Nicky
Monday, 24 May, 2010

This morning I went to Nicky’s and planned to spend the whole day with her. She wasn’t home. She was out collecting manure with her mom. I sat with Kunyima as she worked on a basket (I dropped hints that I want more, in return for the school shirt I’m going to get her, the school shoes and school bag I’m going to get Nicky; she also offered to give me a chicken, so I guess I have to work on that coop and find some more chickens!). Nicky and her mom got back with big smiles on their faces, as I’m sure mine had as well.

After our greetings all around - Ngepi? Thiwana? Awo? How are you? Fine/Great/Fantastic. You? - I told Nicky, “I brought you something. A gift, but it’s a joke, so you have to laugh when you open it.” Her look of excitement suddenly changed to fear and she wanted nothing to do with it. I held out the plastic rice cake bag tied into a ball and her mom had to encourage her to take it. Shimbe! She reluctantly stretched out her hand and I gave it to her. I asked, “What do you think it is?” Her sister and brother were there too. They all felt it - squishy and a lot lighter than they thought it’d be. They kept looking at me with very skeptical looks of fear. Nicky suddenly burst out laughing and blurted out, “Huki!” Hair! When I got my hair cut last weekend (by a near stranger on the hike in Naukluft) I thought to myself, and probably said out loud, “Nicky will kill me for doing this!” So I saved the majority of my (very dirty by then on the 6th day of the hike) hair in a bag to give her. She opened it and as it dawned on each person individually, they laughed as much as I did.

We spent the next several hours sitting around, in complete comfort, speaking mostly Thimbukushu and me sometimes having an idea of what was going on to laugh with them, sometimes requesting a translation while Kunyima and her mother both worked on baskets. At one point I pulled out my iPod because I’d smartly brought it with me for entertainment purposes, not my own entertainment. The faces of all the kids - all the kids at this homestead know what it is - looked like they were enjoying Christmas morning in America. I was worried about how lunch would work since the last few times it’s been an issue. I again planned to eat with Nicky, Kunyima, Mukoya and their mother, but once again Augusta, the matriarch on the homestead, came over and asked if I eat chicken and fish. Yes, but just give me one, I don’t need both! I told Nicky quietly that I think the only time we’ll be allowed to eat together, the same food, from the same bowl, is at my house. Fine. We came to terms with it. But when I was served, I put it aside and waited until everyone else was ready to eat who I was visiting with. And then I found that I had both chicken and fish, so I gave the fish to Nicky and Kunyima, and Mukoya finished my rice. To me, that’s a better way of going about it than getting stressed out. We still got to eat together.

At one point, Kedi, a 3 year old boy, showed up. They greeted him - Ngepi? Thiwana. Thiwana yira ngepi? Thiwana yira mbato. - followed by hysterical laughter. And it was repeated many time because it was so funny. I had no idea why it was funny. “Nicky, what’s mbato?” When you go to the toilet to poop, and the poop wants to come out, but it can’t. I don’t know how to call that word in English. Ohhh…constipated. No one knows why he tells them he’s constipated, but it is quite funny.

After lunch, Nicky, Kunyima and I went to the river where they bathed and I sat on the “dock” which was well under water the last time I was there a month ago. We easily chatted about anything and nothing. Laying on my back, enjoying the clouds, the river, the solitude, the ease of being with Nicky and Kunyima, I said, “Nicky, I missed you.” When? “When I was in South Africa.” Why? “Because we weren’t together.” Oh, I missed you too. “Why?” Because I couldn’t play minesweeper or pinball. “Oh, so you missed my computer.” And I couldn’t touch your hair or see your face.

SERIOUSLY, FIGURE OUT A WAY FOR ME TO GET HER TO AMERICA!!!

Nicky and I walked through the village, looking for someone with DVDs we could watch, but the few options we had fell through. We had 2 year old Precious with us, switching off who would carry her. I’d brought N$10 worth of coins with me because I didn’t know how many kids I’d be with when I wanted fat cakes (it’s been too long!) but since we’d just eaten lunch, neither of us REALLY wanted them. Instead we walked to the mission where they’re selling oranges for 50 cents each! A much better snack! And then we bought N$1 worth of fresh (?) raisins.

Then the request for minesweeper came. The three of us went back to my house. I was carrying Precious most of the time, and about 3 minutes before we got to my house, she fell asleep in my arms. I put her on my bed for the hour we were there and then I carried her back home for the whole 15 minute walk. Some people we passed asked, “Is she sick?” No, just asleep. It was comforting to know that even after a month away, someone I hardly know was still completely comfortable to fall asleep in my arms.

More than ever, today the whole village felt like home instead of the one room house I live in. Everywhere I went, people greeted me with big smiles, I saw learners I’ve missed for the last few weeks or few months if they transferred to new schools. And I had a better answer to their “long time” and “why do you isolate yourself at school” comments - I was in South Africa! It was easy to be here. It was enjoyable. It was refreshing. It was better than when I left.

I couldn’t have asked for a better first full day back home.

Family
Tuesday, 25 May, 2010

Once again my expectations for my productivity at my house were set exceedingly high. Especially after receiving an sms from Nicky at 7:15am saying “werepoundingmundere.” Translation: We’re pounding mundere (maize). I’ve been telling her for months that I want to pound with her and I want to pound mundere, I’ve only ever pounded mahangu. When I saw the message 30 minutes later, I was still in my pajamas, finished eating only half of what I’d made for breakfast (turns out I eat less after vacation) and wrote back, “I’m coming.” I went.

I found Kunyima pounding, Nicky raking, their mother working on her basket, and I sat down awaiting instructions. Kunyima and I pounded mundere together for a bit, but neither of us like it much. It’s significantly harder than pounding mahangu, so we got some of that instead. Nicky, Kunyima and I pounded for a few hours in the disappearing shade. I have blisters (mahutu) on my hands that would rival those on my feet last week.

I was finally given the privilege of eating with Nicky - we shared mahangu porridge, fish and oily sautéed tomatoes. I sat on a crate, she sat on the kakundhu (what we pound in) turned on its side with the plates in the sand between us. We used out hands to eat, and many people came over to ask if I was ok, thinking I didn’t actually like eating that food, when this was exactly what I’d been wanting every time I went there and stayed for lunch. I don’t know if words were exchanged, but I’m happy to have been able to eat what Nicky had to offer.

While Nicky was off cooking, I was sitting watching Kunyima and their mother works on their baskets. All of a sudden, their mother turned to me and started talking away in Thimbukushu, “Ndangi … tendi… Nicky, toroke!” Thank you…you did…Nicky, translate! More words were said in Thimbukushu and I realized she was profusely thanking me for paying Nicky’s school fees a few months ago and that it’s a good thing what I’m doing for her. She wants to pay me back, bring me porridge, wash my clothes. I want nothing of that. I would accept it, but that’s certainly not why I paid for her.

At the time that I paid Nicky’s school fees, some months back, Nicky and I had just had a disagreement or misunderstanding. I had been planning to pay the school fees for a while, but I felt that’d be the right time to do it. We weren’t hanging out as much, I’d sent her away one day when I was too tired to visit and I wanted her to know I still loved her just as much, I was just tired. After I paid, I brought the receipt to her and said nothing, just put it face down on her table. The next day she asked if I’d paid or if her mom had. I did. She gave me a quiet thank you, but her face said it all. It was similar to the way her mother looked today - a little embarrassed that she couldn’t pay it herself, but also grateful that I did it. That’s why I do things the way I do - quietly.

But it comes down to Nicky’s mother and me having hardly any words we can exchange and understand. Ndangi. Thank you. Ewa. And greetings. That’s about it. Somehow it works. She knows I love her daughter unconditionally, and the relationships I’ve been able to form with Nicky’s sister and one brother have also moved into the ease of family.

After lunch, Nicky, Kunyima and I once again went to the river for them to bathe, even though neither of them really did much of that. We all lay on the “dock” and enjoyed being away for the chaos that is their homestead - the neverending stream of family and friends passing through. Kunyima lay nearest to the end of the dock, Nicky in the middle with her head on my leg as a pillow, and I sat furthest from the water. Again, our conversation moved with whatever came into our heads, a constant stream of consciousness. We found ourselves talking about school, which starts tomorrow, and the other teachers there. The topic of salary came up and Nicky asked how much I get paid. More than your mother, less than the other teachers. Their mother doesn’t work. The other teachers make about 4 times what I do. Nicky sat up in surprise. You get paid the least but you do the most work?! At least someone notices! I told her it’s not about the money, it’s about working as hard as you can all the time no matter what the reward is. I asked them at one point, “Three years from now, when I’ve been gone for a little while, how will you remember me - as your teacher, a friend or a sister?” Without missing a beat or looking up at me, Kunyima was the one who surprised me with the quick answer, “Our sister.”

Nicky has this smile. It doesn’t come out often. She smiles plenty, but she has this OTHER smile. It makes me never want to leave her when I see it. I always try to get it out of her, every time I see her. And I always feel extra happy when I succeed. I always try to capture it on my camera too. But I don’t usually carry it with me, and it’s always a surprise when she puts it on. I had it with me today. And I got that smile. I just hope it does justice to her presence when I’m gone. I know it won’t.

Nicky blurted out “I miss sugar.” It’s probably been about an hour since she’d had any. I got the smile I live for when I said, “Let’s go make that thing we had on New Year’s Eve.” A look of confusion. “The thing we shared with Kangapi and Filo at my house.” She sat up again in surprise, turned to face me, and there was that smile. We had brownies on New Year’s Eve and she loved it more than anyone else. They quickly bathed the limited amount they were going to and we went back to their home on our way to mine.

I made brownies, they watched “The Gods Must Be Crazy II” and we shared the whole pan. I ate a lot less than they did, and I was shocked when they finished it. Sugar. If that was a food group in itself, it’d be the whole pyramid!

Take 5
Wednesday, 26 May, 2010

The first day of my fifth term. If this sounds familiar, it’s because it probably is.

The morning started like any other school day - waking up about an hour and a half earlier than my alarm. I looked at the time at 4:08. I thought it was kidding. Next thing I knew, my alarm was ringing and I was more exhausted than when I’d gone to bed the night before.

Yesterday I’d tried to find out when school was starting, but no one really knows, so I was ready at 6:30 (after refiguring out my morning routine, in which I found my watch to wear again, only to find that it had stopped working either a month ago on 25 April, or just yesterday on 25 May, given by the date that was left), the time we’re supposed to be there. But day one is never like the others. When I got there at 6:40 instead, there were only about 5 teachers around. So I thought to myself, “Screw this,” and went back home for a little while. When I returned, about half of the teachers were present in the staff room and the principal came out of his office a few minutes later. He didn’t know what to do with all the empty spaces on the benches, so the bell was rung and we went to assembly with the learners instead of having a staff briefing first.

At assembly, it was like we’d never missed a day. Why aren’t you singing? You have to wait to be told? You don’t want to pray? Why is your hair still long? You knew school was starting and you did nothing about it. Where is everyone else? Some comments in Thimbukushu that I can only guess on the translations.

This went on for about 45 minutes. I realized once again how adults speak to kids, how kids obediently listen and take the verbal abuse, how easy it is to pick out the negatives, how I’d blocked this part of the school day out of my memory for the last month. It all came back in full force and I could only laugh, otherwise I would have cried. I briefly considered leaving assembly and crying behind a building, but I knew I’d be found and then would have to try to explain.

We were released with the usual “go to your classes and don’t make noise.” Yeah, ok. The teachers all went to the staff room and we had a “briefing” for an hour. The phone rang 3 times before the principal unplugged it. I laughed out loud at that point. There were so many comments made that I wish I could remember for their absurdity, but of course the details will remain forever lost.

Finally in my classroom, I spoke to my learners the only way I know how - quietly and with respect. They respond by making noise and running around the classroom. It’s exhausting. I stayed with 6B the whole day and I hated them by the end of it. Individually, I love them. As a whole class, with no structure, I hate them.

I returned their textbooks. There’s a new requirement (it’ll never be checked) that all textbooks have to be covered in plastic. There is a kind of plastic wrap that can be bought for that purpose, but I’m not about to spend that much money. So I brought all of my plastic bags to school, 2 pairs of scissors and 3 scotch tapes. They cut up the bags and taped them over their books.

My class was only missing 4 of the 25 kids. Some others were missing 16 of 26 or 7 of 22. The smart ones know nothing happens on the first day so they don’t come.

I told my class at the end of the day that tomorrow I’m teaching. No, madam! Next week! No, tomorrow. I’m not coming to school for 3 days this week and telling you to be quiet. I’m following my timetable and teaching math tomorrow. No one else will be teaching, so I don’t actually have to follow a timetable.

I often found myself walking out of my classroom thinking or saying to a colleague, “I can’t handle this!” Only 2 more days of this level of ridiculousness, then a more manageable one until the start of next term.

So it goes.