The Longtom Marathon is one week from tomorrow! I'm getting excited, but also a bit nervous. Last year's left me all but inert from exhaustion. It was totally worth it though!
Thanks to all my generous donators. We are just $5 away from $300! Very impressive! Now if we can just sneak over $300...
Friday, March 18, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Accepted
I wake up in the mornings to the sound of my cellphone alarm. As soon as I turn it off, I usually check my e-mail.
This morning I was greeted by two messages of interest. One notified me that a decision had been rendered on my application to SAIS and could be found online. The other was less cryptic. "Congratulations from the Fletcher School!" was the subject line. I was pretty sure I was dreaming.
When I decided to pursue a master's degree in international affairs, I researched the top programs in the country. I selected three from the top five and applied without any regard to my less-than-stellar academic and professional background. (I went to a state school for only 2 years, and Peace Corps is the closest I've ever come to a real job.) My hopes were not high.
So being accepted to Fletcher was ridiculously exciting. I went through the whole day with a smile. "Ma'am, why are you so excited today? Did you get married?" my learners asked.
"Nope, I'm going to school!" They faked appropriate enthusiasm. I got a few high-fives.
When I wasn't in class, I daydreamed about Fletcher, moving to Massachusetts, seeing the Boston-area side of the family. It was a pretty rosy picture. The SAIS e-mail was all but forgotten.
I couldn't access the SAIS website through my pathetic excuse for an internet connection. I thought about waiting til the weekend, but on a whim I called a friend to see if she would check it. She did. She called back.
"I regret to inform you," she said.
"Okay, whatever, Fletcher rocks!" I thought.
"Nevermind," she continued, "You're in!"
And how! I was not only accepted to the school, but the capped international development program, and a first year of study at the campus in Bologna, Italy.
Looks like I have some big decisions to make in the month of April. The decision-making process is looking difficult as I'm still in South Africa. I means, thanks for inviting me to "Accepted Students Day" but a campus visit is pretty much out of the question. Any advice, folks?
If you're happy for me and you want to show it, please consider a donation to KLM. See older post.
I'm off to celebrate with a semi-warm Coke from the tuck shop. Best of luck to those still waiting to hear.
Oh, and I have not heard from the third school, Georgetown, but 2/3 so far is pretty good for me!
This morning I was greeted by two messages of interest. One notified me that a decision had been rendered on my application to SAIS and could be found online. The other was less cryptic. "Congratulations from the Fletcher School!" was the subject line. I was pretty sure I was dreaming.
When I decided to pursue a master's degree in international affairs, I researched the top programs in the country. I selected three from the top five and applied without any regard to my less-than-stellar academic and professional background. (I went to a state school for only 2 years, and Peace Corps is the closest I've ever come to a real job.) My hopes were not high.
So being accepted to Fletcher was ridiculously exciting. I went through the whole day with a smile. "Ma'am, why are you so excited today? Did you get married?" my learners asked.
"Nope, I'm going to school!" They faked appropriate enthusiasm. I got a few high-fives.
When I wasn't in class, I daydreamed about Fletcher, moving to Massachusetts, seeing the Boston-area side of the family. It was a pretty rosy picture. The SAIS e-mail was all but forgotten.
I couldn't access the SAIS website through my pathetic excuse for an internet connection. I thought about waiting til the weekend, but on a whim I called a friend to see if she would check it. She did. She called back.
"I regret to inform you," she said.
"Okay, whatever, Fletcher rocks!" I thought.
"Nevermind," she continued, "You're in!"
And how! I was not only accepted to the school, but the capped international development program, and a first year of study at the campus in Bologna, Italy.
Looks like I have some big decisions to make in the month of April. The decision-making process is looking difficult as I'm still in South Africa. I means, thanks for inviting me to "Accepted Students Day" but a campus visit is pretty much out of the question. Any advice, folks?
If you're happy for me and you want to show it, please consider a donation to KLM. See older post.
I'm off to celebrate with a semi-warm Coke from the tuck shop. Best of luck to those still waiting to hear.
Oh, and I have not heard from the third school, Georgetown, but 2/3 so far is pretty good for me!
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Whoo-eee: Showing a Little Knee
Women in South Africa can, and do, wear low-cut blouses without provoking so much as a second glance. This should not be confused with a lack of modesty. The women I'm most familiar with are extremely modest, but their South African standards are quite different from what we are accustomed to in the US. While both cultures seem to view bare shoulders as mildly indecent for school, work and religious gatherings, the body part whose exposure is deemed least acceptable here may come as a surprise. It is the knee.
A good Motswana woman never bares her knees. It can be well over a hundred degrees, she can be wearing the skimpiest excuse for a blouse imaginable, but her knees will be well covered by a skirt or even pants. The local aversion to the sight of one's knees has been brought home to me on two occasions.
The first occurred many moons ago. I was at a shop in town, visiting my host sister M. A young Afrikaner girl stopped in to inquire about a traditional, Setswana-style miniskirt. M attempted to point her in the direction of the traditional clothes, whose skirts were calf-length and longer, but the girl insisted on a shorter style. M resorted to a blank stare. It wasn't just that she had nothing of the like in stock, it was that it simply did not exist. Traditionally dressed Batswana women did not wear short skirts. They did not show their knees.
The second instance was more recent. An international school visited Loopeng from Hong Kong. They played a soccer game with learners from Moshaweng. I was among the gawking spectators. What were we gawking at? The knees! Our international visitors were dressed conservatively to the best of their knowledge with big, baggy t-shirts and shorts that definitely followed the thumb rule, but there were a lot of knees on the field that day. I don't think anyone was particularly offended by it, just surprised (myself included). I guess that's a good sign. I've adapted so well to the local culture, I've started to take their fashion choices as the norm. Hopefully, I won't be overwhelmed by the preponderence of bare legs when I return to the US.
Longtom is in 1 week and 6 days. Please consider a donation. Dankie!
A good Motswana woman never bares her knees. It can be well over a hundred degrees, she can be wearing the skimpiest excuse for a blouse imaginable, but her knees will be well covered by a skirt or even pants. The local aversion to the sight of one's knees has been brought home to me on two occasions.
The first occurred many moons ago. I was at a shop in town, visiting my host sister M. A young Afrikaner girl stopped in to inquire about a traditional, Setswana-style miniskirt. M attempted to point her in the direction of the traditional clothes, whose skirts were calf-length and longer, but the girl insisted on a shorter style. M resorted to a blank stare. It wasn't just that she had nothing of the like in stock, it was that it simply did not exist. Traditionally dressed Batswana women did not wear short skirts. They did not show their knees.
The second instance was more recent. An international school visited Loopeng from Hong Kong. They played a soccer game with learners from Moshaweng. I was among the gawking spectators. What were we gawking at? The knees! Our international visitors were dressed conservatively to the best of their knowledge with big, baggy t-shirts and shorts that definitely followed the thumb rule, but there were a lot of knees on the field that day. I don't think anyone was particularly offended by it, just surprised (myself included). I guess that's a good sign. I've adapted so well to the local culture, I've started to take their fashion choices as the norm. Hopefully, I won't be overwhelmed by the preponderence of bare legs when I return to the US.
Longtom is in 1 week and 6 days. Please consider a donation. Dankie!
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Directions for Donating
Two weeks before the marathon is a pretty good time for a gentle reminder that I will be crawling through the Drakensburg to raise money for the KLM foundation. Of course, a gentle reminder means nothing if it's not accompanied by directions on how to donate, so here we go:
1. Write a check payable to Kelsey Marie Soeth.
2. Mail to Private Bag 1532 x PostNet Suite 120
Kuruman, South Africa 8460
Done? Wonderful.
Not fooled? Rats!
*sigh* If you insist on supporting the educational goals of South Africa's disadvantaged youth by making a donation to Kwagle le Mollo, here's how (I promise):
1. Go to www.klm-foundation.org
2. Click 'Donate'
3. Follow instructions
4. Please put my name down as the individual you are sponsoring for the Longtom marathon
5. Feel free to skip step four. I don't care how much money I am personally responsible for. Focus your limited energies on steps 1-3.
I did a lot of training today. I walked to the tuck shop for flour. Cookies are in the oven now. If you come visit me, maybe I'll give you one.
If you figured out the tad of trickery above the real directions, yes, that is my address. Just in case anyone needed it...
Thanks for everything, loyal blog readers! I'll have a cookie for each and every one of you!
1. Write a check payable to Kelsey Marie Soeth.
2. Mail to Private Bag 1532 x PostNet Suite 120
Kuruman, South Africa 8460
Done? Wonderful.
Not fooled? Rats!
*sigh* If you insist on supporting the educational goals of South Africa's disadvantaged youth by making a donation to Kwagle le Mollo, here's how (I promise):
1. Go to www.klm-foundation.org
2. Click 'Donate'
3. Follow instructions
4. Please put my name down as the individual you are sponsoring for the Longtom marathon
5. Feel free to skip step four. I don't care how much money I am personally responsible for. Focus your limited energies on steps 1-3.
I did a lot of training today. I walked to the tuck shop for flour. Cookies are in the oven now. If you come visit me, maybe I'll give you one.
If you figured out the tad of trickery above the real directions, yes, that is my address. Just in case anyone needed it...
Thanks for everything, loyal blog readers! I'll have a cookie for each and every one of you!
The Sand Beneath My Feet
A friend recently passed on a book for me to read. It was given to her by author, and passed on to me because she thought I would be able to relate to the author's experience. I thought she was nuts, but I was wrong.
The book is The Ice Beneath My Feet by Diana Patterson. Ms Patterson was the first female station leader at an Australian research post in Antarctica. Her book is all about that experience, and it is fascinating. I highly recommend the book just for a fun read. Her descriptions of Antarctica and its inhabitants are interesting, but her stories of dog-sled expeditions and even the day-to-day of station life are both well-crafted and often hilarious. Reading about ice and cold was a nice change to the sweltering heat we've been experiencing lately here in Africa.
While the setting was dramatically different, I was able to relate to a large portion of the book from my perspective as a Peace Corps volunteer. The importance of mail is an obvious example, less obvious might be the lack of physical contact (go a few months without a hug and see how you feel) or the great disadvantage women face in needing to use the facilities in an environment where no such facilities exist (these passages in Ms Patterson's book are painfully funny and put my sunken pit toilet in a whole lot of perspective). I certainly stand corrected in my presumption that the only people in the world who can relate to the experience of PCVs are fellow PCVs. Apparently, those living in Antarctica have some pretty similar experiences.
In other news, we are two weeks out from the Longtom marathon and if you haven't yet donated, please do! I am $30 away from $250! Let's make it happen! Any amount, no matter how small, will go a long way towards helping KLM provide an Uplands education to another rural learner. Many thanks!
The book is The Ice Beneath My Feet by Diana Patterson. Ms Patterson was the first female station leader at an Australian research post in Antarctica. Her book is all about that experience, and it is fascinating. I highly recommend the book just for a fun read. Her descriptions of Antarctica and its inhabitants are interesting, but her stories of dog-sled expeditions and even the day-to-day of station life are both well-crafted and often hilarious. Reading about ice and cold was a nice change to the sweltering heat we've been experiencing lately here in Africa.
While the setting was dramatically different, I was able to relate to a large portion of the book from my perspective as a Peace Corps volunteer. The importance of mail is an obvious example, less obvious might be the lack of physical contact (go a few months without a hug and see how you feel) or the great disadvantage women face in needing to use the facilities in an environment where no such facilities exist (these passages in Ms Patterson's book are painfully funny and put my sunken pit toilet in a whole lot of perspective). I certainly stand corrected in my presumption that the only people in the world who can relate to the experience of PCVs are fellow PCVs. Apparently, those living in Antarctica have some pretty similar experiences.
In other news, we are two weeks out from the Longtom marathon and if you haven't yet donated, please do! I am $30 away from $250! Let's make it happen! Any amount, no matter how small, will go a long way towards helping KLM provide an Uplands education to another rural learner. Many thanks!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Rugby Rodeo
It is sports season in this corner of the world. Nearly every day Moshaweng hosts several in-house soccer and netball games, and most weekends involve a sporting event or two at another school. This past weekend I traded a Moshaweng sports day for a much bigger event in the nearby town of Vryburg.
I attended with Kuruman friends whose son plays rugby for die Kalahari Byes (the Kalahari bees). While I expected to see nicer playing facilities at an event in which the generally better-funded town schools participated, I was not at all prepared for the reality of the event.
First of all, it turned out to be a sports day in which 22 schools from all over the North-West and Northern Cape participated. Schools came from as far away as Kimberley and Upington. There were a half-dozen fields on which soccer, rugby and netball were being played simultaneously from nine in the morning well into the afternoon. There was a photo booth, and an enormous food stand where everything from toasted sandwiches to donuts were being sold at an alarming rate. By 10 am they had started to run out of utensils! In any event, the whole production even had a corporate sponsor in the form of the South African grocery chain, Pick n' Pay. This was no village sports day, for sure.
The best part of the day was having a fellow volunteer visit. I don't get to Vryburg too often, so it was a real treat to see a friend from the area, all decked out in her Afrikaaner plaid. (Afrikaaners do seem to share a fondness for a good check pattern, at least near my site.) She commented that the whole event felt very suburban America, and, in many ways, it did. Except that, to me, it felt less like a suburb I lived in, and more like a mix of Texas-Midwest. From the sheer number of trucks in the parking area to the blaring country-ish music on the sound system to the utter seriousness that parents paid to their children's primary school-level athletics, it felt very much like a rodeo in the Dakotas or a football game further south. Really, if a game announcer had said, "The calf roping starts at one o'clock, stay with us!" I would not have been particularly surprised.
Alas, there was no rodeo, just a lot of rugby. While not quite as dangerous as bull-riding, it's not a sport for the the faint of heart. Watching rugby is like watching a car crash. People are getting hurt and you know it, but you can't look away. Luckily there were no major injuries on the field that day, and I escaped with nothing more serious than a very light sunburn. All in all, a great way to spend a Saturday!
That evening brought even more fun, as I played the South African version of Monopoly for the first time. I lost badly in terms of finance, but I ended up owning both Clifton and Franshoek so I was happy. They are basically the SA equivalents of Park Place and the Boardwalk.
Sunday morning brought some time to recover from all the excitement of the weekend, and by evening I was back in Loopeng. I'm so looking forward to my next adventure!
I attended with Kuruman friends whose son plays rugby for die Kalahari Byes (the Kalahari bees). While I expected to see nicer playing facilities at an event in which the generally better-funded town schools participated, I was not at all prepared for the reality of the event.
First of all, it turned out to be a sports day in which 22 schools from all over the North-West and Northern Cape participated. Schools came from as far away as Kimberley and Upington. There were a half-dozen fields on which soccer, rugby and netball were being played simultaneously from nine in the morning well into the afternoon. There was a photo booth, and an enormous food stand where everything from toasted sandwiches to donuts were being sold at an alarming rate. By 10 am they had started to run out of utensils! In any event, the whole production even had a corporate sponsor in the form of the South African grocery chain, Pick n' Pay. This was no village sports day, for sure.
The best part of the day was having a fellow volunteer visit. I don't get to Vryburg too often, so it was a real treat to see a friend from the area, all decked out in her Afrikaaner plaid. (Afrikaaners do seem to share a fondness for a good check pattern, at least near my site.) She commented that the whole event felt very suburban America, and, in many ways, it did. Except that, to me, it felt less like a suburb I lived in, and more like a mix of Texas-Midwest. From the sheer number of trucks in the parking area to the blaring country-ish music on the sound system to the utter seriousness that parents paid to their children's primary school-level athletics, it felt very much like a rodeo in the Dakotas or a football game further south. Really, if a game announcer had said, "The calf roping starts at one o'clock, stay with us!" I would not have been particularly surprised.
Alas, there was no rodeo, just a lot of rugby. While not quite as dangerous as bull-riding, it's not a sport for the the faint of heart. Watching rugby is like watching a car crash. People are getting hurt and you know it, but you can't look away. Luckily there were no major injuries on the field that day, and I escaped with nothing more serious than a very light sunburn. All in all, a great way to spend a Saturday!
That evening brought even more fun, as I played the South African version of Monopoly for the first time. I lost badly in terms of finance, but I ended up owning both Clifton and Franshoek so I was happy. They are basically the SA equivalents of Park Place and the Boardwalk.
Sunday morning brought some time to recover from all the excitement of the weekend, and by evening I was back in Loopeng. I'm so looking forward to my next adventure!
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Melodrama 2011: Afrikaaners of Inconceivable Talent
This weekend, the Laerskool Seodin (Seodin Primary School) put on a melodrama to raise funds for the school. I was lucky enough to attend as a guest of some Kuruman friends. Here, the term "melodrama" refers to a series of choreographed and lip-synched musical stylings of popular American and Afrikaaner songs. They were each performed by members of the school staff, faculty and School Governing Body (SGB). I had seen pictures of melodramas from previous years, so I went in with high expectations. I came away more than impressed and more than a little amused.
The show opened with the principal and his wife in a moving rendition of "Lady in Red." A teacher and her fiance soon followed with "My Heart Will Go On," which was just listed in the program as "Titanic". The set for that piece included the bow of a ship, helpfully labelled "Titanic" in case anyone was confused. Afrikaans offerings included the rather sweet "Ek bring diamante vir jou" (I bring diamonds for you), but far more hilarious was the novelty song "Sexy Hoender (Sexy Chicken). The dancers for this song included 2 women arrayed in boas, 1 in a penguin suit and 1 splendidly dressed as the sexy chicken herself in a feathered neon headdress, wings and a hula-style skirt from which she whipped out plastic eggs and hurled them into the audience.
The only slightly awkward arrangement was that of DJ Ossewa. I should mention here that every performer and audience member was white. Laerskool Seodin uses Afrikaans as the language of instruction and it is located in a well-off and predominantly Afrikaaner section of town. Perhaps as a result black students are a small minority. In any case, DJ Ossewa's set consisted of an Afrikaaner trio dressed in tattered clothes dancing to the house music so popular in the villages. It was likely to be well-intentioned gentle mockery, of the variety so popular on late-night TV, but it was still a bit unsettling. In any case, after the house music, DJ Ossewa and crew rocked the place with traditional Afrikaaner children's songs set to a modern beat. That part was great fun.
In addition to Elvis medleys sung by cricket coaches, ballet performances and more outrageous musical fakery than I'd ever seen in one place before, the melodrama featured several intermissions during which the curtains closed, but the lights stayed down and the music was turned up. Young and old, couples took to a large, cleared space on the gymnasium floor to dance. Apparently, Afrikaaners love to dance, and many of the couple were quite good. What surprised me most were the youngest attendees, high-school age, who seemed to enjoy nothing better than a good waltz. It was like a 19th century prom, but with jeans.
The whole event took place in the school gym, but the space had been transformed by a dozen or so parents who decorated tables with candles and fancy tablescapes and also provided a dinner to ticket-holders. It was the closest I've ever come to dinner theater. Sexy chickens on stage, fried chicken off-stage. Well actually, my table was provided with mini-quiches, cheese puffs, deviled eggs, meatballs, brownies and all manner of delicious things to eat and drink. Oh, the drinking...
It was a school function. A primary school function. When a tablemate asked what I would like to drink my first thought was, "How many options could there be?" A lot, as it turned out, and that was just the alcohol. This was no water-juice-soda school function. Not only was there a bar from which to purchase drinks, but many people brought their own. During the first part of the evening my table stuck to the bar, but then out came the little tin cup. It was passed around the table. When it got to me, I looked questioningly to my host. "It's nice," she assured me. And it was. It was melktart-flavored and topped with cinnamon. I'd tried it before at another Afrikaaner function. I passed the cup on. The show continued. Time passed. A shot appeared on my plate. I looked around. "It's awful," said my host, grinning. We drank. It was, indeed, awful. That finished, we returned to the show. Time again passed. Then the cup came back. Everyone looked at me, I looked at them. "It's lethal," they told me. Not quite, but close. The cup went around a few times. There may be a link to that and the fact that the final intermission involved my entire table dancing in a circle, taking turns with the sexy hoender head gear and doing the "twist".
The drinking, dancing and general hilarity came to an end around midnight. As "Jabulani" came on the sound system and the dancers on the floor dwindled to the under-twenty set, my table abandoned ship and retreated to someone's home for coffee. Momentarily re-charged we chatted away about Africa, but exhaustion soon overcame us and we drove home to our respectives beds around 1 am.
A mere five hours later, the household I was staying with was on the road, but more on that later.
The show opened with the principal and his wife in a moving rendition of "Lady in Red." A teacher and her fiance soon followed with "My Heart Will Go On," which was just listed in the program as "Titanic". The set for that piece included the bow of a ship, helpfully labelled "Titanic" in case anyone was confused. Afrikaans offerings included the rather sweet "Ek bring diamante vir jou" (I bring diamonds for you), but far more hilarious was the novelty song "Sexy Hoender (Sexy Chicken). The dancers for this song included 2 women arrayed in boas, 1 in a penguin suit and 1 splendidly dressed as the sexy chicken herself in a feathered neon headdress, wings and a hula-style skirt from which she whipped out plastic eggs and hurled them into the audience.
The only slightly awkward arrangement was that of DJ Ossewa. I should mention here that every performer and audience member was white. Laerskool Seodin uses Afrikaans as the language of instruction and it is located in a well-off and predominantly Afrikaaner section of town. Perhaps as a result black students are a small minority. In any case, DJ Ossewa's set consisted of an Afrikaaner trio dressed in tattered clothes dancing to the house music so popular in the villages. It was likely to be well-intentioned gentle mockery, of the variety so popular on late-night TV, but it was still a bit unsettling. In any case, after the house music, DJ Ossewa and crew rocked the place with traditional Afrikaaner children's songs set to a modern beat. That part was great fun.
In addition to Elvis medleys sung by cricket coaches, ballet performances and more outrageous musical fakery than I'd ever seen in one place before, the melodrama featured several intermissions during which the curtains closed, but the lights stayed down and the music was turned up. Young and old, couples took to a large, cleared space on the gymnasium floor to dance. Apparently, Afrikaaners love to dance, and many of the couple were quite good. What surprised me most were the youngest attendees, high-school age, who seemed to enjoy nothing better than a good waltz. It was like a 19th century prom, but with jeans.
The whole event took place in the school gym, but the space had been transformed by a dozen or so parents who decorated tables with candles and fancy tablescapes and also provided a dinner to ticket-holders. It was the closest I've ever come to dinner theater. Sexy chickens on stage, fried chicken off-stage. Well actually, my table was provided with mini-quiches, cheese puffs, deviled eggs, meatballs, brownies and all manner of delicious things to eat and drink. Oh, the drinking...
It was a school function. A primary school function. When a tablemate asked what I would like to drink my first thought was, "How many options could there be?" A lot, as it turned out, and that was just the alcohol. This was no water-juice-soda school function. Not only was there a bar from which to purchase drinks, but many people brought their own. During the first part of the evening my table stuck to the bar, but then out came the little tin cup. It was passed around the table. When it got to me, I looked questioningly to my host. "It's nice," she assured me. And it was. It was melktart-flavored and topped with cinnamon. I'd tried it before at another Afrikaaner function. I passed the cup on. The show continued. Time passed. A shot appeared on my plate. I looked around. "It's awful," said my host, grinning. We drank. It was, indeed, awful. That finished, we returned to the show. Time again passed. Then the cup came back. Everyone looked at me, I looked at them. "It's lethal," they told me. Not quite, but close. The cup went around a few times. There may be a link to that and the fact that the final intermission involved my entire table dancing in a circle, taking turns with the sexy hoender head gear and doing the "twist".
The drinking, dancing and general hilarity came to an end around midnight. As "Jabulani" came on the sound system and the dancers on the floor dwindled to the under-twenty set, my table abandoned ship and retreated to someone's home for coffee. Momentarily re-charged we chatted away about Africa, but exhaustion soon overcame us and we drove home to our respectives beds around 1 am.
A mere five hours later, the household I was staying with was on the road, but more on that later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)