizarre African perspective). I can sense how thrilled you all are from here.
Check back soon!
Check back soon!
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