"You can be mean. You're in the Peace Corps. It's like a free card"

That is a quote from an anonymous PCV. I'd like to think its true. Only because its hard to be nice all the time... In any country.

Oh, and PS (pre-script): Jill is no longer in the Valentine's Day play. Bummer. I'm going to need something to do on Valentine's Day now... And I hope that will be reading all of the loving emails you all send me :)


January 30, 2008

Before I left the States, I read a few blogs from current volunteers in Namibia. They were helpful, but I don’t think I fully understood them until now. Only natural, I suppose. One thing I remember reading was about a PCV who started walking with an umbrella to and from school. She felt a little silly but didn’t want to get burned. Now that I’m here, I see many women carrying umbrellas and only one has been American. I think they want their skin to be lighter… but that could be a myth. I also remember reading about learners mocking American accents. I thought, “That could be cute”. No! It’s maddening! When will the novelty wear off? I don’t remember reading much about the language. This is odd because – It is Huge! I do remember reading about the unnatural pace a PCV goes through books. Jill proves this one true at a rate of about a day to day and a half per book. And, most recently, I’ve remember reading about the January and February sporting chaos. When I first read it sounded like just another hoop the PCVs had to jump through. But today, I experienced the magic of it all.

My primary school took the Kudus and the Orics to a stadium on the way out of town. Yet another corner of Khorixas I “footed” it to (their word, not mine). The kids were asked to come after lunch break to begin at 2:00 and they were asked not to wear dresses. The learners showed up between 1:45 and 3:00… some of them in skirts, some in boxers and some in tank tops I would have made them go and change out of if they lived in my house (meaning: it didn’t have enough fabric for a 14 year old). But, there were no dresses.

First, the kids met in the stadium. This stadium has a soccer field – with real grass!!! It also has a dirt track, covered stadium, bathrooms with running water and a few shade trees. When I got there early (what was I thinking) I sat and pondered the grass and shade trees and felt a little like I was back home. Then the learners started showing up. These kids, who live in houses made from 30 different pieces of corrugated metal and cook outside on a fire in the one pot their family owns, were now spending the afternoon running around a western-style stadium. It was cute and I wished I had cotton candy and peanuts to give all of them. While waiting they played and rolled in the grass. There were butterflies too… how could you not see magic in that? I mean seriously.

When most of the teachers and learners had arrived, the teams were split. Then, they started with team cheers. I’m pretty convinced they made up most of them on the spot. But the great thing about having fifty kids with rhythm is that they can get behind any clapping/singing game pretty quickly. The bad thing about having fifty kids with rhythm is that they have a lot of enthusiasm about it and forget to stop sometimes. “Oh, numbah, Numbah one. Kudus ah Numbah one” was chanted for approximately half an hour on repeat. Cute, but in a if-you-were-someone-else’s-kid way (and, at Eddie Bowe, “we’re teachers and parents” and that “makes us tougher” – I’ve been told). Annoying or otherwise, I was really happy to see them take ownership over their teams. I have this theory about building character by owning something you put work into.


When the track meet began it had a lot of whatever-meter runs… I can’t remember because I don’t belong at track meets. The kids who weren’t running cheered on their teammates from the stands. At one point in time, a child collapsed on the track right before the finish line. One teacher cleared the other kids away and tried to wake up the fallen learner. He was unsuccessful and called over another teacher to help carry the learner off the track. The second teacher picked up the collapsed learner and started to carry him away. The whole stadium had stopped to watch… about that time the kid cracked a smile and jumped out of the teacher’s arms and ran away. It reminded me a little of the Sandlot. I laughed, but then took a quick second to reflect on how much trouble that learner has given me in Science and stopped. It’s the creative ones that get you.

In the whole afternoon, I literally did nothing. I sat with the Grade Ones and enjoyed the scene. Sometimes, I show up and have to run the show and sometimes and show up and sit with the Grade Ones… it’s all about being prepared for anything… or not caring that you’re not prepared and going with the flow. I was ok with it though because the Grade Ones are excellent companions despite the fact that they only speak 9 words of English: How, are, you, am, fine, I, love, you and bye-bye. Technically, “Haullo” is KK too.


1-31-07
Did you know Khorixas and Chia Pets are made out of the same substance? I just went for a walk on a familiar path and got lost because so much greenery has sprouted in the past week. I’m trying not to appreciate it too much because I’m sure it will all fade very quickly. But I did take pictures so I can prove that greenery does exist in semi-desert areas (thank you Ecology for that practical knowledge).

I borrowed a book today called “Dear Exile”. It is a book full of letters written between two friends. One is in New York and the other is a PCV in Kenya. I spent the whole afternoon reading the adventures of the two and laughing out loud to myself like a crazy person. The PCV describes the first days of school… and I laughed. They waited three days for their staff meeting to start. She describes the staff room at her school… and I laughed. There was a flood and roaches in it while she wrote that letter (writing letters at school? I’ve done it. And I only wish our school had enough water for a flood). And, when the PCV attempted to burn dental floss and instead burned his hand… I laughed. Some of the scenarios seem a little too close to home.

Today, I have been in Khorixas for exactly three weeks. Two years has never felt longer. But on the plus side, approximately half the city knows my name. On the downside, they only know my name because of gossip.

Real teaching has only been in my existence for this past week. And in these precious few days I have concluded one thing: I will never be a middle school teacher. My grade six “Maths” (why is everything plural here: hellos, good mornings, maths, sciences…) classes have been ok. They listen well and are willing to answer questions. We are currently working on whole numbers and expanded notation. I’m a little surprised that they don’t know that the 5 in 56 means 50. I find myself struggling to remember 6th grade and what I knew about math. Anyway, grade 7 has been a bit of a handful. Teaching those two classes everyday is just asking to be made fun of. It is literally like I am back in middle school again. It’s really hard to balance the novelty of being from America and being a new strict teacher (strict – that’s me! Actually, I just chant that to myself before I walk in the classroom. Don’t smile before Christmas, they say. I think here it’s Easter, though). They want to mock my accent and ask me questions about American money and Eminem but I am insistent that we learn science. In real life, I’d rather just talk to them about whatever interests them. That could be one of the reasons they describe the first three months of PC teaching as “a disaster. Ha, a train wreck!” in training.

Another first: Today I checked out the first two books from the library for the year. One kid wanted a book on sports and the other wanted information about animals. I helped them find some books and fill out their library cards. They are my guinnee pigs for the whole process. I’ve been told to not let learners take books home because they get wet in floods or parents in the squatter’s camp use the pages to build a fire. But I stressed the importance of keeping the books safe and I am hoping for a safe return. I am also hoping that instilling small trusts in them will make them more responsible and worthy of trust. Responsibility! Ownership! Leadership! Be an Example! Am I sounding too Western yet?

Tomorrow is a sanity trip day. The volunteers will exodus from Khorixas and travel to Outjo. There we will hide from our semi-desert troubles, make a lot of no-bake cookies and commiserate. Also on the to do list: search for and recover a new trashcan. It seems un-assaulted rubbish bins are in short supply in K town.


2-5-08
I feel like my blog is a safe place. I feel this for a lot of reasons but, mainly, I feel this because I can still write the date month-day-year. Sometimes I have mini panic attacks when I turn to write the date on the board every morning – year-day-month, wait… month-day-year, no… um, day-month-year. Yeah, that’s it. Really, it’s quite a pitiful sight.

For lunch break today I had a liter/litre of fruit juice. I think that’s weird. Is that weird?

I didn’t find a rubbish bin in Outjo. I feel kind of bad about this. But I did succeed in eating a lot of cookies and commiserating.

Jill is going to be in a play that some youth in Khorixas are putting on for Valentine’s Day. She is going to be a nurse. The play is about the first time an original tribe heard the real facts of HIV/AIDS, I think… the explanation is weirder every time I hear it. I think this is the first time in a long time I’ve looked forward to Valentine’s Day. Don’t worry about Jill’s moral though; I’ll sit in the back so she can’t hear me laughing.

Today, I took a page from an old high school teacher of mine. The first day of calculus class, he kindly passed out note cards for us to write our name, age, favo(u)rite color, food, subject and what we wanted to be when we got out of school. We spent the whole time filling out the cards having warm fuzzy feelings that this man genuinely wanted to know about our lives. Then, he collected them and dismissed us. When we came back the next day, we had a lecture where he asked us the answer to numerous trigonometry and calculus questions. But, in the beauty of his plan, we did not need to raise our hands to answer these questions. He called on us! By flipping through our note cards! Then, at the end of everyday, he’d shuffle them! This painful set-up meant I had to pay attention for all of class and be ready with an intelligent answer because I never knew when my name was next in the pile. Well, as you can imagine, this plan is more difficult when the names have clicks and you are a clicking dunce, such as myself. But, willing to make a fool of pronunciations, I enacted the Note Card Plan today. It went over really well in 6th grade. I giggled to myself a little at the collective “gasp” from 6A when I turned their note cards against them. Grade 7 will have to experience that joy tomorrow. Oh, the satisfaction of classroom management.

Behavior management has been a bit of a nightmare since I’ve started teaching. I’m not exactly sure why this is. I’ve never had a behavior problems with a group of kids that I had NO idea how to solve. After all, working with and leading groups of kids has been my job, as a volunteer or otherwise, since I was a kid myself. I feel like that amount of training should have given me enough tricks to start off this year. But these kids are a different breed. I won’t go into the details of the problem because, well honestly, they’re all too middle school-ish. But I will say, I started the note cards today and have an elaborate reward system worked up for next week. I think the trick in all of this is to just keep showing up. Their weakness is an underestimation of American persistence… or, at least, Miss Jessica’s persistence.

Well, in the mean time, between now and then, just for kicks, a few things I’ve been wondering:

- Does speaking three languages affect the mental development of a child? How? What if they don’t learn how to read and write in any of them?

- Can a human run faster than a donkey?

- Can tans become permanent? Am I going to have perma-shirt sleeves?

- Is Mefloquine severely detrimental to my health?

- How to I get scones crumbly?

- What are some recipes I can use mealie (corn) meal for? (Moto, I think it was a typo/misunderstanding in the recipe I gave you. Fat cakes call for flour – not corn/mealie meal)

- Excessive cravings for cheese is like a brain-tumor thing, right?

- What’s going on in your lives?


2-9-08
I was using the Note Card Plan yesterday in science class. It works really well. But sometimes the kids just freeze when I call on them. This is understandable for a couple of reasons. First, kids here don’t get singled out for anything except when they do something wrong. So obviously they would look like deer in the headlights when I call on them. And second, English is not their first language and, I know from experience, speaking a foreign language in front of large groups is scary… really scary.

Anyway, it’s understandable that they freeze. So, I’ve taken to walking over to their notebooks and looking at the answer they have written. Usually, it’s correct. At which point I say, “perfect”. Yesterday, I noticed the bold ones started to freeze also. This is the opposite of what should happen. I discovered the cause in the last period of the day. One of the louder boys in class gave me the deer in the headlights look when I called his name. Then, he held out his book for me to look at. I looked and said “perfect. Say that out loud.” But instead, he turned to his friend, straightened his shirt, brushed it off in an I’m-awesome manner and repeated “perfect”.

Sheesh. Someone praise these kids please.

Over the past few days, I reread my blog posts. How is it that so much perspective could be gained a three and a half months? During site visit I remember Jill and I were totally disgusted with out respective housing situations. But, I can’t lie; they’re both quite posh (minus Jill’s overwhelming need to mop). I remember thinking also that a lot of the people I met were kind of rude. I’ve re-met those people since being back at site and, to be honest, they’re really pleasant welcoming people. I also remember while writing some of the posts I was really worried that they would come off as cynical or too serious. While re-reading I found that none of them were really that bitter.

I say all of that because I was debating whether or not I should write about corporal punishment. Do they really need to know? Will they understand? I think you will.

Corporal punishment is illegal in the United States (that’s a bit of an understatement, huh? In truth, you can’t really even touch a child). Well, it’s illegal in Namibia too. But, the catch, it’s only illegal if you get caught. Beating children is still accepted among colleagues as a good form of discipline. I knew this before I got to school. And I understand that it is still a new law and it may take a few years to see the full effect. But, it’s still a shocking sight.

Don’t go overboard with imagination. The people I work with are good people. And kids aren’t beaten to a pulp. Beating means the learner has to hold their hand out while the teacher hits it repeatedly with a stick. The stick is usually about the same diameter as my pointer finger. After each hit, the little ones jump around with their hand tucked under their armpit or between their legs. Then they hold out their hand again for another hit.

I’ve only seen a few kids being beat but learners are more than willing to share their beating stories with me. “Oh, miss, I failed a test and I was beat by Mr. So-and-so…” I know from experience that kids like to tell stories. But I also know those stories are usually rooted in truth. I’m not starting an all out witch-hunt. I’m just sayin… there are stories.

I’m not trying to underplay the fact that kids are being beat here either. The problem comes from the fact that I don’t belong. I am an outsider. I can’t just come into these schools, pull out my soapbox, stand there and preach “In America… Beating children causes fear… Discipline should be balanced with reward…” This country is still trying to figure out who it is. That can be a rocky process.

Since we’re being so honest about being in the Peace Corps in Namibia, I think I’ll let you in on another [superficial] cultural difference. Oddly enough, this cultural misunderstanding puts PCVs in as much of a foul mood as the beatings… really, just the female PCVs, though. Let me explain:

Here, it is good to be fat. Being fat can mean a few things. It can mean that you are rich enough to afford food, you are all around healthy and, most importantly, you don’t have AIDS. It is a common compliment to say, “You are fat!”

Well, let me tell you, this does not go over well. It doesn’t matter if the person is actually fat or not. One volunteer I met from NAM26 is approximately the same size as Mary Kate Olson. She lives with a family and teaches in the north. Her host family was so pleased one morning when she came in for breakfast wearing a large shirt. “Oh, you are fat today!” They were so excited for her. She was less than pleased though.

Our trainers tried to warn us. They explained that sometimes it could mean that you look happy, healthy and well adjusted. This, as you can imagine, doesn’t help. Yesterday, I put on a sweatshirt between our morning staff meeting and tea break. One of my favorite colleagues came up to me as I was waiting for the tea water to boil, patted my hip and said, “Oh, yes. You are getting fatter.” Gosh, this freaked me out. I went home and tried on some pants I haven’t worn since the Sates to make sure they still fit. They do. Don’t worry. I prefer to think she was referring to the sweatshirt and the fact that I was actually smiling during tea break and not dreading the awkwardness.

Which brings me to the sweatshirt. It’s cold here! Just yesterday and today. The rain came on Thursday night. This time it’s not the patchy downpours that alternate with intense sunshine to ensure misery. It was almost similar to Oregon spitting rain. We have been sitting a cloud for the past two days and it is glorious. Bleak. Gray. Wet. Cold(ish). I love it. I’m not crazy, just homesick.

And since we’re flowing so nicely between topics, you all need to know: I am a wimp. I am a wimp because I am homesick. I hear from reliable sources that it is common to be homesick when you move to Africa… or, generally, the other side of the planet. But, I have a period of everyday dedicate to being homesick. I don’t choose these periods of the day or how long they last. They usually choose me. Sometimes, my tears well up at very inconvenient times – like staff meeting or while explaining STIs (STDs) to 7th graders. It’s actually a little pathetic.

I have faith, though, that this is what we like to call an “adjustment period”. And, hopefully, it will pass. I am finding each day to be better than the day before it. Each week, I am becoming more comfortable. It would all be so much easier though if I could just get a cup of coffee at Chapters, curl up on a friend’s couch, watch TV and drive to my parents’ house on the weekends…

All those things will be there when I get back, though? Right? Friends, reserve those couches for me now. Got it? Mom, Dad. Car? House? Elmer’s? Ok?

Well, this is “Goodbye”. Wait. I already did that in October. So that means this is a “See you later”. But I won’t see you for a while. So this is really a “More later”. Which I am sure to be true. Because, here, there is always more to tell. Always.

More Later. Love, J