the countdown

But madam, you can hear Thimbukushu?
Tuesday, 21 September, 2010

I know I’ve said it before, but there’s nothing like coming back to be reminded how much you love something, someone or somewhere. After a week in Windhoek for Peace Corps end of service stuff, I got back home on Monday morning because I just wasn’t ready on Sunday. I took an extra day in town to decompress after the whirlwind of activity involved with starting to get out of here!

On Monday, in my 2 hour early hike, I still wasn’t ready to start teaching again, but I couldn’t think of anything to keep me away except that I was still tired. I got home, unloaded my potentially last big trip to town for food and got ready to teach the second half of the school day since I’d missed the first half. I walked to school through the crowds of kids playing outside during break and have never been so happy to be noticed.

Kids stopped to stare at me with smiles that I had come back. I think a lot of kids thought I’d gone for good. We greeted with even bigger smiles on our faces. I started teaching and my energy for boring conversions of units had never been higher. I couldn’t stop smiling, standing in front of kids who I didn’t think I missed for the week I was away, but re-realized my love for them as we started making jokes about whatever struck our fancy in class.

Study was even enjoyable, spending most of it with Kupenbona Benigna in grade 10. We did a lot of geometry to prepare her for the upcoming national exam she’ll write. She’s the cleverest kid at school, but judging by what she didn’t know, I can’t imagine more than a few kids will pass math this year. Her mom passed away recently and was buried on Friday, so I asked a little bit about that, making sure she was at least the “little bit ok” that she said was.

Today was another high – still enjoying seeing kids I’d missed, getting back into teaching and even sitting through a meeting I wanted to walk out of but somehow it didn’t seem as bad as others. Maybe everything just looks better when it’s almost over.

Study was cancelled because Ministry of Works came to spray for the ants that are eating the newly renovated classrooms. Kids found me in my house preparing for tomorrow and one boy who knows I know a little bit of Thimbukushu said, “Nipeko meyu” and to the astonishment of the boys he was with, I told him to take some water. “But madam, you can hear Thimbukushu?” They proceeded to test my knowledge and continued being surprised. I was too.

Instead of teaching in the afternoon I took a walk to the river and restocked my fridge with fresh picked, locally grown, uncertified organic vegetables. On the way I walked by the culture group of learners practicing for the competition in October. One boy demanded, “Faneke” and without thinking, I pretended I was holding my camera and taking his photo. Again, I’d astounded someone and he responded, “But madam, you can hear Thimbukushu?” Somewhere I stopped amazing myself with what I can hear. I’ll miss the mix of languages I hear everyday.

There’s nothing quite like watching your vegetables get picked from the banks of the Kavango River.

Misunderstandings
Wednesday, 22 September, 2010

In the last 2 years there has been an uncountable number of misunderstandings. Either people have misunderstood my directions or I’ve misunderstood theirs. Or just a simple story or even a word. This morning’s was maybe the funniest.

I was sitting with Siyanga in the staff briefing. Shangara went on and on about things that I didn’t think were important and time from my first period class was being eaten. All normal things. Finally he asked if there were any other things anyone wanted to bring up. Ndunda raised her hand. “Yesterday I went to a workshop and they talked about a séance.” I turned to Siyanga and asked, “What?” She patiently repeated for me a “séance fair.” I usually go to either Siyanga or Mughongora for translations of things I don’t quite understand so they’re used to my seemingly stupid questions. I repeated it for her, “A séance?” I started getting a worried look in my eyes. “Yes.” I asked for more clarification, “Does that word have a different meaning in your culture than it does in mine?” She told me, “No.” I sat back and thought this over, what would take place at a séance in Namibia? I had missed the word fair, which may have cleared things up earlier, but it finally dawned on me that they were not talking about a séance, but a SCIENCE fair. I told Siyanga what I was hearing and what that meant and we were both nearly in tears laughing and trying to keep it in because the meeting was still going on.

Thimende Dindo
Thursday, 23 September, 2010

In 2009, Thimende Dindo was in my 6B register class. He told me his name was Dindo Thimende. So for at least the first term, maybe even the second, he was in my register book backwards. He was second after Dikuwa Djani when he should have been last as Thimende Dindo. The whole name thing was too confusing. Especially when I also had a Kavindja Thimende, so I thought Thimende was a first name.

In 2009, he stood out as a problem. He was always dodging study. He was hanging out with Mamera Bonny who was repeating grade 6 for who knows what number of times and dropped out in term 3, he was late often and absent just as much. In term 3 he was absent 20 times. Never more than twice in a row. But I remember having to put 20 on his report card in the absent section.

I didn’t think I’d see him in 2010.

I did. And I continue to do so, almost daily. A lot more often than last year anyway. He’s now in 6A – the “slower” track. But he continues to surprise me almost daily. He was the learner who got 40/40 on paper 1 for the August exams. He finishes his work before his classmates, and it is of a much higher quality. He waits patiently for them to finish and sometimes even helps them when I’m busy teaching someone else.

In each class, I have a particular learner I look to for smiles. In 7A it’s Nicky, and several others, that class is full of good ones. In 7B it’s Kavindja Thimende and Kashako Karware and even Thikoka Kunyima. In 6B it’s Muhora Melitha Kathiku who is brilliant and quiet and so well behaved that when everyone elses’ energy is getting to me, I can exchange a knowing look with her and I’m somewhat more balanced. In 6A it’s Kamana Stephanus who wants me to call him Berbatov and Thimende Dindo who write Torres on his tests and quizzes now.

All of my classes write a lot of short quizzes. It’s my way of getting quick marks and keeping track of what they’re really learning. They’re never out of more than 10 points. But they always want them to be out of more marks. So in 6A one time last term, I told them it was out of 4000 instead of out of 4. When they gave me their marks verbally just after I marked them, they would say 1000 or 2000 or 3000 or 4000. Some kids have continued to do so.

Yesterday Thimende Dindo reported that he’d gotten “four million.” Today, after a quiz with conversion of units and having decimals in it, he told me he got “four comma zero zero.” Those little things are enough to get my energy back up when my feet are swollen from the intense heat of the dry summer and my ankles are sore from standing on the hard concrete for 4 hours already.

My job is pointless
Friday, 24 September, 2010

On Tuesday I went to tell 5 of the 14 kids who have been training for the marathon that they probably can’t go. The agreement had been that those who failed term 2 wouldn’t run. Only 9 passed, so those 9 are safe. The principal will probably stick to the failing means not going agreement, but if I had it my way, they’d all go.

While I’m there with them, they start asking about shoes. I told them I’m not buying them this year because last year half the runners didn’t even wear them. They were disappointed so I said if they come to me with N$45, for half a pair of shoes, I’d put in the other half. They buy the right shoe, I’ll buy them the left shoe.

Then they started telling me that about 4 other teacher have been telling them that they’re going to Swakopmund too. Oh? Great! Well, I don’t think 4 will go, but maybe one. Then they’ll know what it’s like for next year when I’m not here. I even told them that maybe 2 others could go and I wouldn’t. I thought more about that one and realized that was a dumb idea.

So yesterday I mention some stuff about the marathon to the principal – he asks about transport, nothing is set yet; he tells me only those 9 will go, I told him if they’re passing at the time of the marathon I want them all to go; I told him that some other teachers want to go, he said absolutely not.

“But what about next year when I’m not here? Someone should know what it’s like so they can bring them.”

“You can bring them.”

“I won’t be here next year.”

“Teachers can’t just let kids train alone and then expect to take days off to bring them to the marathon. You can go. No one else.”

“But then you will bring them next year?”

“No, it’ll be fine. We’ll start from scratch.”

…

On Thursday, Kapira came to my classroom and told me her father was in the admin block and needed to speak with me. Kapira owes me N$210 so I was happy her dad was there to discuss this, but I was still annoyed to be missing class.

After our greeting, Karipa’s dad told me that “Kapira phoned early this morning because I needed to come because she’s having trouble seeing the board. And she reminded me that she’s owing you money.”

“OK.”

“I told her that when she needs something, she must keep coming to you and you must help her the money and then I will pay you back. The money isn’t a problem, it’s in the bank, but it’s just far to go and collect it.”

“If I’m having the money.”

”Yes, if you’re having the money.”

“I also need you, today when you have time, to go to the clinic and talk to them about the medicine for her eyes.”

“Isn’t that something you can do since you’re here?”

“Yes, I can go there.”

“Also, there won’t be a volunteer here next year, I’m leaving in December.”

“Ok, I’ll get the money to you before then. Just keep helping her when she needs something.”

Things that start with M
Wednesday, 29 September, 2010

Menstruation. One of my least favorite times of the day is study. Yesterday I was let into an interesting conversation that made it worth my while.

“When are you ladies expecting to give birth?” I asked Ms Liswaniso and Helga, the cleaner at school.

“Me, I won’t have mine until next year,” Liswaniso told me.

“Maybe in October, maybe in December, or even November,” Helga told me.

“That one, she doesn’t know when she’s due,” Liswaniso helpfully clarified.

“Well, when did you stop menstruating?” I asked, thinking that was the easier question to answer.

“That one, she doesn’t usually attend to menstruation,” Liswaniso answered for her.

“She doesn’t usually attend? That’s how you call it here?” I asked.

“The direct translation is ‘to go over the moon.’ So if someone says they’re ‘over the moon,’ it means they’re attending,” Ndunda jumped in.

I picked up on the fact that the literal translation follows the cycle of the moon, but when asked if that’s where it come one, no one connected the length of full moon to full moon and the length of one cycle of menstruation.

The conversation continued to inform me on the ways that women are limited during their period: they can’t sleep in the same bed with their husband and they can’t cook or serve food for men or boys. Women are also restricted from the bedroom from 4 to 6 months after giving birth, depending on the specific tribal tradition. Sihope came out of a neighboring office to remind me that this is all Biblical in origin.

“But what about in your culture?” Liswaniso wanted to know.

“Nothing. When I’m menstruating, it’s just normal. Nothing changes, I can still cook, could still share a bed, can still do anything.”

Measles. I’m vaccinated against this, right? This morning, a representative from the hospital came by to tell us that there are several kids in this village and neighboring ones who have measles, kakutji, but aren’t going to the hospital. So we have to inform our learners about it so they can get treatment before everyone is infected.

I’ve never learned about measles, so I asked him, “What are the symptoms?”

“A rash over all the body, coughing, red eyes, sneezing.”

Now every time a kid even coughs, I turn to the class and we all laugh and say kakutji. I used to think TB, but now it’s changed to measles.

Maghumi. Last Monday, after a week away, Lami showed up at my house before I even got to school and brought me two maghumi. Ate one the other day, the first of the season for me, and it was too delicious.

Mahangu. There is nothing I like doing more than pounding mahangu with a learner at her homestead. Doesn’t matter which learner, preferably a different one each time! Yesterday at the end of my 2 hours of class with 7B I asked them who was pounding soon and that I love pounding and could I pound with someone? Ghuwanga Justina told me that she was going to pound today for Ms Siyanga. Can I come and pound with you? Yes.

This morning she reminded me and her family was expecting me. I thought it was after study, but it wasn’t, it was during study, so I even dodged study! What a great afternoon!

We walked to her homestead about 20 minutes away in a village I’ve heard lots about but had never been to. The sun was at its strongest and my farmer tan lines were greatly enhanced.

Marudhi, the village she lives in, is so different from what I’m used to. There’s no school, they all come to Andara. There’s no hospital. They all come to Andara. There’s no church. They all come to Andara. There are no solid gravel roads, only sand paths that are sometimes wide enough for a car, sometimes not. Homesteads were much farther apart, offering much more quiet than when I walk through my village.

We got to her home, after she briefed me on who might be there – her mom is a school board member who I knew the face of once she told me the name, her sister who left school after grade 8. That’s all she told me about. There were many small kids too.

Ghuwanga and I pounded while the people we found there under the tree looked on. No one believed that I knew how, but were impressed once I started.

I found myself alone with adults for some periods of time. I still haven’t figured out how to talk to them. So I would quietly wait for learners to come back and try to answer as many questions as I could that were asked of me.

When we finished pounding the first time and her mom was going to separate the shells from the grain that still had to be pounded a second time, Ghuwanga said to me, “Let’s go to the river.” I’m always up for a visit to the river, so I happily left the group of adults.

While some kids swam in the crocodile infested waters (for all the talk about crocodiles, I’ve only seen one in Andara in my nearly 2 years living here) and others washed clothes, I happily sat on a rock watching, listening and taking it all in. In a crowd of kids here, it’s impossible to be lonely. They easily ask me questions I understand, demand photos which make them smile innocently and once they get over the shock of the color of my skin, will continue going about their business without any more notice of me.

When other kids started going home to do chores, Ghuwanga and I left to pound the second time. My blisters (mahutu) got much worse and she told me to stop. My stubbornness and love of the physical work kept me going until it was finished and she walked me back to school, where we found everyone still in study.

Marathon. The deal this year was that any learner who failed term 2 wouldn’t run in the marathon. Of the 14 who started training back in June, 5 failed, 4 of whom went last year and 1 of them who went the last 2 years. I had to go and tell them this afternoon that they wouldn’t be going to Swakopmund in 2 weeks. They took the news very well, quietly accepting their fate, after we discussed the difference between a priviledge and a right – all but one agreeing that going to the marathon is a priviledge. So this year we’ll only be going with 9, and homefully transport there and back will be less of a hassle compared to last year.

The power’s been out for about an hour and it’s time to enjoy that beautiful night sky without any lights on.