Thursday, May 20, 2004

04/25/2004

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

04/22/2004

Addendum - Substituting was as relaxing as I thought it would be - none of that stress of built-up relationships with students, nor expectations. It's nice seeing how the other half lives, so to speak. I found the major difference between giving Biology and English today to be that there must be constant student interaction in English, and that is a lot easier to maintain. It seems you can always change the material slightly in order to make for an interesting question, whereas in Biology you're restricted by what's perceived as THE explanation and interpretation of things. As a Bio teacher, you're leading students on a quest for a scientific truth - whereas in English, you're infusing them with a new way to think about language. I think the advantage is that many are already students of language and understand immediately what we assume is the most time-consuming. But in Biology, students don't know how to approach science. It's an interesting debate as to which is harder and why. We'll see after tomorrow where I stand.

Peace

John

04/22/2004

As of yesterday, I'm officially "on vacation" until Monday comes around (it's a Thursday today). However, I promised I'd take Nanosh's classes at his school starting...yesterday...so I'm going to try and give the lessons today and tomorrow. On Saturday, there's a wedding I've been invited to, which will most likely last all day. On Sunday, Nanosh comes back and I get ready to give classes again.

What happened to the break?

Dennis and Jake got to travel. Other teachers at my school simply didn't show up to seminars. And the seminars - well, we discussed "What is a summary?" and the roles of certain people, like Homeroom teacher, Class Director, etc. that must be defined by the pedagogical director in whatever case. Mainly, we were supposed to look like we were working so that the Provincial Director could come and see us nice and busy. And it's been promised to be even busier next break, which was offered more as a threat than as a warning. I don't know if my father will be able to come here or not - it might be a big waste of time. And if it does happen like that, teachers will have been asked to be at work for 11 straight months with a grand total of about 3 days off. And what happens? Well, the other teachers take class time off, because they get punished financially and are willing to sacrifice that money (like having unpaid vacation time). However, I'm not allowed any vacation because I can't just "skip" out...but I'm pretty close to doing just that, if it weren't for the fact that I'd be screwing my students out of valuable class time. And I get questions all the time - "Don't you miss your family? Don't they miss you?" I answer "Of course, but what am I supposed to do?" I got leave once during the school year and it turned into a bigger mess than if I had just skipped out, and caused me more problems than it fixed.

And I know why - people don't understand why I'm here (or why any other American is here). They think it's this or that, but they don't really understand that to many of us,it's a way of bringing meaning to our lives by teaching those who essentially want to be taught, in another culture that we have to struggle to understand every day. And this goal is exhausting - not any more so than the Mozambican way of life - but still merits a consideration of rest and simple human needs. But as in many cases, we're not understood (and in my case, little effort is made - I think up until today I've had one meaningful conversation with an administrator, nobody came to the Peace Corps conference, and nobody really takes an interest.) And not being understood leads to this feeling of disinterest.

Well, I've got two trimesters left to help these students - who, by the way, understand me - pass their exams.

I really thoroughly enjoy teaching, but administrators who are only interested in their own advancement, put me off. As it would anywhere in the world, as I've been put off in other jobs in other - as it feels now - lifetimes.

I don't like the feeling of not wanting to be here, but I'm willing to put up with it for a few more months. And then, I'm going to have to deal with wanting to be back here again! Yes, but I think it's just a desire to be challenging myself and my willpower, and I will find that somewhere else easily enough.

OK, enough of that. Back to the moment. I teach English today.

Peace

John

04/19/2004

Long day today - lots of walking and talking in lots of different languages. I'm speaking up more in school now, but I don't know if it helps anyone who needs it. Oh well, I'm trying.

Spoke to a Zimbabwean woman named Nyoni today who is a primary school teacher, but because of the poor economy in her country, has to augment her $140 monthly salary (where it costs $.10 for a piece of bread) by selling really nice woodwork and other goods in Mozambique. I bought a candlestick and we traded contact info. I promised to visit her in Zimbabwe and she promised to write, as her hobby is letter writing. She was shocked to find that there's no home delivery of mail here, or many other conveniences she has in her own country. She also asked me if I was here because of "charity" in that half-derisive way. In one swell foop, I rectified that misunderstanding and my religious affiliations (none). Yet another surprise to her.

Peace

John

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

04/16/2004

To the right, Prof Ercilio jiggles his watch, peering through his sunglasses to read the time that really doesn't matter. He peers back up, elbows on his knees in that classic pose of waiting for absolutely nothing. To my left, Alfred and Kingston are waiting just as patiently, but with no idea of when the end will be. They're just waiting until someone fills them in.

And me? Well, I've resigned myself to the knowledge that I will be waiting here for quite a while and without any idea of what will happen next. I arrived about an hour ago after happening to find Ercilio and Julio on the way with Ercilio's wife.

I fill my thoughts with funerals I've missed - most recently Horacio, also Rich E., some family members...well, I'm not missing this one. I sit in front of emptiness, by the door where I see sad people (mainly women) go in and rarely come out again. Some of my students have walked by, but I still don't understand everything.

I was informed this morning that a former teacher, Professora Anastancia, passed away yesterday, and so I'm here "paying my respects". Really, I'm sitting outside with the other men to mark my presence and take time to think about many things clearly and lucidly.

Like how I don't want my funeral to be like this.

We receive word that the services will be tomorrow at 9 AM, so Alfred, Kingston and I get up and leave slowly, quietly. We talk about how foreign all this is to each one of us. We talk about Anastancia.

She was a math teacher until this year when she went to Pedagogical University. She had had failing health for a few years and though she gave birth to many children, is survived only by her ailing husband and one son. The next door neighbors, considered family here, are a family of children orphaned by car accidents. The life expectancy is 32 and dropping - expected to hit 27 in a few years. It doesn't take a lot to be old here.

And so my mind takes on the reasons why this is so. Because it wasn't always this way. Before the war for independence, things were better in terms of health (but political freedom is another matter). Before colonialism, things were even better.

I take another look around. 50% unemployment. And a shortage of teachers. Many other jobs go unfilled. How come? There are people, but they aren't properly trained. So why don't people get the training? The man who gets free fish every day doesn't see the need.

The worst thing we've done for the "third world" is to call it just that. Because our Judeo-Christian sensibilities get spooked at the thought that millions lead crappy lives while we bask in luxury. Well, I can tell you, it's only crappy if you're given the hope of better. So we guilt-laden rich want to help those who live horrible lives.

And who's to say all this is "crappy"? Left to their own devices, people are perfectly content to live in a small hut, have a nice-sized farm to tend to and repair the same clothing. It's what Westerners call pride. Having to work for the next meal, deserving a day off, keeping a clean, tidy house, raising respectful children.

It's still like this in some places. Yes, there's often famine, drought and disease. Like anywhere. Like the US before the past few decades (or even in some places today). And on the occasions when people came in to give assistance, was it the French, Somalians, Mexicans or Japanese? No, our own government. Nobody stormed in and said "You need money."

But that happened here. Instead of the community relying upon itself and growing stronger, we came in and tried to show people how to build a community. A Western community. And to tide people over, we gave them food, money and medicine which ran out. So nobody was motivated to be trained to do these things, and the traditional structures fell apart because we ruined them, arrogantly assuming they were also destroyed.

After a natural disaster of our own, we remark on the togetherness of the community. After a natural disaster elsewhere, we remark on how much aid other countries have given. And so, more people give more money and make "third world" citizens more enslaved. People die younger from more because the bottom has fallen out. The existing structure we assumed would always be there and would service to give some framework to our aid, has collapsed because we have superseded it. And somehow, strikingly, we look at these numbers and wonder how we can give more. About how we can possibly raise enough money to feed this many children. Don't we see the problem?

It's not that AIDS is getting worse, that malaria is evolving, that teens are having sex younger - it's that we are not letting the "third world" take care of itself. We see these countries as innately helpless. We see in one death, doom, and in one new life, redemption.

A parent knows that if they tell their child not to do something, they'll go ahead and do it anyway, often in spite, and not learn from any negative feedback they may get. If, however, the child is allowed the freedom to explore and discover something that they should clearly not be doing (ouch, that's hot - oops, I guess she'll need new glasses), they will remember it 10 times better. Adults, too.

"Don't smoke. It will kill you." OR

"My father smoked 2 packs a day and I smoked about the same, until he died from lung cancer and I started coughing uncontrollably. Then I stopped."

The point is, people constantly learn and share that knowledge with each other. People are inherently intelligent - I have no doubt that Africans will develop (and have) methodologies for preventing AIDS and malaria transmission. But we can't do it for them. Just like they wouldn't be able to do it for us. But this misnomer of "third world" gives us the right to think that our solutions are better and more applicable. So how come it hasn't worked?

Peace

John