When my school director said, "Today is our last day of work, and though we do not call it holidays, you will have two days of rest and the weekend. Which is more than we have to give you."
As grateful as we all were (ahem)for the fact that the students get two weeks and we get two days, we left the meeting happy and ready to rest.
But as I hate resting - it just feels so unproductive and like I could be experiencing so much, I almost walked out of the meeting with dread. Well, as I've already written the next day, I want to teach at Nanosh's school on Thursday and when I returned, cooked a nice spaghetti sauce, did a little shopping, and started on a book by Tudor Parfitt. I planned the lessons for Friday, and though I had to get up an hour earlier than usual (5:30, well before the sun gets up), I was refreshed and ready to go to school. Unlike Thursday, I didn't get a ride, but instead spoke with one of the students who has a pretty good handle on English.
Arriving at school, I found the right room and gave the first lesson. Afterwards, as Nanosh's schedule on Fridays is pretty crappy (class-break-class-break-class-class), I went to the large meeting room, replete with satellite TV to catch the latest on the North Korea train crash. There were a bunch of students in the room, seemingly all from one teacherless turma, paying close attention to the English they didn't understand, and the pictures which, in this context, were downright hilarious. Imagining that the programming was in Chinese or some other equally strange language, I laughed along with them. A teacher came in to speak with me about nothing in particular.
After the second class, I had another break which I spent speaking with teachers and students. As the classes were going very well (an advantage is that both Blake and Nanosh have spent a lot of time with them, so they're accustomed to the accent and different styles of teaching), I thought about what else I could do. But my plan for the last two classes seemed sufficient, so I stuck with it and it all worked very well.
It's hard to explain the calm that teaching at this school gave me. It's in the middle of a large farming area, by the Limpopo River, full of plants and large unused rooms with ample space to relax and study. Watching students cross campus with their backpacks and sitting on benches studying together, it reminded me of an actual educational environment, as opposed to the makeshift feel of my school. My school is in the middle of the city and there is so much noice from passing vehicles, screaming children and just general city noise, that you feel like you're in a constant battle.
Relaxing, being in this place where I didn't have to raise my voice over a bulldozer or 50 students muttering. There, average class size is 25-30 and what a difference that makes! Though in the States, that would be big, I found out how much you can really get done and felt a sense of accomplishment after only two days.
Really, I realized how much I enjoy teaching. And although my school doesn't have these ideal features (not to make the other school sound idyllic), I think I enjoy teaching there enough to make it through the last six months of classes...without going insane.
I was invited to lunch on Friday at the cafeteria, but they told me the wrong time and didn't show up to where I'd said I'd be waiting. So I snuck out because I knew that I needed to hit the road immediately to be home in time to let Issefa (the empregada, or cook) into the house to cook. Plus, the way the first people in line grabbed their half-fish, and tore into it, I sort of lost my appetite.
So I had a nice, calm walk home in the blazing sun and smart wind, listening to the birds and for the first time appreciating the smell of cow dung and the memories it brought back - of more cow dung. But AMERICAN cow dung.
After Issefa cooked an excellent green bean dish, I headed over to the Canadians' to help cook dinner and watch a movie. I got back home and went right to sleep, knowing I had a wedding to get to in the morning. But still undecided on the details.
I didn't know how to dress or to bring a present, so I left the house on Saturday at about 9 AM with 150 MT in my pocket, wearing a short-sleeved dressy shirt with a tie and tux pants. It sounds strange, but the tie brought it together (I think).
In any case, I arrived at the first stop, the notary, where as I arrived, a wedding party was entering at the hour stated on my invitation. Now, I know enough to know that things don't start on time here, but was this an exception? I looked inside and the couple seemed too old to include a 25 year-old, so I waited just outside in the case that it WAS them.
Another misconception - I had assumed that I was to attend a wedding of a 25-year old daughter of the post-office guy, Sr. Pedro Machava.
It was, in fact, the celebration of the 25th wedding anniversary of his marriage on the 29th actual anniversary (by law) and 38th anniversary (in practice).
Still, it wasn't them.
As I was sitting outside, a caravan (much smaller than last week's funeral) arrived full of singing people, and they eventually organized, until Machava was in front leading the singing and dancing in a brilliant dark suit, white gloves, and a navy blue top hat.
When they stopped to let the other wedding party out, I went up to Pedro and talked with him for a bit. Everything was going as planned! He asked me why Nanosh wasn't around (a question that I had already answered and was to answer at least once more - nothing unusual for an old man!) and after a couple of pictures, including one with me in the middle of things, we went inside to hear the "renovation of vows". It was wonderful - even the overworked equivalent of the Justice of the Peace had some personal words on the occasion that this was the first official 25th anniversary that (Chokwe) had done.
Afterwards, we received the "newlyweds" in a backwards reception line (to me) as they stood outside and we all got in a badly formed line just to go back and watch the rest of the line file through. But when it got to my turn to congratulate them, Pedro said something about how thankful he was to Aimee and me for being his teachers. I didn't mind being the representative for the Americans. It was nice.
So we all piled in to pickups and flatbeds to get to the next stop, the church.
It was an Anglican church, the money having come from England to build and equip it - the priest's robes were downright surreal. Children ran in every so often in their rags while this priest who arrived on a motorcycle wore a brilliant outfit in perfect condition and spoke about things that had no historical basis thousands of miles from the origins of this branch of Christianity deeply rooted in the United Kingdom. Communion was given and prayers said for some two hours. The priest even had some kind words about the longevity of this couple, mixed in with hellfire and brimstone. This was in Changana, of course, so I missed a lot of the details. My disgust with missionaries was tempered only by the presence of clearly traditional African rituals that were mixed into the services.
After this, we headed out to a beautiful area full of gardens and plants, to take some great, wonderfully posed pictures. The one I'll remember for a long time is where the couple stood on either side of a large tree and pretended to peek around in playful flirting.
After this, we took a long, convoluted trip through the bairro past all of the houses we could find to celebrate at, seeing hundreds of kids waving and dancing with us. We arrived an hour later at their house, full of women preparing the feast. They had set up a large tent and various sitting areas.
The couple proceeded t lead the party into the tent, and after being seated, I was unexpectedly shown to my seat in front with 15 of my closest friends in front with 15 of my closest friends in front of several hundred very hungry neighbors. I sat across from men who spoke Changana and loved to practice their English, so conversation was choppy at best, as I spoke English and love to practice my Changana.
Quite a few people got up to speak on the occasion, offering songs or speeches. Then, we ate a huge feast of chicken, pork, beef, french fries, potato salad, cabbage salad and most likely other plates that looked a little too trying for my colon.
After the feast came the drinks and while drinks were being served, began the incredible progression of families carrying presents, singing songs and doing little "jokes" as a way to show respect for the couple. The line of people giving presents and singing was enormous - easily two hours spent receiving gifts, many of which seemed to be cooking utensils and cups, which was funny as it seemed like they could use these things for the party itself!
I was absolutely flabbergasted to see the amount of things - of crap - that they received. They certainly couldn't use it all. Where would it go? Would they sell it, give it away, hang on to it for posterity?
And Pedro received everything with graciousness and humor. On receiving a large box that was fairly heavy, he pretended to hump it on his shoulders and struggle underneath its weight. And the line kept on coming - there was no look of impatience or fatigue. I think the couple knows they deserve it.
Then came the dancing and before everyone spread out, I succombed to a few of my students who insisted I dance with one of the groups. It brought cheers from everyone and Pedro enjoyed it immensely. "Good, good, very good!"
Then, they made a real dance floor and there was a line of 18-20 year old young women who insisted I give them a dance. I (grudgingly, of course:)) accepted and we danced passada for a half hour or so. Then, Pedro's son from South Africa insisted that we dance to some "house" music and, surrounded by the girls and boys at the party, we let loose for a couple songs, to the delight of all.
Looking around afterwards, I noticed that most of the older men had already left, a good hint that it was appropriate for me to say goodbye. I hunted down Pedro, congratulated him and said how truly incredible it is to accomplish what he and his wife (who doesn't speak much Portuguese, as far as I could tell through limited conversation with her) have accompllished, anywhere in the world.
I got a student to lead me back to the main road, who then asked me how I got invited if I didn't pray - I explained the Peace Corps connection, and he seemed to buy it. But why was religion such a big deal?
In any case, I saw another student drinking, so I grabbed a beer with him and then stopped a couple more times on my way home before happily lying down half a day after I'd left.
Wonderful.
Peace
John
