Follow the leader

Anyone who has raised or lived with young children knows that they are parrots…copy cats…perfect little mirrors that reflect back to us—in often frightening detail---everything we say and do. Their hawk eyes notice every detail and their sponge-like minds absorb every bit of information. Sing a song, make a comment or say a particular word too often and you are sure to hear it repeated by them at random (and usually inconvenient) times. Indeed the most unnerving thing about a child’s natural propensity to imitate adults is that they quite innocently become tattle-tales. They betray things we mean to keep secret (like the fact that Aunt Bertha’s put on a lot of weight, or that we don’t really like grandma’s cooking and feed things to the dog when she’s not looking.) And often times, by every word and deed of theirs they declare to the world what their parents truly are like when no one is around…if they are caring…if they are yellers…if they swear…or even more unsavory things.

 As I’ve learned here in Africa, this trend doesn’t lessen with time. In the behavior and speech and attitudes of the children and youth I interact with every day I see a reflection of South African society—with all its scars and shadowy places. Often the adults of this country do their best to put on a strong face, to look forward, speak and think positively and progressively…but like a two year old child spills the beans on his daddy’s true opinion of granny’s cooking, the youth of this country reflect the truth of South African society. Our schools are plagued by violence. Not a week ago a third grader stabbed another with a pencil, drawing blood; A middle school boy was caught in the act of forcing himself on a classmate; not long before one boy hit a female classmate with the handle of a wooden broom; and I even witnessed a knife fight between two boys. When they play “school” the teacher always has a stick and if there’s a disagreement it will most often be “solved” by whomever can hit the hardest.  Though I and my colleagues have often discussed the horror and unacceptability of such behavior it has become clear to me that it is like a game of ‘monkey see, monkey do ‘or ‘follow the leader.’ In their English writing exercises students recount and allude to behaviors in the home of equal or greater horror and teachers…some of whom openly condemn things like corporal punishment I have caught in the act of doing the very same. So the rule goes: if you are angry, you hit someone; if you are frustrated, you hit someone; if you want something you take it; if you feel powerless you find someone less powerful than yourself and make them feel smaller. It’s a pervasive mentality.  Over and over the message is being reinforced. Not surprisingly, many young people suffer from chronically low self-esteem, hopelessness and a feeling of vulnerability. It is a hostile world they live in and even their homes and families aren’t the safe haven that they ought to be. 

For adults it is hardly different. They live what they have seen –as did their parents. From generation to generation it is passed on. With no one willing to stand up and break the cycle. One wonders if they know that there are other ways. Those of us who live in countries highly influenced by Christian values take things like love, self-sacrifice, positive self-image, and genuine concern for others for granted. The self-destructive tendencies apathy born of hopelessness I see in so many here in South Africa is the most painful reality I face each day. It’s the problem of ‘this’ and ‘that’ again…how can I encourage a student who does not believe they are capable of better? How can I build someone up when the rest of their world seems intent on tearing them down?  

In the end the truth is this: in the words of Gandhi, “we must be the change we want to see in the world.” Our children will always do what they see us doing…what they do is what they were taught. We must break the cycle. If we want to stop violence in schools we must stop being violent ourselves. I wonder how many of my counterparts understand this.  I wonder if they’ve ever played the game of follow the leader and if they see the way that game is being played out in their society and their village? As for myself, I can only hope that my actions will speak louder than any words could and that I by living in a different way and handling things in a different way can inspire the change we all hope to see. Maybe…just maybe... someone will follow my lead and one teacher will do things differently, and one student will start to believe in herself, and maybe it will catch on. As a foreigner everyone’s eyes are always on me. I wonder if someday THEY will reflect the good things in MY behavior that they see?

Big little things

A friend of mine, also serving here in South Africa, once said he sometimes wakes up in the morning and thinks  “Man, I'm in the Peace Corps!...It gives me a really cool feeling.” I couldn’t agree more.  Without a doubt, being in the Peace Corps is a really awesome thing. When people back home hear I’m working for two years as a volunteer in Africa I’m pretty sure the first thing that comes to their minds is lions, loin cloths, and life in a thatched hut. This invariably fills one with a sense of awe and either pity or respect for the soul who has ventured to do such a thing. I always hope for the latter of the two reactions…but whatever ones persuasion may be, it is always seen as a really BIG deal. (For those inquiring minds: No, the people here DO NOT wear loin cloths and the most impressive wildlife I’ve seen around the village as of yet are baboons and Gila monsters.)  Living and working in Africa is indeed an amazing experience. Ironically enough, however, I have been realizing that it is not big things like confronting carnivores 3 times your weight  or living without running water that make it so remarkable…it’s a lot of little things that happen to be a really big deal…

It’s the way the flatness of the land and vast horizon makes me feel a bit taller somehow.

It’s the way the Kindergarteners flock around the village after me, smiling, chanting and swinging on my arms.

It’s that feeling of electrified stillness in the air just before a severe thunderstorm… and the deafening, yet somehow comforting, cacophony of rain on the tin roof.

It’s when a tenth grade students writing assignment this week looks twice as good as last week’s.

Or when that teacher looks to me with grateful eyes and says she doesn’t know what she’d do without me.

It’s the brilliant dance of colors—from indigo to sapphire to turquoise to gold-- that chase the sun across the evening sky and beyond the horizon.

And it’s the crisp cool of the night air in the desert with its navy blanket of stars.

It’s the teenagers who come to me looking for guidance or just a listening ear and the wide excited eyes if grade 1 students whenever I enter the classroom.

It the majesty of towering thunder heads that march along the horizon--their faces catching the white rays of sunlight and the grey rain curtains beneath them trailing rainbows.

It’s sitting outside of my humble brick house having language-barrier-ridden conversations with my host mom and the way her dark eyes twinkle above her round cheeks every time I say something in my bad Setswana.

And what more can I say? The list could go on. All these are things that seem so small—everyday things most locals wouldn’t give a second though--but to me the very things that make life in Africa the big deal that it is. These are the things that I savor and cling to…the things I love most and that make me feel most loved.

The Catch 22 of Camouflage

With risk of sounding prideful, I think it is fair to say that my identity and everything about my life up to this point has been very unique. After all, how many people have African, Chinese, Irish and Indian all contributing directly to their bloodline within the past 2 generations? How many people collect degrees of higher education from different continents and speak languages that don’t seem to correspond with their complexion?  Indeed, I am never what people think I am based on my appearance and have always seen this as something good…even advantageous. I pride myself on it. I can always “blend in.” I can always connect to people by accessing that part of my heritage closest to that of the people I happen to be with. It’s a sort of paradox in my identity: inwardly I can forge a connection to almost any group of people, but outwardly I often don’t “blend in” at all!

When I was in Japan and Germany this “uniqueness” of mine was always an advantage. Since the beginning of my time here, however, it’s proved to be a double-edged sword. You see, on the one side, when I’m walking down the street I blend into the crowd. Nobody can tell I’m foreign by looking. I’m a small target for crime and locals readily trust me. They find me very approachable…to their eyes I’m one of them. The communities are quick to embrace me and nobody asks me for money (major plus being that most of my white counterparts are continually harassed!) On the other side, however, it is a hindrance.  I suddenly find myself really needing people to recognize me for what I am. I’m the help. I’m the person with the training, the education, the know-how, and connections to try improve this community…that’s why I’m here after all. When locals look at me however, they think ‘typical young South African woman’…which translated to: under-educated, inexperienced and even inferior! For the truth of South African social hierarchy is that respect and authority come with age. That means that through their “cultural goggles” I am NOT the one to consult, to trust, to allow to lead or accept advice from. They accept me, but they don’t necessarily trust my expertise and skill. I notice some teachers still consult with the principal on issues of lesson planning and subject content rather than me even though that is one of my main jobs and I am more qualified than he is. He’s a man and he’s older which makes him the natural choice. If I were a white male, however, like my predecessor things would look a lot different, indeed they did when he was here…I witnessed with my own eyes…to the South African mind it seems to be more logical that the “white man” would have expertise and the “young black woman” would not. 

It’s the lens of the Apartheid past leading to this Catch 22 of my camouflage. I see, however, that the more they witness me at work the more respect I seem to be gaining. They are beginning to see past their cultural perception to what I really am. It will be a bit of a process to prove myself, but I am assured that in the end, at least for those in my village, I will cease to be hampered by the innocent prejudice of my counterparts.

The Drag

Drag…it’s a physical phenomenon. If you have ever driven a very old model of car or ridden a bicycle against the wind you know what I’m talking about. Without starting a discourse on the scientific explanation of how it works…it should suffice to say that drag is that invisible force that resists you when you are trying to gain momentum. Its why it takes a while to reach a cruising speed on the highway and why it requires so much effort and input  (in this case through the design of the car and it’s engine) to get to that speed. The faster you are trying to move forward the stronger the drag. As for me and my life in Africa it relates this way: I’ve started on my journey…I’ve gotten to the ramp onto the highway leading to my goals and it’s time to pick up speed….but true to the laws of physics, I am starting to feel it…the drag. That subtle resistance… 

I came out of the starting gate rearing to go. Just over the past few weeks I’ve started and English club, which fully 1/3 of the school has joined, introduced a new lesson plan format and held a mini workshop on it, drafted a plan and preliminary proposal to build a library in room now full of junk and started giving additional English help in grades 1-4, and am working on organizing a substitute teacher program and drafting a new disciplinary code.  I’m excited. I’m motivated, some days I feel like super woman because of the endless array of issues I can help to fix. It is just the sort of thing I have always dreamt of doing….but then there is the drag. It looks like this…watching the 3^rd grade English lesson in which most students struggled to formulate basic sentences in the simple present (mind you, next year all of their subjects will be taught in English!) Not to mention hearing teachers themselves also struggling with the same basic sentences! It’s the SGB (School Governing Body- comprised of teachers and parents which is responsible for many of the most important school related decisions) listening to my library proposal and wanting to wait until after the next SGB election a month from now to approve it though time is of the essence… it’s the fourth grade class failing miserably on their first vocabulary assessment after showing such understanding during the review….it’s the brand new copy machines at both schools breaking down simultaneously 3 weeks into the school year…it’s the frequent absence and apparent disinterest of one of my supervisors in either functioning of the institution he’s supposed to manage or the projects I’m attempting to implement…and it’s the inability to work in support of teachers as planned because there’s so much slack being left by others that we who are dedicated must spread ourselves very thin. 

To return to the analogy: In the physical world, some serious measures have to be taken to overcome drag. Things have to be redesigned…reshaped…remolded… Drag cannot be eliminated, it can only be reduced they call it aerodynamics in English. The question that now remains is how can I be more aerodynamic given the drag I’m facing here? What needs to be reshaped and how? Do I need to give more effort? Push harder (i.e. more horse power)…Do I need to change my shape? Take a different approach? As an American speed is everything. Making good time and not wasting a moment is everything…always we feel the clock ticking in our very souls and it provokes an endless drive. It is part of what makes us successful in many things…I wonder, however, could that be what needs to change? Perhaps I’m feeling the drag so strongly because I’m try to go to fast…who knows…

What we took for granted

I remember my days in middle school and high school...granted, there were a lot of days in there that id rather forget...but there were a lot of days that were pretty normal too. I remember getting up for school at an hour i found to be unacceptable for someone of my age. (In those days 10:30 am was the earliest you'd see me on weekends!) I remember walking down the side walk to the elementary school where the buses picked us up...I remember always looking forward to those bus rides and people watching as we cruised pass the swarms of elementary school children flocking towards their hives in the center of each section of town. I remember backpacks full of heavy books. I remember the locker lottery and hunt that happened the beginning of each year, and the torment of gym class...especially physical fitness...being trapped inside that room full of mirrors and intimidating looking medieval torture devices. Even worse were the mile runs on the track and sprints they made us do! In those days i just went through the motions all those things, even the things i hated were just s normal part of life.

Looking back now, however, i realize that what i found unspectacular in those days--or even bothersome--were privileges of indescribable proportion. "Normal" for a student here in Bona-Bona looks quite different. "Normally" kindergarteners wake up at 4 am to walk  15-20 km along a gravel road in shoes of questionable condition to school,  where they may or may not get lessons. Who knows! The teacher may have been called away unexpectedly to a workshop. "Normally" middle school students arrive to school carrying those "heavy books" i mentioned in plastic grocery bags (if they are so fortunate to have books for their class) where they sit in crumbling, molding classrooms waiting for lessons to start...which may or may not, and they do, never start on time. "Normally" teens struggle through classes in which they barely understand the language of instruction and with no one to answer their questions or invest time and energy into explaining things fully. "Normally" if they make it through to 10 grade they begin to wonder mid year why they put in the effort because they KNOW their families cannot afford to pay for rent in the next town over so they can attend 11th and 12th grade and get a diploma. "Normally" the only sports they play are on a dry expanse of sand full of rocks and burrs...most of them without shoes since they have no sports shoes. Those "medieval torture devices in the gym they'd likely find even more intimidating that i did, for non have never seen them or even know of their existence. Even that road i used to cruise down on the bus ride to school without a second thought...most children in this village haven't seen a paved road. The closest one is 25km away...an impossible distance to span when there is no transport and only an endless expanse of sharp rocks and thorn bushes in between.

So many things i never even thought were worth acknowledging in my middle school days are things students here can only dream of. How can i then blame them when they raise their voice in protest, when the burn tires and buildings and disrupt school for weeks and months on end? How can i judge them for being angry and on the verge of desperation when their children are forced to drop out of school or precious saving for University re sucked up just so they can get a diploma? Especially when all it would take would be a few extra classrooms and teachers to allow them to finish school locally. How can i fault them for demanding a decent connection to civilization so that there is at least some opportunity for economic growth in the community. Protests have been raging these past few months and gotten continually more extreme. There have been many false promises from the municipality and few signs of genuine concern. Though after finally attracting some media attention in recent day the regional leaders were finally motivated enough to show their faces and give real answers. They say there will be changes and i hope there will be. Because the answers are pretty simple and "normal" in Bona-Bona just doesn't cut it.

Just another day in Africa (Part 2)

Somewhere between Morokwane and Vryburg my friend the Sangoma turns to me and says..."I will need your help when we arrive. I need to transfer some money." I tell her it’s no problem and i can help her. Little do i realize that what she actually means is that she needs to get money from the ATM and doesn’t remember how. Such is life when you live on the edge of the Kalahari. Withdrawing money is something most Americans can do in their sleep, but in a town where there is no bank and no ATM and not even a functioning post office (though, to their credit the building DOES exist and is properly signed...it just has more of a decorative function) It is easy to go months or even your whole life without ever seeing an ATM. My friends request brought home that reality with eye opening clarity. Needless to say, after arriving in town (and promptly dumping my collection of cans into the bin) i followed through on my promise to help the withdraw money. The was immediately followed up with the most delightful lunch of burgers and fries...which has become a rare treat indulged in no more than once a month, when we can afford to come to town. Our conversation was lively and as two intellectual, spiritually aware and deep-thinking individuals you can imagine we covered all the major topics...Christianity, consulting the ancestors, the fate of families in South Africa, poverty and the meaning of life...just to name a few. Of course the meal was followed up with the obligatory ice cream sundae. Ice cream is the rarest of rare treats! When you live in the desert and the supermarket is a 2 hour drive away in a stuffy minivan, keeping a stash at home isn't really an option. 

After lunch it was time to get down to business. That means doing our rounds of shopping as quickly as possible in order to make it back to the taxi in time. There’s only one taxi to Bona-Bona each day that leaves around 2:30pm...if you miss that you may still catch one to Morokwane, but will be left hitchhiking back down the gravel road to the village with all your groceries...NOT a good prospect when your frozen chicken is thawing by the second and the wait may be indefinite. So you learn to do everything with haste. I think my record shopping time was half an hour...and I’m proud to say i have never missed the taxi! (insert applause here) so i did my rounds, first to the drug store, than grocery store, than produce store...no small feat when you have to carry all of your shopping with you around town in the blazing heat. By the end of the trip i have 3 or 4 bags full of groceries. I try to keep it to three bags, because that is what i can carry comfortably. At the same time, however, i need to buy everything for the month all at once...needless to say difficult choices must be made. Gone are the days of dumping things into the trunk of the car and simply unloading at home. Shopping has become a game of strategy and strength...not just what and how much i buy matters, but also how i distribute things between the three bags... and the more i can manage to carry, the better the chances my supply will last till the end of the month! I never thought I’d have to think this hard about food shopping in my life! Ultimately the deed is done by 2:00 sharp. To come any later might mean finding the taxis already full. I struggle my way through the market place to the taxi rank with my heavy bags. It is a scene almost straight out of a movie. The place is buzzing with the chatter of vendors trying to sell their wares from tables lines up on both sides the path. There is a sea of black faces passing by in every direction...most of them glistening in the intense heat. Women are haggling over prices. Every few meters another vendor tried to offer me something, speaking hurried and jumbled Setswana i don’t stand a chance of understanding. At the taxi rank i must squeeze through the crowd of old ladies selling snacks and drinks from boxes balanced on their heads. Usually people leave their goods sitting on the curb next to the taxi and the drivers load everything on after everyone has boarded...a process which is very much like a game of Tetris with bags and boxes being shuffled and shoved and stuffed so that they fit somewhere between all of the bodies in the vehicle. It’s a process that invariably results in bruised apples and squashed bananas that turn black and slimy by the next day. So i have taken to loading my things myself before i get on. (My bananas still wind up black from the bumpy rides home, but at least half of them are still edible 3-4 days later, which is an improvement. I’m tempted to give up on buying bananas all together because they never all survive and one can only eat so many banana muffins before it becomes dangerous for the waistline.) After packing everything in i collapse into my seat on the taxi exhausted and just take in the sight. All the people walking about in the rank...mothers with children tied on their backs with towels, carrying multiple bags of groceries; The banter of the taxi drivers conversing loudly with one another across the lot as they wait on their passengers; the Kokos (grannies) with their baskets of goods popping their heads into the taxi every now and then shouting "Metsi tsididi e teng, grapes e teng, ice juice! Ice juice!" (I’ve got cold water, I’ve got grapes!) After sitting in a taxi full of passengers for about half an hour the drivers load in the goods (filling the aisles to the point that no one can move) collect the money and its off home. Of course we stop at the filling station on the main road leading out of town to tank up, which is always a peculiar ritual. Apparently rocking the vehicle side to side helps the gas "settle" in the tank so you can fit more in the tank. It’s hard to stifle a laugh as the attendants push with all their might and all the passengers bob back and forth to the rhythm...seemingly oblivious to the awkwardness of it all. I grin and try to make myself comfortable in my seat for the long drive back. I have the fortune of sitting right next to the window on the driver’s side this time, which means i won’t burn in the light of the setting sun as we make our north westerly journey back AND i can keep the window open to allow for circulation. South Africans seem to dislike the force of the wind and are in the horrid habit of keeping all the windows closed on such taxi rides, thereby transforming the bus into a mobile greenhouse...I’m am glad when i have the privilege of preventing such cruelty towards my fellow man! 

After sufficient shaking and filling we are under way. I lean on the window pane and promptly fall asleep...by the time i wake up we'll be well past Ganyesa with most of the trip behind us. In no time well be bumping down the gravel road again  and at the sun starts looking red orange in the sky we'll arrive home...on just another evening in Africa.