I got mauled by the rain today. A 40 meter roundtrip dash to the French teacher and back (to ask her to teach the kindergarteners in my classroom instead of hers so they wouldn't have to walk in the rain) left me a sodden, demoralized mess. I dropped by mud-wrecked sandals by the door and borrowed a swimming towel from one of my students.
While my children were were occupied with French songs, I was shivering, indecent in the bathroom while my clothes hung to dry on the towel rack. After my brief sabbatical ended, I spent the rest of the day damp and barefoot.
At lunch the little girl I refer to as the UN Interpreter approached me and said in low tones, "For one thing, you have no shoes on. And first of all, your leg is dirty."
Monday, December 13, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
It's Time
The rainy season is here, even though as I type right now with blinding sunbeams slanting through the spaces in my curtains, it is hard to believe. But when the storms sweep in, walking becomes more like swimming, and the pounding sound of rain on the roof shatters any concentration I once had.
Last weekend it rained so long and so hard, that, I stayed in bed for days, reading book after book, emerging from my mosquito netting only to make zucchini fritters and look out the window.
Our campus has turned technicolor green and the running trails are overgrown with bush. The mosquitos are out in thick clouds and the Nairobi eyes or acid bugs I have been hearing about have started to emerge (they land on your skin and when you attempt to brush them off they excrete a rash-producing acid). Meanwhile the black flies have been retreating and spend the last moments of their season crashing kamikaze style against my eyeballs, or in the case of one, in the back of my throat as it rode it on a gulp of mid-run oxygen. It's wings beat damply against my uvula for several minutes before curling up and dying yet refusing to be swallowed. The cockroaches drowning beneath my leaking roof routinely crawl out from between my walls, flip onto their backs and die a slow, leg-wiggling death.
Mango trees which dot our campus are a truly generous thing, especially after the rains start. But high up in the trees, the most unreachable fruits turn golden, then rot, before falling dozens of feet to the ground. These are known with a mix of wonder and fear as mango bombs. It is only one reason why it is dangerous to walk under mango trees. The other is the slime underfoot, slick and emitting the rotten mango smell of sewage and vinegar. In my own garden, which once gave weeks of bountiful salads, the tomatoes first began growing to the size of my face and before turning red, dropping off the vine with rot, or else growing to the size of marbles, turning a freakish, speckled pattern and dropping off the vine in rot.
The enormous snails creep up my steps in the damp evenings leaving behind trails of slime for me to find when I come home at night. I have stepped on one in the dark and the sensation of my flip flopped foot cracking open the shell and sliding on the rubbery body was more than a little disgusting.
And when the sun peaks through after hours of rain, the dirt path in front of my door is clogged with lizards rejuvenating in the brief and brilliant sunshine, which sounds pretty good to me.
Last weekend it rained so long and so hard, that, I stayed in bed for days, reading book after book, emerging from my mosquito netting only to make zucchini fritters and look out the window.
Our campus has turned technicolor green and the running trails are overgrown with bush. The mosquitos are out in thick clouds and the Nairobi eyes or acid bugs I have been hearing about have started to emerge (they land on your skin and when you attempt to brush them off they excrete a rash-producing acid). Meanwhile the black flies have been retreating and spend the last moments of their season crashing kamikaze style against my eyeballs, or in the case of one, in the back of my throat as it rode it on a gulp of mid-run oxygen. It's wings beat damply against my uvula for several minutes before curling up and dying yet refusing to be swallowed. The cockroaches drowning beneath my leaking roof routinely crawl out from between my walls, flip onto their backs and die a slow, leg-wiggling death.
Mango trees which dot our campus are a truly generous thing, especially after the rains start. But high up in the trees, the most unreachable fruits turn golden, then rot, before falling dozens of feet to the ground. These are known with a mix of wonder and fear as mango bombs. It is only one reason why it is dangerous to walk under mango trees. The other is the slime underfoot, slick and emitting the rotten mango smell of sewage and vinegar. In my own garden, which once gave weeks of bountiful salads, the tomatoes first began growing to the size of my face and before turning red, dropping off the vine with rot, or else growing to the size of marbles, turning a freakish, speckled pattern and dropping off the vine in rot.
The enormous snails creep up my steps in the damp evenings leaving behind trails of slime for me to find when I come home at night. I have stepped on one in the dark and the sensation of my flip flopped foot cracking open the shell and sliding on the rubbery body was more than a little disgusting.
And when the sun peaks through after hours of rain, the dirt path in front of my door is clogged with lizards rejuvenating in the brief and brilliant sunshine, which sounds pretty good to me.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
How to Ask for Something and Not Get It
In DRC I am learning the art of asking for something you have no intention of getting. Let's start with school supplies. Now my school really likes bureaucratic and lengthy systems. Example- How my kindergartners get lunch:
Step 1: Come in the class in the morning and indicate if they brought lunch or are buying.
Step 2: If they are buying, ask them which of the two meal options they would like.
Step 3: Field their questions about various choices. "What's a beef carbanado?" (You might as well ask me what wicket is) and "Is rice and beans that spicy thing I don't like?" ("No, that's chicken curry.")
Step 4: Ask them if they want juice.
Step 5: Tell them you don't know the damn juice flavor and they can commit to an unknown flavor or else drink water.
Step 6: Tally their choice.
Step 7: Write their name on the juice list.
Step 8: Give them a necklace with their meal choice of the day to keep in their cubbyhole.
Step 9: Enter cafeteria lady.
Step 10: Hand over the tally and juice list.
Step 11: Label juice boxes with juice-drinkers names
Step 12: Cross off the dollar amounts of various lunches off of children's lunch cards.
Step 13: Fill in forms of how much money each student has left.
Step 79: Several hours later, children have eaten lunch and after briefly considering walking across campus to eat with the other teachers, pass out in the reading corner.
Requesting supplies has fewer steps, but is no easier in practice. First of all, the supply closet opens once a day and once a day only. That is at 3:30 pm so if you need something, you better know the day before. And when you do order something, be prepared to have to reorder it the next day and the next as your request is continually screwed up from your dutifully filled out request form. For example, I asked for a notebook and got a grade book, I asked for an ink pad and I got an ink cartridge, I asked for sticky tack and I got a thumb tack, so I re-requested with the brand-name Bostik and was given post-its. When I finally stuck a sample on to the request form, I was told that "this thing" does not exist in Kinshasa. The thing is, every time your request is messed up, you have to wait another 24 hours for the next request to be filled. I once waited 3 days for a pencil. The best (by which I mean worst) was when I requested paper and they gave me one sheet-literally. Why on earth would I use a piece of paper to request another identical piece of paper?! Really, this goes far beyond a language barrier. My classroom is completely out of erasers but I'm afraid to ask for more for fear that I am going to get a bunch of razors in my mailbox.
Of course my neanderthal French also contributes to my not getting things I ask for-even something as simple as a name. When I first met the custodian in charge of my classroom. I introduced himself and asked my name. He apparently didn't understand my busted French so he clarified, "Mon nom?" and not realizing what had taken place, I called him Manome until I was embarrassingly corrected.
Asking for things in the grocery store is futile if you don't know the right nouns. Craving popcorn, I approached a man in the store and said "Do you have popcorn?" (This was all in French except for the word 'popcorn'). He looked confused. I said, "I don't know the word in French but do you have these small things that say pop pop pop?" "Do you play with it?" he asked me. "No," I said, "You eat it." He looked baffled so I went on to say, or at least attempted to say, "It is a little thing from corn. You put it in a pot with oil. When it gets hot, it says, 'pop, pop, pop' and you eat it." Now he looked absolutely mystified and like he wanted me to go away. So I did, and eventually found a bag and brought it back to the guy and asked him what the word for this thing is in French. The name was so wordy and long and I repeated it several times to remember. Later, someone told me that popcorn in French is pop-corn. Maybe the man was making me say, "Help, this small, white girl is bothering me."
Step 1: Come in the class in the morning and indicate if they brought lunch or are buying.
Step 2: If they are buying, ask them which of the two meal options they would like.
Step 3: Field their questions about various choices. "What's a beef carbanado?" (You might as well ask me what wicket is) and "Is rice and beans that spicy thing I don't like?" ("No, that's chicken curry.")
Step 4: Ask them if they want juice.
Step 5: Tell them you don't know the damn juice flavor and they can commit to an unknown flavor or else drink water.
Step 6: Tally their choice.
Step 7: Write their name on the juice list.
Step 8: Give them a necklace with their meal choice of the day to keep in their cubbyhole.
Step 9: Enter cafeteria lady.
Step 10: Hand over the tally and juice list.
Step 11: Label juice boxes with juice-drinkers names
Step 12: Cross off the dollar amounts of various lunches off of children's lunch cards.
Step 13: Fill in forms of how much money each student has left.
Step 79: Several hours later, children have eaten lunch and after briefly considering walking across campus to eat with the other teachers, pass out in the reading corner.
Requesting supplies has fewer steps, but is no easier in practice. First of all, the supply closet opens once a day and once a day only. That is at 3:30 pm so if you need something, you better know the day before. And when you do order something, be prepared to have to reorder it the next day and the next as your request is continually screwed up from your dutifully filled out request form. For example, I asked for a notebook and got a grade book, I asked for an ink pad and I got an ink cartridge, I asked for sticky tack and I got a thumb tack, so I re-requested with the brand-name Bostik and was given post-its. When I finally stuck a sample on to the request form, I was told that "this thing" does not exist in Kinshasa. The thing is, every time your request is messed up, you have to wait another 24 hours for the next request to be filled. I once waited 3 days for a pencil. The best (by which I mean worst) was when I requested paper and they gave me one sheet-literally. Why on earth would I use a piece of paper to request another identical piece of paper?! Really, this goes far beyond a language barrier. My classroom is completely out of erasers but I'm afraid to ask for more for fear that I am going to get a bunch of razors in my mailbox.
Of course my neanderthal French also contributes to my not getting things I ask for-even something as simple as a name. When I first met the custodian in charge of my classroom. I introduced himself and asked my name. He apparently didn't understand my busted French so he clarified, "Mon nom?" and not realizing what had taken place, I called him Manome until I was embarrassingly corrected.
Asking for things in the grocery store is futile if you don't know the right nouns. Craving popcorn, I approached a man in the store and said "Do you have popcorn?" (This was all in French except for the word 'popcorn'). He looked confused. I said, "I don't know the word in French but do you have these small things that say pop pop pop?" "Do you play with it?" he asked me. "No," I said, "You eat it." He looked baffled so I went on to say, or at least attempted to say, "It is a little thing from corn. You put it in a pot with oil. When it gets hot, it says, 'pop, pop, pop' and you eat it." Now he looked absolutely mystified and like he wanted me to go away. So I did, and eventually found a bag and brought it back to the guy and asked him what the word for this thing is in French. The name was so wordy and long and I repeated it several times to remember. Later, someone told me that popcorn in French is pop-corn. Maybe the man was making me say, "Help, this small, white girl is bothering me."
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Enjoying the Rain, Dammit!
One winter in Malawi, in the inspiration of a torrential downpour experienced from an outdoor, tin-roofed kitchen, I decided that when I become a real grown-up, I will have a tin roofed shack specifically for enjoying rainstorms.
I don't know if that day has come, but I do now have a tin-roof porch in the concrete rainforest of Kinshasa. In the first big rain of the season, I climbed in my hammock, hung specifically for rain-listening and had only just leaned back when I realized that I was not only being poured on through gaps in the roof, but that I was positioned directly under a steady stream of mud
After flinging myself out of the hammock, determined to enjoy the rain, I got my umbrella (picturing the faces of all the presidents or dictators as the case may be, of DRC), went back on the porch and crouched in ankle-deep filth.
And that is how I spent my first Congolese rain.
I don't know if that day has come, but I do now have a tin-roof porch in the concrete rainforest of Kinshasa. In the first big rain of the season, I climbed in my hammock, hung specifically for rain-listening and had only just leaned back when I realized that I was not only being poured on through gaps in the roof, but that I was positioned directly under a steady stream of mud
After flinging myself out of the hammock, determined to enjoy the rain, I got my umbrella (picturing the faces of all the presidents or dictators as the case may be, of DRC), went back on the porch and crouched in ankle-deep filth.
And that is how I spent my first Congolese rain.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Three Gems
My students took awhile to start saying things that make me choke on my own saliva, but then three gems in 24 hours:
Precocious: I tried on my dad's knickers once and I looked really silly.
The UN Interpreter after realizing she forgot her swimsuit for PE: (Sigh) Well, I guess I just have to swim naked. (She can say this in perfect German or French too should the need arise and I thankfully know how to say "no" in both).
Me: (While reading a Chinese folk tale about 3 princes searching for the most beautiful thing in the world in order to win the king's crown): What might the most beautiful thing in the world be?
Sparkles (previously unnamed in kinderfolk): A diamond covered in Muslims.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Thank You Note to Maasai Mara, Kenya
Hey there, savannah, thanks for magnificent open spaces. After years of my field of vision being molested by the mountains, skyscrapers, jungles and split levels, plains are a valium for the eyes. Infinity is good.
Hey mama and baby cheetah, thanks for posing on that gray rock just there. Judging from the way your chests are heaving, I know you had to run really fast to make that photo shoot.
Giraffes, your walk rivals the open plains as a treat for the eyes. Please show emaciated supermodels that your strut is all the more magnificent with a big round belly.
Oh big buffalo, with your swooped up curly horns, you look like you should be 19th century judges. Oh baby buffalo, you are a delicious lion meal. I feel a little bad but it's the way of the food web.
Wow mama lions, crunching on them bones like they're string beans. And baby cubs, how do you manage to look so darling, even with your face smeared with blood? And thanks papa lions for having that nice sandy mane and yawning and stretching and sleeping again until I am lulled into a nap myself.
Wildebeasts, you are a little ugly (to be generous), but who am I to judge? Keep sprouting beards in weird places and keep being you. I'm sorry some of you got swept away by the river during your great migration. Evolution makes tasty snacks for the storks.
Mongoose (mongooses? mongeese?), thanks for eating snakes. Better you than me.
Swanky zebra, your whites are so dazzling I want to ask you for laundry tips.
Thanks dik-dik for revealing yourself to me. Ever since a pony-tailed peace corps volunteer in Mali told me I looked like "that fast and friendly big-eyed midget gazelle," I've wondered what you look like. I suppose I see the resemblance.
Thanks, shy children in open doorways. You are the cutest kind of child.
Maasai men and women, with your long legs, red cloth and braided earlobes (how the heck do you do that?), thanks for showing me around.
Love,
Sara
P.S. No thanks, bedbugs in my mattress at the Mennonite Guest House in Nairobi. The way you bit up my thighs is rather unholy.
P.P.S. I know I'm missing some pictures. . .I don't like taking pictures all that much since it's a waste of a beautiful view to spend it staring through a hole in the camera and you can find a better picture on google anyway.
Hiya rain. Thanks for lying on the windshield in psychedelic patterns, cleansing the dust from the air and quenching the thirst of brown grass. Good job.
Giraffes, your walk rivals the open plains as a treat for the eyes. Please show emaciated supermodels that your strut is all the more magnificent with a big round belly.
Oh big buffalo, with your swooped up curly horns, you look like you should be 19th century judges. Oh baby buffalo, you are a delicious lion meal. I feel a little bad but it's the way of the food web.
Wow mama lions, crunching on them bones like they're string beans. And baby cubs, how do you manage to look so darling, even with your face smeared with blood? And thanks papa lions for having that nice sandy mane and yawning and stretching and sleeping again until I am lulled into a nap myself.
Wildebeasts, you are a little ugly (to be generous), but who am I to judge? Keep sprouting beards in weird places and keep being you. I'm sorry some of you got swept away by the river during your great migration. Evolution makes tasty snacks for the storks.
Mongoose (mongooses? mongeese?), thanks for eating snakes. Better you than me.
Swanky zebra, your whites are so dazzling I want to ask you for laundry tips.
Thanks dik-dik for revealing yourself to me. Ever since a pony-tailed peace corps volunteer in Mali told me I looked like "that fast and friendly big-eyed midget gazelle," I've wondered what you look like. I suppose I see the resemblance.
Thanks, shy children in open doorways. You are the cutest kind of child.
Maasai men and women, with your long legs, red cloth and braided earlobes (how the heck do you do that?), thanks for showing me around.
Love,
Sara
P.S. No thanks, bedbugs in my mattress at the Mennonite Guest House in Nairobi. The way you bit up my thighs is rather unholy.
P.P.S. I know I'm missing some pictures. . .I don't like taking pictures all that much since it's a waste of a beautiful view to spend it staring through a hole in the camera and you can find a better picture on google anyway.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Itch
I should be working. Actually, I should be sleeping, but am forgoing it at the moment to get ahead on my online courses so I don't have to lug my textbooks to Kenya, where I will attend a conference next week.
Instead I am scratching my ankles. Even yes, while typing, I am rubbing my ankles against the legs of my chair.
Two nights ago, I passed out on my bed with King Leopold's Ghost on my face. I was REM cycling when I should have been pulling my mosquito net down and tucking it in tight to sleep peacefully under a halo of permethrin impregnated gauze. Instead I woke up to rows of flaming mosquito bites punctuated by smaller and itchier black fly bites. The little bastards are probably passed out bloated somewhere in a post Thanksgiving-eque coma. Although no longer feasting on my blood they continue to drive me out of my f***ing mind.
For the past 48 hours I have felt no emotion or sensation other than extreme itch. I am slathered in hydrocortisone and still I itch, even my throat, my eyelashes, my blood (which may or may not now be coursing with malaria) itches without pause for relief. Mark my words, I WILL drink DEET to make my entire body poisonous. And if I live to tell the tale I will say, "I showed YOU, evil insects!" Until then, I try to kill them as they land on my touch sensor lamp, but the the light flashes on and off with every swat until my eyeballs buzz.
I did find that hand sanitizer provides momentary but genuine relief from itching. This discovery came yesterday when two kindergarteners had major accidents involving upset tummies and far away toilets. In the post-disaster clean-up, I hand-sanitized up to my armpits and made my assistant do the same. No one gets sick before Kenya!
Instead I am scratching my ankles. Even yes, while typing, I am rubbing my ankles against the legs of my chair.
Two nights ago, I passed out on my bed with King Leopold's Ghost on my face. I was REM cycling when I should have been pulling my mosquito net down and tucking it in tight to sleep peacefully under a halo of permethrin impregnated gauze. Instead I woke up to rows of flaming mosquito bites punctuated by smaller and itchier black fly bites. The little bastards are probably passed out bloated somewhere in a post Thanksgiving-eque coma. Although no longer feasting on my blood they continue to drive me out of my f***ing mind.
For the past 48 hours I have felt no emotion or sensation other than extreme itch. I am slathered in hydrocortisone and still I itch, even my throat, my eyelashes, my blood (which may or may not now be coursing with malaria) itches without pause for relief. Mark my words, I WILL drink DEET to make my entire body poisonous. And if I live to tell the tale I will say, "I showed YOU, evil insects!" Until then, I try to kill them as they land on my touch sensor lamp, but the the light flashes on and off with every swat until my eyeballs buzz.
I did find that hand sanitizer provides momentary but genuine relief from itching. This discovery came yesterday when two kindergarteners had major accidents involving upset tummies and far away toilets. In the post-disaster clean-up, I hand-sanitized up to my armpits and made my assistant do the same. No one gets sick before Kenya!
Friday, October 1, 2010
A First
I can no longer say that I have never bribed the police. It's a fact of life on this continent where police are corrupt and poor (here they haven't been paid in 2 months) and bureaucracy is impossible. Part of my reason for actually never giving a bribe is utter cluelessness. Before I got a residence permit in Lesotho, I was given constant trouble at the border trying to get another 30 days by leaving the country for five minutes and crossing back over on the other side. Sometimes an official would ask for "help." "Help with what?" I would ask. They would never ask for money outright and they would eventually give up in exasperation. On another occasion, one of the border police kept complaining how hot he was while gripping onto my passport. It was really code for "Give me money for a cold drink," but I just suggested he take off his jacket and get out of the sun. It was really months before I caught on. Who knows how many bribes I avoided paying by being completely stupid.
In Congo they are more up front. Last weekend while driving to a 20k run in the bush a friend tried to move some cones at a construction to site to squeeze by. A police officer shouted at him, "Don't you know this is Congo?! You can't just do whatever you want without a coke!" So he gave him a couple hundred Congolese francs, the cop moved the cones and the runners were on the road again.
Today in horrendous rush hour traffic, I set off grocery shopping for a camping trip with a couple of other teachers. We almost missed the turn, when a traffic cop started giving us wild, conflicting gestures. We stuttered for a bit trying to figure out what to do, and then decided to just keep driving straight. Although not illegal, it pissed the cop off. We stupidly made a u-turn and tried to enter the street from the other direction while the cop was probably shouting to all her colleagues, blue car full of white people! blue car full of white people! Two police stepped in front of us and stopped us. Police stop cars all the time. They don't need a reason to stop cars and they generally don't have a good one. They're bored and disgruntled and probably hungry. And since they are used in lieu of traffic lights, there are a lot of them. The rules of thumb for foreigners are leave windows up and doors locked. Show your license through the window glass. Don't speak French. Act like you understand nothing. If all else fails call your boss, call the Regional Security Officer of the US Embassy, call Post One US Marines.
We said "English" over and over again through a crack in the window and held the registration up to the glass. She asked for the driver's license and the guy driving said, "Shit, I changed my pants." This was bad. Pulled over by police and your driver's license is in the pocket of a pair of jeans crumpled on the floor. He shrugged in despair. We were told to roll down the window, we said "no." We were told to come to the police station, we said "hell no," and called our boss.
She concurred it was bad. She told us she would have to make phone calls.
We stared straight ahead in a moronic deadlock, waiting, waiting, waiting. Finally one of the cops approached the window smiled, and rubbed his fingers together. It was a universal sign that even I could not miss. It was not a hard decision. When I was deemed to have the lowest denomination that would not be laughed at, I passed a twenty forward. The officer smiled wider. The driver accelerated wiping his sweaty palms on his "Peace is Cheaper" t-shirt. Nothing but relief.
In Congo they are more up front. Last weekend while driving to a 20k run in the bush a friend tried to move some cones at a construction to site to squeeze by. A police officer shouted at him, "Don't you know this is Congo?! You can't just do whatever you want without a coke!" So he gave him a couple hundred Congolese francs, the cop moved the cones and the runners were on the road again.
Today in horrendous rush hour traffic, I set off grocery shopping for a camping trip with a couple of other teachers. We almost missed the turn, when a traffic cop started giving us wild, conflicting gestures. We stuttered for a bit trying to figure out what to do, and then decided to just keep driving straight. Although not illegal, it pissed the cop off. We stupidly made a u-turn and tried to enter the street from the other direction while the cop was probably shouting to all her colleagues, blue car full of white people! blue car full of white people! Two police stepped in front of us and stopped us. Police stop cars all the time. They don't need a reason to stop cars and they generally don't have a good one. They're bored and disgruntled and probably hungry. And since they are used in lieu of traffic lights, there are a lot of them. The rules of thumb for foreigners are leave windows up and doors locked. Show your license through the window glass. Don't speak French. Act like you understand nothing. If all else fails call your boss, call the Regional Security Officer of the US Embassy, call Post One US Marines.
We said "English" over and over again through a crack in the window and held the registration up to the glass. She asked for the driver's license and the guy driving said, "Shit, I changed my pants." This was bad. Pulled over by police and your driver's license is in the pocket of a pair of jeans crumpled on the floor. He shrugged in despair. We were told to roll down the window, we said "no." We were told to come to the police station, we said "hell no," and called our boss.
She concurred it was bad. She told us she would have to make phone calls.
We stared straight ahead in a moronic deadlock, waiting, waiting, waiting. Finally one of the cops approached the window smiled, and rubbed his fingers together. It was a universal sign that even I could not miss. It was not a hard decision. When I was deemed to have the lowest denomination that would not be laughed at, I passed a twenty forward. The officer smiled wider. The driver accelerated wiping his sweaty palms on his "Peace is Cheaper" t-shirt. Nothing but relief.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
You Know Your Librarian's a Missionary When...
She orders the following books:
Dinosaurs by Design
Dinosaurs of Eden
Dinosaurs Unleashed: The True Story of Dinosaurs and Humans
The True Story of Noah's Ark
A is for Adam: The Gospel from Genesis
Life before birth: a book for Christian families and others (ha!) who teach the dignity of life before birth
In retaliation I requested Life on Earth: The Story of Evolution (Steve Jenkins) and It's Not the Stork (Robie Harrison).
It's on!
(And I miss you, reasonable, Hindu, previous librarian)
Dinosaurs by Design
Dinosaurs of Eden
Dinosaurs Unleashed: The True Story of Dinosaurs and Humans
The True Story of Noah's Ark
A is for Adam: The Gospel from Genesis
Life before birth: a book for Christian families and others (ha!) who teach the dignity of life before birth
In retaliation I requested Life on Earth: The Story of Evolution (Steve Jenkins) and It's Not the Stork (Robie Harrison).
It's on!
(And I miss you, reasonable, Hindu, previous librarian)
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Welcome to the Congo
It's been almost two months and I don't think I've really said much at all about the Congo. I'll try to give a taste under some categories that are prominent my life.
FOOD: Like in most of Africa, the Congolese have a starchy staple in the form of a bowling-ball dense lump of doughy matter. In Malawi it's nsima, in Lesotho it's papa, in east Africa, ugali. Sometimes it's maize, sometimes cassava, sometimes yucca. Here it's fufu (also called fufu in Ghana) and it is made from cassava flour. I can eat it without gagging but it's tasteless and not nutritious. It's best quality is that it fills you up, but since I'm not starving, that is not a selling point. There are countless types of fish from the river and I've sampled a few. Rice and beans are another staple. There are several types of greens that are specific to the region as well as all the typical vegetables that grow in the great garden state. Plantains, bananas, pineapple, papaya, starfruit and mango grow in abundance. Plus there are an array of fruits I have never seen before. You can drink the tap water if you want hepatitis.
ROADS: Just awful. The only paved ones are simply not wide enough to accommodate all the cars. The rest are dirt and potholes. Instead of traffic lights a police officer on a step stool directs cars. There are apparently laws of the road, but they change on a seemingly daily basis based on the opposite of whatever a police officer thirsty for a coke notices you doing.
CRITTERS:
1. Bonobos, human's closest relatives are only found in the Congo.
2. Radioactive-size cockroaches routinely emerge from my walls, stagger to the middle of the floor and die.
3. Orange and blue lizards that do push ups (the elementary school mascot). Little tiny lizards that run across my feet in my house. Little tiny lizards in my classroom. The first time I found one, I showed the janitor to share in my delight. He misunderstood my wide eyes and proceeded to spray it with what he probably thought was bug spray, but which was actually air freshener. I didn't know enough French to say, "That won't kill it, it will just make it smell nice."
4. Snakes. I am usually lucky enough not to cross paths with them but one very long one that used to live near my classroom. I didn't have the patience to investigate it's poisonous status so I just asked a janitor to kindly smash it's skull with a stick.
5. Mosquitos. Because of malaria, they are far more dangerous than snakes, but they just don't strike up the same fear in my heart.
6. Mango worms. The reason to iron your underwear. They burrow into wet clothes, and when you put them on, lay eggs in your flesh. They can be avoided by machine drying or ironing. I line-dry no more.
STUFF I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO DO
1. ride public transportation
2. take photos anywhere in the capital
3. let on that I understand police officers when they speak to me in French
4. speak to police in French
5. walk around in the dark
SHOPPING: The best part is that instead of price stickers on the food, they put random letters and numbers. You then have to look up the code associated with the price in another part of the store. If you're gonna put a sticker, it might as well be the price sticker, right? I accidentally bought a $9 chocolate bar in the confusion. It was delicious. But it was also $9.
HELP AROUND THE HOUSE: I am the sheepish employer of a gardener. One day a random man started talking to me. His French was good but fast and I wasn't getting anywhere, so I just nodded and nodded and nodded until I realized that I had given him a job. He did plant vegetables though. Not the ones I thought I asked for, but I'll just learn to like zucchini I guess. I guess I'll learn to speak French better too. I am an even more sheepish employer of a cleaner. It is the standard procedure for teachers to have someone clean and another person garden one day a week. I nearly created history and gave myself a big headache in the process of insisting that I didn't want someone to clean. I based this on the fact that I thought I knew how to clean and that I had time to do it. Well as it turns out I live on a giant pile of brown dust. Actually, as it turns out, all of Congo is a giant pile of brown dust, until the rainy season when it becomes a mud pit. So as it turns out I do not have time to undo what it does to my house and my stuff on a regular basis. After a month and a half of trodding on filth, I found someone who can do battle with dust and cook a mean pot of kidney beans.
Stay tuned for... metallic upholstery, my godawful French, running in the bush and what the heck we do all day
FOOD: Like in most of Africa, the Congolese have a starchy staple in the form of a bowling-ball dense lump of doughy matter. In Malawi it's nsima, in Lesotho it's papa, in east Africa, ugali. Sometimes it's maize, sometimes cassava, sometimes yucca. Here it's fufu (also called fufu in Ghana) and it is made from cassava flour. I can eat it without gagging but it's tasteless and not nutritious. It's best quality is that it fills you up, but since I'm not starving, that is not a selling point. There are countless types of fish from the river and I've sampled a few. Rice and beans are another staple. There are several types of greens that are specific to the region as well as all the typical vegetables that grow in the great garden state. Plantains, bananas, pineapple, papaya, starfruit and mango grow in abundance. Plus there are an array of fruits I have never seen before. You can drink the tap water if you want hepatitis.
ROADS: Just awful. The only paved ones are simply not wide enough to accommodate all the cars. The rest are dirt and potholes. Instead of traffic lights a police officer on a step stool directs cars. There are apparently laws of the road, but they change on a seemingly daily basis based on the opposite of whatever a police officer thirsty for a coke notices you doing.
CRITTERS:
1. Bonobos, human's closest relatives are only found in the Congo.
2. Radioactive-size cockroaches routinely emerge from my walls, stagger to the middle of the floor and die.
3. Orange and blue lizards that do push ups (the elementary school mascot). Little tiny lizards that run across my feet in my house. Little tiny lizards in my classroom. The first time I found one, I showed the janitor to share in my delight. He misunderstood my wide eyes and proceeded to spray it with what he probably thought was bug spray, but which was actually air freshener. I didn't know enough French to say, "That won't kill it, it will just make it smell nice."
4. Snakes. I am usually lucky enough not to cross paths with them but one very long one that used to live near my classroom. I didn't have the patience to investigate it's poisonous status so I just asked a janitor to kindly smash it's skull with a stick.
5. Mosquitos. Because of malaria, they are far more dangerous than snakes, but they just don't strike up the same fear in my heart.
6. Mango worms. The reason to iron your underwear. They burrow into wet clothes, and when you put them on, lay eggs in your flesh. They can be avoided by machine drying or ironing. I line-dry no more.
STUFF I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO DO
1. ride public transportation
2. take photos anywhere in the capital
3. let on that I understand police officers when they speak to me in French
4. speak to police in French
5. walk around in the dark
SHOPPING: The best part is that instead of price stickers on the food, they put random letters and numbers. You then have to look up the code associated with the price in another part of the store. If you're gonna put a sticker, it might as well be the price sticker, right? I accidentally bought a $9 chocolate bar in the confusion. It was delicious. But it was also $9.
HELP AROUND THE HOUSE: I am the sheepish employer of a gardener. One day a random man started talking to me. His French was good but fast and I wasn't getting anywhere, so I just nodded and nodded and nodded until I realized that I had given him a job. He did plant vegetables though. Not the ones I thought I asked for, but I'll just learn to like zucchini I guess. I guess I'll learn to speak French better too. I am an even more sheepish employer of a cleaner. It is the standard procedure for teachers to have someone clean and another person garden one day a week. I nearly created history and gave myself a big headache in the process of insisting that I didn't want someone to clean. I based this on the fact that I thought I knew how to clean and that I had time to do it. Well as it turns out I live on a giant pile of brown dust. Actually, as it turns out, all of Congo is a giant pile of brown dust, until the rainy season when it becomes a mud pit. So as it turns out I do not have time to undo what it does to my house and my stuff on a regular basis. After a month and a half of trodding on filth, I found someone who can do battle with dust and cook a mean pot of kidney beans.
Stay tuned for... metallic upholstery, my godawful French, running in the bush and what the heck we do all day
Friday, September 10, 2010
kinderfolk
I learned a lot in my first two years in international education. I can say pee pee in Amharic, poo poo in Portuguese and cuddle in Dutch. I can sing about "All My Little Ducklings" in German and the Sesotho version of Head, Shoulders Knees and Toes (roughly translated to "Oh, child, your mother is suffering, burning in her body parts. Head, shoulders, nose, mouth, chest, waist, knees and toes.") I taught a child with the last name Mofo and a Buddhist named Tyranny (phonetical spelling). I ate a lot of international food in the name of research- thumbs up for spuculaas.
I am now in my 3rd year of international teaching (6th year in Early Childhood Education) and am faced with a new school, new country and new grade.
Meet the Kinderfolk (well, most of them)...
The Bride: She's not happy unless she's getting married in the dress-up corner or talking while I'm talking.
The UN Interpreter: She's only 4, but her stellar translation skills (English, German, French) prevent many a misunderstanding in my class.
Frick and Frack stumble confusedly around my class causing an annoying but quiet stream of chaos.
The Cowboy: Known as such for his favorite hat, during a discussion of words we agree not to say in Kindergarten (stupid, shut up, go away, you're not my friend) The Cowboy suggested adding "fuck it" to the list. Great Idea.
Precocious: She has a tendency to sprinkle words like "massive" in conversation (keep in mind she's only five). And being half Scottish, she taught me what the word "titchy" means.
Fidget: His name says it all. In fact, I suspect he's a little autistic. Then again, he could just have a touch of inherited weirdness (a parent told me he is not allowed to have rice and beans in the cafeteria because of his ears).
Pear Blossom: I learned in the elementary school library that this is the name of the Korean Cinderella. This child is spends the majority of her free time twirling with a piece of fabric trailing behind her.
Baby Gap: This child belongs on a baby gap ad. With a Polish mother and Congolese father he is one of the half of my class who have one African parent and one European or American parent. My class is full of tan, curly haired, multi-lingual babies.
Rattinger: He got his blog alias because he told me this was his name on the first day of school. His name is nothing even close to this.
I am now in my 3rd year of international teaching (6th year in Early Childhood Education) and am faced with a new school, new country and new grade.
Meet the Kinderfolk (well, most of them)...
The Bride: She's not happy unless she's getting married in the dress-up corner or talking while I'm talking.
The UN Interpreter: She's only 4, but her stellar translation skills (English, German, French) prevent many a misunderstanding in my class.
Frick and Frack stumble confusedly around my class causing an annoying but quiet stream of chaos.
The Cowboy: Known as such for his favorite hat, during a discussion of words we agree not to say in Kindergarten (stupid, shut up, go away, you're not my friend) The Cowboy suggested adding "fuck it" to the list. Great Idea.
Precocious: She has a tendency to sprinkle words like "massive" in conversation (keep in mind she's only five). And being half Scottish, she taught me what the word "titchy" means.
Fidget: His name says it all. In fact, I suspect he's a little autistic. Then again, he could just have a touch of inherited weirdness (a parent told me he is not allowed to have rice and beans in the cafeteria because of his ears).
Pear Blossom: I learned in the elementary school library that this is the name of the Korean Cinderella. This child is spends the majority of her free time twirling with a piece of fabric trailing behind her.
Baby Gap: This child belongs on a baby gap ad. With a Polish mother and Congolese father he is one of the half of my class who have one African parent and one European or American parent. My class is full of tan, curly haired, multi-lingual babies.
Rattinger: He got his blog alias because he told me this was his name on the first day of school. His name is nothing even close to this.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Saying Goodbye to a Mosotho Hero
It was a sad weekend for Lesotho and for the American expat community in particular. In addition to the widely mourned and publicized murder of a Peace Corps volunteer on Friday, we lost a second victim to gunshot wounds the following night in an attempted hijacking.
Ntate Pohleili was one of the superstar dads at the American school. This was obvious to anyone who knows his two incredible children. But he became a true hero my class when he allowed us to visit his bread factory during our study of baking. It might not seem like much but a viewing of trucks unloading massive sacks of flour, a perilous walk through a maze of conveyer belts and a peek through a gargantuan room-sized oven can be unforgettable to a four-year-old.
For me that trip marked the end of a string of ridiculous, hilarious, often disastrous field trips in my two years teaching there. It was certainly the most dangerous. Ntate Pohleili was extremely wary about 21 3 and 4 year olds touring all manner of hot, sharp and limb stealing machinery but we arranged to go with his 5th grade daughter's class and we assigned each big kid a little guy. Those 5th graders took their jobs seriously, not simply holding their buddy's hand, but holding both. Nonetheless, I remember thinking that this would never be allowed back home, probably for good reason, and only weeks before my departure, it made me sad about leaving.
Sending love and thoughts from the Congo to Lesotho to the Peace Corps Community, the American school and the Pohleili family.
Ntate Pohleili was one of the superstar dads at the American school. This was obvious to anyone who knows his two incredible children. But he became a true hero my class when he allowed us to visit his bread factory during our study of baking. It might not seem like much but a viewing of trucks unloading massive sacks of flour, a perilous walk through a maze of conveyer belts and a peek through a gargantuan room-sized oven can be unforgettable to a four-year-old.
For me that trip marked the end of a string of ridiculous, hilarious, often disastrous field trips in my two years teaching there. It was certainly the most dangerous. Ntate Pohleili was extremely wary about 21 3 and 4 year olds touring all manner of hot, sharp and limb stealing machinery but we arranged to go with his 5th grade daughter's class and we assigned each big kid a little guy. Those 5th graders took their jobs seriously, not simply holding their buddy's hand, but holding both. Nonetheless, I remember thinking that this would never be allowed back home, probably for good reason, and only weeks before my departure, it made me sad about leaving.
Sending love and thoughts from the Congo to Lesotho to the Peace Corps Community, the American school and the Pohleili family.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
And Now I'm A Better Teacher
I just finished the experience I like to refer to as the most torturous $800 ever spent. And for those of you who haven't run into my text-book wielding, frantic self complete with bugged out eyes in the past 5 weeks, we can also call that, "Statistics." Specifically On-Line Intro to Statistics at Union County College. Why would I spend such a hefty fee on such an unpleasant experience? Well the New York State Department of Education, and by extension, the institution that will recommend me to receive my teaching license, requires that I have certain pre-requisites as an Early Childhood Educator. I took some of the courses in college and tested out of others, but a looming math course remained.
And while UCC isn't the most challenging of institutions (indeed, in one assignment to post a project proposal including abstract, outline and reference list, a classmate posted only this, "Statistics in genetics. The statistics you need in genetics is so hard even the best mathematician would go crazy"), I was nonetheless taking a standard semester-long college level math course crammed into five weeks. As an online course, this meant that I read the text book and quizzed myself using the the text book website with no educational guidance or instruction while my faceless, voiceless professor kicked back in her bathrobe and laughed at our misfortune.
And this $800 worth of mind numbing numbers is supposed to make me a better teacher? Ha! (And if I had grasped the content a bit better I would statistically prove the legitimacy of that sarcastic laugh). Yes, teachers should be proficient in basic skills. And New York State tests for these skills in not one, but two different exams, both of which are required for licensure. And the most ridiculous part is New York State has absolutely no requirement for course work in math pedagogy, which would actually be useful.
Actually, the most ridiculous part is I can't resell my $165 text book because it comes with the online computer code that has a one-time use only.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Make Love Not War
These are bonobos, one of the four great apes (quick: name the other three!)* and our closest genetic relations. Found exclusively in the Congo, they are very in danger of extinction. Bonobos are sold in the local markets as pets and the folks at this reserve buy them and bring them to their new home. All 50 adults were acquired this way, and 12 babies have been born on the reserve.
In this matriarchal society, conflict is solved through sex, and the bonobo range of sexual activity includes kissing, oral sex, masturbation... really you should just google bonobo and sexual behavior for the complete scoop.
This posting does not contain any ape porn, but I hope you like the remarkably human expressions.
*orangutang, gorilla, chimpanzee
In this matriarchal society, conflict is solved through sex, and the bonobo range of sexual activity includes kissing, oral sex, masturbation... really you should just google bonobo and sexual behavior for the complete scoop.
This posting does not contain any ape porn, but I hope you like the remarkably human expressions.
*orangutang, gorilla, chimpanzee
Sunday, June 13, 2010
A Bit Random...
(One of) the reason(s) it takes me so long to pack is that I stumble across papers. And I have to read them. Boring forms. Letters and postcards. Drawings from my students. And what I spend most time pondering and trying to remember, little scraps of things that I jotted something down on.
One such piece of paper, splashed with yellow paint stains says, "mataramputana." This is Sesotho for scribble. I love this word. It's long, it bounces. It sounds exactly as a word for scribble should sound. (Although I think "scribble" is also a pretty good word for scribble).
One of the assistant teachers (Zambian by birth, Mosotho by marriage, with a little piece of her adolescent heart still somewhere in Malawi) wrote it down for me. I made some comment about the word which I can't remember now. She replied, in Zambia, we say "mwandakandandgyankapo."
It means the act of spreading peanuts on a straw mat for drying. I found this out awhile later when we realized that I thought we were having a conversation about words that mean "scribble" and she thought we were having a conversation about words that are long.
Another funny thing I found, copied down from a hilarious text I received from a taxi driver two years ago: "Hi dear, zambia is moaning for 21 days. Only after,can i send u da touch bcoz offices wil remain closed. Ope u under wit me."
Lost in translation? Let me help you out. "Hi Dear, Zamiba is mouring for 21 day. Only after, can I send you the torch because offices will remain closed. Hope you understand."
(I left my head torch in his taxi when he dropped me off at the airport. He discovered it when he got back to town and drove all the way back to the airport but I had already boarded the plane. The president died that weekend and he promised to mail it when the post office opened again).
One such piece of paper, splashed with yellow paint stains says, "mataramputana." This is Sesotho for scribble. I love this word. It's long, it bounces. It sounds exactly as a word for scribble should sound. (Although I think "scribble" is also a pretty good word for scribble).
One of the assistant teachers (Zambian by birth, Mosotho by marriage, with a little piece of her adolescent heart still somewhere in Malawi) wrote it down for me. I made some comment about the word which I can't remember now. She replied, in Zambia, we say "mwandakandandgyankapo."
It means the act of spreading peanuts on a straw mat for drying. I found this out awhile later when we realized that I thought we were having a conversation about words that mean "scribble" and she thought we were having a conversation about words that are long.
Another funny thing I found, copied down from a hilarious text I received from a taxi driver two years ago: "Hi dear, zambia is moaning for 21 days. Only after,can i send u da touch bcoz offices wil remain closed. Ope u under wit me."
Lost in translation? Let me help you out. "Hi Dear, Zamiba is mouring for 21 day. Only after, can I send you the torch because offices will remain closed. Hope you understand."
(I left my head torch in his taxi when he dropped me off at the airport. He discovered it when he got back to town and drove all the way back to the airport but I had already boarded the plane. The president died that weekend and he promised to mail it when the post office opened again).
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
On Running “The Ultimate Human Race”
I’m happy I did it. By which I mean, mostly I’m happy it’s over. Veteran runners told me how much running downhill for 56 miles hurts. They were right. And whoever describe the pain as one that shreds your muscles, even more right.
I woke up at 3:30 am the morning of Comrades for all the pre-race rituals. Oatmeal, sunscreen, hairpins, strategically placed tape (better than Vaseline to ward away chafing) and we slogged through the marathon traffic to the starting line. Mike gave me a hug and told me not to worry, that I had all day (that thought in itself was worrying though) and I spent most of the time before the gun went off waiting on a ludicrous line for the bathrooms. In fact, I was so late to the starting line that I wasn’t allowed to line up with my seed, but had to funnel in at the back. When the gun went off I watched the elite runners take off from the big screen TV overhead and ten minutes later, I too had passed the finish line, wedged behind two men from Save the Rhinos decked out in full rhinoceros costumes.
I had hoped to run the race in under 10 hours, but fairly early in the day, I decided that would definitely not happen. For one thing, the pain set in after barely 30k (less than 19 miles), which I certainly hadn’t counted on. And on top of that, some combination of nerves, stress and neon syrupy sports drink made me really, really ill. I eventually switched from Energade to water and chocolates or banana, but it was a chore to keep anything down. Even honey, my steadfast stand-in for energy gels made me nauseous (and honey is supposed to be good for your stomach)!
When every step I took felt like I was being stabbed with a blunt knife, I hung back and waited for the pacer with the 12-hour flag (the maximum time allowed to complete the race). I eventually had to walk every downhill. Even the rhinos, and some guys dressed dressed in equally cumbersome outfits as blood cells and platelets were passing me. But it was either walk down the hills or fall down them. Oddly enough, I had no problem running up hill, but those inclines were few and far between. And the thing is, it still hurts. It just hurts differently to run uphill than yet another downhill, and you end up truly welcoming the prospect of variety in your pain.
Of course, it wasn’t the entirely miserable event I am making it sound like. The race is essentially a little more than two standard marathons. Just after the first marathon mark, I approached a swell of noise, and I realized that the runners up ahead were cheering back at the spectators. When I reached that section of the road, I realized we were passing the Enthembi Children’s Home and the residents were lining the street. Many were in wheelchairs or leaning on crutches, many had missing limbs or limbs shriveled or bent at angles that made my stomach drop. Some were crawling on the ground because they can’t stand. But my goodness, they cheered loud. It’s the kind of thing that makes your heart crack into a hundred pieces, and shuts up the whiny voice in your head, because you put yourself on this road and your damn lucky to be running on it.
Much further into the race, I had another oddly uplifting encounter. A black man ran up alongside me and said, “I know you.” I turned my head and he said, “You ran the Kosmos.” It was true, I had. It was just strange that he recognized me, because the race was so overwhelmingly white, it was he who should have stood out to me. I confirmed that I had run that race. And he nodded and said, “You beat me.” He carried on ahead and I didn’t see him for the rest of the race.
I also had an amazing support crew who made the trip to Durban to sweep my broken body into a pile if I finished and my broken heart into a pile if I didn’t. Erica and Colleen came from the school with me, and waved signs made by students (theirs, not mine who are too young to write). CiCi who was a cross-country teammate at NYU who is currently living in South Africa was there as well, with a colleague she dragged along and for some reason forced to dress as a banana. They made appearances at several points along the route and they were one of the few reasons that I ended up finishing. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to let them know that I decided to finish about 2 hours later than originally planned at as the time cut-off neared, I knew they would be worried that I wouldn’t make it.
In the last few kilometers, I saw countless runners passed out, hooked up to oxygen or being carried on stretchers. I couldn’t wait to see the finish line, but I could not move any faster than a hobble. When I finally turned into the stadium, there were so many people that I had to come to a dead stop for a few minutes and a hundred meters later, we practically had to line up to cross the finish line.
I cannot describe the relief that I felt. The teachers came to collect me. I attempted to sit down which took several tries, while one of them went to find my backpack. I felt like one giant bruise. A man was lying passed out on the grass nearby, his limbs splayed like a bent starfish. His three-year-old daughter was lying face-down on top of him, taking a nap. When I finally had to stand again, walking took all of my concentration. For some reason, I kept involuntarily swerving to the right, which I tried to counteract by exuberantly swinging my arms. I looked drunk.
We began the trip back to Maseru the next morning. At every gas station and rest stop and restaurant along the way, I could pick out the other Comrades runners. I could hear their groans across the parking lot, pick out their unsteady, limping gaits, and sympathize with the grimace and hoist technique of getting up from the table after lunch. There were several of us on the line to cross the border into Lesotho that night, with our Comrades t-shirts or backpacks, Nedbank caps and gazes wearily eyeing the occupied benches.
And now it’s over. So much of my time here, especially this last year has been spent training and planning and thinking about Comrades. I thought it would be weird once it was over. But it’s not. Your body adjusts to sleeping a little later in the morning and not running and lifting and biking constantly. Your watch and knee brace and sneakers find their way into the corners of the house. The scabby outlines of your running clothes, chafed for months on your skin begin to fade. And your time, somehow just fills up.
Over the weekend I was in Ladybrand on the South African side of the border. As I got on a minibus taxi to go back to Maseru a man said, “You didn’t run here today.” I told him I had just run the Comrades Marathon the week before. His silent look seemed to say, “So?” I continued, “It was a long run, I’m resting now.” He stared at me for what seemed like about a minute and then asked, “Did you win?” I said no and he shrugged and walked away. It took 12 hours to finish. It took 2 years. And after all that, you realize it was just a run. And I think that’s a good thing.
I woke up at 3:30 am the morning of Comrades for all the pre-race rituals. Oatmeal, sunscreen, hairpins, strategically placed tape (better than Vaseline to ward away chafing) and we slogged through the marathon traffic to the starting line. Mike gave me a hug and told me not to worry, that I had all day (that thought in itself was worrying though) and I spent most of the time before the gun went off waiting on a ludicrous line for the bathrooms. In fact, I was so late to the starting line that I wasn’t allowed to line up with my seed, but had to funnel in at the back. When the gun went off I watched the elite runners take off from the big screen TV overhead and ten minutes later, I too had passed the finish line, wedged behind two men from Save the Rhinos decked out in full rhinoceros costumes.
I had hoped to run the race in under 10 hours, but fairly early in the day, I decided that would definitely not happen. For one thing, the pain set in after barely 30k (less than 19 miles), which I certainly hadn’t counted on. And on top of that, some combination of nerves, stress and neon syrupy sports drink made me really, really ill. I eventually switched from Energade to water and chocolates or banana, but it was a chore to keep anything down. Even honey, my steadfast stand-in for energy gels made me nauseous (and honey is supposed to be good for your stomach)!
When every step I took felt like I was being stabbed with a blunt knife, I hung back and waited for the pacer with the 12-hour flag (the maximum time allowed to complete the race). I eventually had to walk every downhill. Even the rhinos, and some guys dressed dressed in equally cumbersome outfits as blood cells and platelets were passing me. But it was either walk down the hills or fall down them. Oddly enough, I had no problem running up hill, but those inclines were few and far between. And the thing is, it still hurts. It just hurts differently to run uphill than yet another downhill, and you end up truly welcoming the prospect of variety in your pain.
Of course, it wasn’t the entirely miserable event I am making it sound like. The race is essentially a little more than two standard marathons. Just after the first marathon mark, I approached a swell of noise, and I realized that the runners up ahead were cheering back at the spectators. When I reached that section of the road, I realized we were passing the Enthembi Children’s Home and the residents were lining the street. Many were in wheelchairs or leaning on crutches, many had missing limbs or limbs shriveled or bent at angles that made my stomach drop. Some were crawling on the ground because they can’t stand. But my goodness, they cheered loud. It’s the kind of thing that makes your heart crack into a hundred pieces, and shuts up the whiny voice in your head, because you put yourself on this road and your damn lucky to be running on it.
Much further into the race, I had another oddly uplifting encounter. A black man ran up alongside me and said, “I know you.” I turned my head and he said, “You ran the Kosmos.” It was true, I had. It was just strange that he recognized me, because the race was so overwhelmingly white, it was he who should have stood out to me. I confirmed that I had run that race. And he nodded and said, “You beat me.” He carried on ahead and I didn’t see him for the rest of the race.
I also had an amazing support crew who made the trip to Durban to sweep my broken body into a pile if I finished and my broken heart into a pile if I didn’t. Erica and Colleen came from the school with me, and waved signs made by students (theirs, not mine who are too young to write). CiCi who was a cross-country teammate at NYU who is currently living in South Africa was there as well, with a colleague she dragged along and for some reason forced to dress as a banana. They made appearances at several points along the route and they were one of the few reasons that I ended up finishing. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to let them know that I decided to finish about 2 hours later than originally planned at as the time cut-off neared, I knew they would be worried that I wouldn’t make it.
In the last few kilometers, I saw countless runners passed out, hooked up to oxygen or being carried on stretchers. I couldn’t wait to see the finish line, but I could not move any faster than a hobble. When I finally turned into the stadium, there were so many people that I had to come to a dead stop for a few minutes and a hundred meters later, we practically had to line up to cross the finish line.
I cannot describe the relief that I felt. The teachers came to collect me. I attempted to sit down which took several tries, while one of them went to find my backpack. I felt like one giant bruise. A man was lying passed out on the grass nearby, his limbs splayed like a bent starfish. His three-year-old daughter was lying face-down on top of him, taking a nap. When I finally had to stand again, walking took all of my concentration. For some reason, I kept involuntarily swerving to the right, which I tried to counteract by exuberantly swinging my arms. I looked drunk.
We began the trip back to Maseru the next morning. At every gas station and rest stop and restaurant along the way, I could pick out the other Comrades runners. I could hear their groans across the parking lot, pick out their unsteady, limping gaits, and sympathize with the grimace and hoist technique of getting up from the table after lunch. There were several of us on the line to cross the border into Lesotho that night, with our Comrades t-shirts or backpacks, Nedbank caps and gazes wearily eyeing the occupied benches.
And now it’s over. So much of my time here, especially this last year has been spent training and planning and thinking about Comrades. I thought it would be weird once it was over. But it’s not. Your body adjusts to sleeping a little later in the morning and not running and lifting and biking constantly. Your watch and knee brace and sneakers find their way into the corners of the house. The scabby outlines of your running clothes, chafed for months on your skin begin to fade. And your time, somehow just fills up.
Over the weekend I was in Ladybrand on the South African side of the border. As I got on a minibus taxi to go back to Maseru a man said, “You didn’t run here today.” I told him I had just run the Comrades Marathon the week before. His silent look seemed to say, “So?” I continued, “It was a long run, I’m resting now.” He stared at me for what seemed like about a minute and then asked, “Did you win?” I said no and he shrugged and walked away. It took 12 hours to finish. It took 2 years. And after all that, you realize it was just a run. And I think that’s a good thing.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
And the Age of BC Comes to An End
The Comrades Marathon. Watching it was the first thing I did after touching down on the continent in June 2008. My two years here have been BC- Before Comrades.
And Sunday is the big day.
It's 89 kilometers. And this year-it switches direction every year-is downhill. I am told that what you gain in the 10-20 minutes of speed, you pay for in utter pain.
I am told that it is especially painful for little runners. I asked for the definitition of little. It is 10-20 kg bigger than ME. So I joined the gym (an even bigger stretch for me than running 89 k). The gym is one of the local expat crossroads. Invariably I run into people I know at the gym and invariable they ask if I'm running. (I hate treadmills!) No, I tell them, I getting big (is it not obvious)?
I am told you have to relax and pace yourself. But not too much. If you don't reach certain points at certain times (most notoriously the finish line by 12 hours), you are forcibly removed from the course and loaded onto the bus of shame, a pathetic vehicle piled with the carcasses of devastated runners and reeking of vomit. You try to lie down, but a race official hauls you to a sitting position to rip the racing numbers of your shirt...
I am told it will be freezing in the morning, sweltering in the afternoon, and for the most part, beautiful.
I am also told it is the ultimate human race.
And Sunday is the big day.
It's 89 kilometers. And this year-it switches direction every year-is downhill. I am told that what you gain in the 10-20 minutes of speed, you pay for in utter pain.
I am told that it is especially painful for little runners. I asked for the definitition of little. It is 10-20 kg bigger than ME. So I joined the gym (an even bigger stretch for me than running 89 k). The gym is one of the local expat crossroads. Invariably I run into people I know at the gym and invariable they ask if I'm running. (I hate treadmills!) No, I tell them, I getting big (is it not obvious)?
I am told you have to relax and pace yourself. But not too much. If you don't reach certain points at certain times (most notoriously the finish line by 12 hours), you are forcibly removed from the course and loaded onto the bus of shame, a pathetic vehicle piled with the carcasses of devastated runners and reeking of vomit. You try to lie down, but a race official hauls you to a sitting position to rip the racing numbers of your shirt...
I am told it will be freezing in the morning, sweltering in the afternoon, and for the most part, beautiful.
I am also told it is the ultimate human race.
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Kilometer Brain and Other Parts
I got my kilometer brain and just in time. After years of measuring distance in miles, I have finally honed my kilometer thinking to the point where I don’t have to do mind numbing conversions to figure out my running pace. It took nearly two years, and going on five marathons/ultra marathons, and frankly, I never thought I would get it. Ask me the temperature outside in Celsius, and I can’t even hazard a guess. How many grams of flour I just put in a vegan chocolate cake? I would have to get a pencil and paper. But I can now speak kilometers.
I started trying to train my brain and my feet to think in kilometers about a year ago. I asked my neighbor to use her car to measure a half mile, kilometer and mile on the main road near our house. Thus, the second taxi stand, the bushy tree and the Media Institute of South Africa sign have become staple landmarks of my interval training. The first time I attempted to do kilometer repeats I couldn’t begin to guess what time I should aim for. To solve this conundrum, I asked myself, “How many meters is a kilometer?”
I know, I know. Even someone without the kilometer brain, someone with any brain at all, should be able to name the number with the automaticity of stating one’s age. And, failing that, the slightest reflection on etymology would have revealed the answer. But my brain, if we’re going to be generous, was just too mile-y. So here’s what I did instead. (Bear in mind I was running at the time.)
A 5k race = 5,000 meters. (Yes, that should have tipped me off)
5K=3.1 miles
Therefore, 3.1 miles = 5,000 meters
5,000/3 = a little more than 1600 meters
Duh! 1600 meters is one mile! I knew that! And 800 meters is a half a mile! So somewhere between there is one kilometer.
I fiddled around with some more calculations I can’t recall and concluded, “One kilometer is about 1,000 meters.”
It wasn’t until several hours later that the light bulb went on.
At least my arithmetic isn’t too bad.
So while there is really no excuse for not knowing (or figuring out really quickly) that a kilometer is a thousand meters, I’ll give some anyway.
Like I said, in the US, we race in miles. Sure we have 5k and 10k races, but anyone who runs them knows that the former is 3.1 miles and the latter is 6.2. Furthermore, we measure our running routes in miles, do grueling workouts of mile repeats, and during the races, our mile splits are clocked. A standard high school cross country race is 5k. So the coaches gather at the mile markers and shout out the times for your first, second and third miles, rather than the times for your 1st-5th kilometers. (At three miles, you’re not finished. You’ve got a sprint to the chute). If someone ever yelled to me somewhere on the third mile of the course, “You’ve only got one kilometer to go!” it wouldn’t have made anymore sense than if he had yelled, “You’ve only got one mfjuketvu to go!” And, looking back, we did have an occasional 1,000 meter race during track season, but no one ever called it a kilometer.
So now that my kilometer brain is screwed on tight, I’m focusing southwards. That would be the busted knee, and the mid run chats it has to the opposite hip who creaks in reply. After three months of anti-inflammatory pills, anti-inflammatory gel, anti-inflammatory patches, R.I.C.E. with extra ice, icy hot for horses, bandaging, stretching, gym-ing, biking, limping, the occasional codeine stupor, glucosamine chondroitin and guttural screams of frustration, the rebellious IT band has quieted down it’s protests of ultra long distance running. For awhile it seemed to be riding the see saw with my right hip, vying for my attention with various tactics such as swelling, clicking, cracking, snapping and good old-fashioned pain. I had my last trip to the orthopedist last week. Possible cortisone shots were on the menu, but since the pain hasn’t been bad, for weeks, he ordered X-Rays instead.
If you have brittle bones or partake in risky hobbies, this next paragraph will not impress you. I have only ever had teeth X-rays and lung X-rays. Neither was particularly high tech (the latter-for TB tests- taking place only in Lesotho and similar locales) so I can’t really compare this X-ray experience with one of a similar kind. I can only describe it as awesome. First, I was told to stand on a platform, and shift at minute increments until the shot was perfect. Then the X-ray technician told me she would take the next one of me lying on the bed. I start to step off the platform and she says, “No! Don’t move!” The wall my back was against tilted 90 degrees until it became “the bed.” It scared the crap out of me, a sensation quickly overtaken by motion sickness, and then awe. Finally, I was given my X-rays to take home on CD! To enjoy from my laptop anytime I want to recall what my hip looked like in May of 2010!
Brain, check. Knee and IT Band, check. Hip, check. X-ray to prove it, hell yeah.
To Do List: 89 Kilometer Race. (This Sunday).
I started trying to train my brain and my feet to think in kilometers about a year ago. I asked my neighbor to use her car to measure a half mile, kilometer and mile on the main road near our house. Thus, the second taxi stand, the bushy tree and the Media Institute of South Africa sign have become staple landmarks of my interval training. The first time I attempted to do kilometer repeats I couldn’t begin to guess what time I should aim for. To solve this conundrum, I asked myself, “How many meters is a kilometer?”
I know, I know. Even someone without the kilometer brain, someone with any brain at all, should be able to name the number with the automaticity of stating one’s age. And, failing that, the slightest reflection on etymology would have revealed the answer. But my brain, if we’re going to be generous, was just too mile-y. So here’s what I did instead. (Bear in mind I was running at the time.)
A 5k race = 5,000 meters. (Yes, that should have tipped me off)
5K=3.1 miles
Therefore, 3.1 miles = 5,000 meters
5,000/3 = a little more than 1600 meters
Duh! 1600 meters is one mile! I knew that! And 800 meters is a half a mile! So somewhere between there is one kilometer.
I fiddled around with some more calculations I can’t recall and concluded, “One kilometer is about 1,000 meters.”
It wasn’t until several hours later that the light bulb went on.
At least my arithmetic isn’t too bad.
So while there is really no excuse for not knowing (or figuring out really quickly) that a kilometer is a thousand meters, I’ll give some anyway.
Like I said, in the US, we race in miles. Sure we have 5k and 10k races, but anyone who runs them knows that the former is 3.1 miles and the latter is 6.2. Furthermore, we measure our running routes in miles, do grueling workouts of mile repeats, and during the races, our mile splits are clocked. A standard high school cross country race is 5k. So the coaches gather at the mile markers and shout out the times for your first, second and third miles, rather than the times for your 1st-5th kilometers. (At three miles, you’re not finished. You’ve got a sprint to the chute). If someone ever yelled to me somewhere on the third mile of the course, “You’ve only got one kilometer to go!” it wouldn’t have made anymore sense than if he had yelled, “You’ve only got one mfjuketvu to go!” And, looking back, we did have an occasional 1,000 meter race during track season, but no one ever called it a kilometer.
So now that my kilometer brain is screwed on tight, I’m focusing southwards. That would be the busted knee, and the mid run chats it has to the opposite hip who creaks in reply. After three months of anti-inflammatory pills, anti-inflammatory gel, anti-inflammatory patches, R.I.C.E. with extra ice, icy hot for horses, bandaging, stretching, gym-ing, biking, limping, the occasional codeine stupor, glucosamine chondroitin and guttural screams of frustration, the rebellious IT band has quieted down it’s protests of ultra long distance running. For awhile it seemed to be riding the see saw with my right hip, vying for my attention with various tactics such as swelling, clicking, cracking, snapping and good old-fashioned pain. I had my last trip to the orthopedist last week. Possible cortisone shots were on the menu, but since the pain hasn’t been bad, for weeks, he ordered X-Rays instead.
If you have brittle bones or partake in risky hobbies, this next paragraph will not impress you. I have only ever had teeth X-rays and lung X-rays. Neither was particularly high tech (the latter-for TB tests- taking place only in Lesotho and similar locales) so I can’t really compare this X-ray experience with one of a similar kind. I can only describe it as awesome. First, I was told to stand on a platform, and shift at minute increments until the shot was perfect. Then the X-ray technician told me she would take the next one of me lying on the bed. I start to step off the platform and she says, “No! Don’t move!” The wall my back was against tilted 90 degrees until it became “the bed.” It scared the crap out of me, a sensation quickly overtaken by motion sickness, and then awe. Finally, I was given my X-rays to take home on CD! To enjoy from my laptop anytime I want to recall what my hip looked like in May of 2010!
Brain, check. Knee and IT Band, check. Hip, check. X-ray to prove it, hell yeah.
To Do List: 89 Kilometer Race. (This Sunday).
Monday, May 17, 2010
The Transatlantic Library Has Landed
The number one thing I have the tendency to accumulate are books. They have taken over my house, and while easy to box, are expensive to ship, especially when I have to get them all the way back to the US, just to send them back to the continent to the DRC. (DRC is not known for it’s stellar postal services and my new boss said the import taxes are so expensive I might as well fly to Kinshasa to drop them off before heading to America for my summer vacation).
I limited myself to carrying one book here to Africa (The Alchemist, purchased especially for 2 months of backpacking, which I hated) but two boxes preceded my arrival. As the only American school on the continent with diplomatic pouch privileges for school supplies, I was able to ship all of my teacher resource books and picture books to the Lesotho embassy in DC, where they would be loaded on a South African bound plane, and delivered to the US embassy here in Maseru.
Since I had a couple friends in DC, I figured I might as well haul them myself in a suitcase for hand delivery. I spent my last hours at Harvard performing with the Pan-African Dance and Music Ensemble in a tent worth more than the house I lived in for a fundraiser for the Fogg Museum renovations. After a rapid change out of my fake kente cloth costume, I sprint-hobbled to get the T to South Station. From there, I rode the Chinatown bus overnight, with a suitcase filled with books, and as packing material, a collection of blinding silk scarves inherited from my Grandma Ethel and my great aunt Maisie.
After breakfast with my friend Vivian, we mapquested the address of the Lesotho embassy, only to find it smack in the middle of a river. As luck would have it, my future boss was online and when I told him of my predicament. he refrained from calling me an idiot and explained there actually is no Lesotho embassy, and the address is merely the diplomatic pouch section of the Dulles airport, where no mere civilian may enter. So the United States Postal Service took care of things, and I was left to a weekend in DC with a feather-light suitcase filled with the leftover scarves.
I coerced my friend Sam into accompanying me to a performance of by an all-blind all-male African American tap dancing troupe before I got on the bus back home to Jersey. When we arrived at the address of the theatre, I found that I was nearly the tallest person in line, second only to Sam. We were behind a very long line of children. Sam said, “What did you say the name of this dance group is?” “The Wild Zappers.” “Uh huh. And what did you say the theatre is called again?” “The Discovery Theatre.” “Right. Did it ever occur to you that this is a children’s theater for children’s performers?” He insisted we stay, and I insisted he would look like a pedophile. So we visited several of the free museums in the area (this is really the only thing I like about DC), where security measures required that I open my suitcase at each metal detector and empty the contents. Now, remember, the contents included silk scarves and nothing but silk scarves, so I ended up looking like an undercover midget clown as I pulled scarf after scarf after scarf from my suitcase, breaking into a sweat, and rambling on about books and packing and diplomatic pouches.
Anyway, the two boxes of books made it to Lesotho before I did, and they served me well during my two years here. Unfortunately, the diplomatic pouch only works one way for packages and it was going to be tricky to get all these books to DRC for my next job. But book-lovers share a certain solidarity, and when a newly arrived American owner of 3,000 books (arriving in trickles as I type from her family’s last post in Addis Ababa) heard about my plight, she offered her husband’s generosity and spine to haul this particular collection back to the US and ship them to my parents.
So that’s one pile taken care of. By like I said, I accumulate books. Some were sent in care packages or brought by visitors, but I bought a lot as well. Used bookstores anywhere get me excited. But used bookstores in South Africa, in light of the dearth of books in Lesotho get me particularly excited. When I run out of used books to read, I take them to the monthly book swap and trade. I first went with Ron, my former neighbor/colleague. The book swap used to be held right behind the school, so we worked late, ate pizza across the street and got drenched in a downpour on the five-minute walk to the swap. I was freezing and miserable by the time we got there, and said, “Ron, I can’t stay if I can’t at least take my pants off.” He looked at me dubiously. I told him not to worry, that my top was actually meant as a dress and once I had removed half my clothing I felt a lot better though still soaked. Ron and I had pooled our books and agreed to share the traded-for set. So while we dripped puddles underfoot, we prowled around the table, consulted each other, made piles and finally agreed on the new titles, while the other attendees sipped wine and chatted and looked at us like we were totally nuts. Apparently the book swap is a sort of social affair but don’t try to explain that to two book-starved teachers who love to read.
I became a regular attendee of the book swap, but Ron and I did not repeat the strategy because 1. we have absolute opposite tastes in books and 2. it is really laid back and no one keeps track of how much your leaving behind and how much you are taken. It’s rather karmic really. They just assume all the books will eventually come back to the swap (little do they know, when I find one I love, and keep it and unload a poorly chosen bookstore purchase instead). So these days, I choose my books, eat some soup and discuss the pros and cons of kindles and Stephanie Meyers books (I can’t bring myself to become familiar with either) with the other readers.
When another neighbor had to leave Lesotho urgently and for good, she left all her books to me. She said, “You can trade them at the book swap. Who knows, you might even like them.” I tried to read some of them. I really did. But with titles like Cherry Cheesecake Murder and Apocaliptick, multiple books by Janet Evanovich, and bafflingly, Crime and Punishment. I just couldn’t get past the first few pages. And, call me a snob, but I was really embarrassed to bring them to the swap in case anyone thought that I would actually choose to own such things. So I would bring one book at a time, hidden between John Irving novels and Bill Bryson travel diaries. It took me half a year, but I’ve traded them all. Some people were surprised to see me still accumulating books at the April swap when I had less than two months in Lesotho. Little to they know, I’m not going to miss the May one. I’ll only have three weeks to go by then, but I need something for the plane ride.
I limited myself to carrying one book here to Africa (The Alchemist, purchased especially for 2 months of backpacking, which I hated) but two boxes preceded my arrival. As the only American school on the continent with diplomatic pouch privileges for school supplies, I was able to ship all of my teacher resource books and picture books to the Lesotho embassy in DC, where they would be loaded on a South African bound plane, and delivered to the US embassy here in Maseru.
Since I had a couple friends in DC, I figured I might as well haul them myself in a suitcase for hand delivery. I spent my last hours at Harvard performing with the Pan-African Dance and Music Ensemble in a tent worth more than the house I lived in for a fundraiser for the Fogg Museum renovations. After a rapid change out of my fake kente cloth costume, I sprint-hobbled to get the T to South Station. From there, I rode the Chinatown bus overnight, with a suitcase filled with books, and as packing material, a collection of blinding silk scarves inherited from my Grandma Ethel and my great aunt Maisie.
After breakfast with my friend Vivian, we mapquested the address of the Lesotho embassy, only to find it smack in the middle of a river. As luck would have it, my future boss was online and when I told him of my predicament. he refrained from calling me an idiot and explained there actually is no Lesotho embassy, and the address is merely the diplomatic pouch section of the Dulles airport, where no mere civilian may enter. So the United States Postal Service took care of things, and I was left to a weekend in DC with a feather-light suitcase filled with the leftover scarves.
I coerced my friend Sam into accompanying me to a performance of by an all-blind all-male African American tap dancing troupe before I got on the bus back home to Jersey. When we arrived at the address of the theatre, I found that I was nearly the tallest person in line, second only to Sam. We were behind a very long line of children. Sam said, “What did you say the name of this dance group is?” “The Wild Zappers.” “Uh huh. And what did you say the theatre is called again?” “The Discovery Theatre.” “Right. Did it ever occur to you that this is a children’s theater for children’s performers?” He insisted we stay, and I insisted he would look like a pedophile. So we visited several of the free museums in the area (this is really the only thing I like about DC), where security measures required that I open my suitcase at each metal detector and empty the contents. Now, remember, the contents included silk scarves and nothing but silk scarves, so I ended up looking like an undercover midget clown as I pulled scarf after scarf after scarf from my suitcase, breaking into a sweat, and rambling on about books and packing and diplomatic pouches.
Anyway, the two boxes of books made it to Lesotho before I did, and they served me well during my two years here. Unfortunately, the diplomatic pouch only works one way for packages and it was going to be tricky to get all these books to DRC for my next job. But book-lovers share a certain solidarity, and when a newly arrived American owner of 3,000 books (arriving in trickles as I type from her family’s last post in Addis Ababa) heard about my plight, she offered her husband’s generosity and spine to haul this particular collection back to the US and ship them to my parents.
So that’s one pile taken care of. By like I said, I accumulate books. Some were sent in care packages or brought by visitors, but I bought a lot as well. Used bookstores anywhere get me excited. But used bookstores in South Africa, in light of the dearth of books in Lesotho get me particularly excited. When I run out of used books to read, I take them to the monthly book swap and trade. I first went with Ron, my former neighbor/colleague. The book swap used to be held right behind the school, so we worked late, ate pizza across the street and got drenched in a downpour on the five-minute walk to the swap. I was freezing and miserable by the time we got there, and said, “Ron, I can’t stay if I can’t at least take my pants off.” He looked at me dubiously. I told him not to worry, that my top was actually meant as a dress and once I had removed half my clothing I felt a lot better though still soaked. Ron and I had pooled our books and agreed to share the traded-for set. So while we dripped puddles underfoot, we prowled around the table, consulted each other, made piles and finally agreed on the new titles, while the other attendees sipped wine and chatted and looked at us like we were totally nuts. Apparently the book swap is a sort of social affair but don’t try to explain that to two book-starved teachers who love to read.
I became a regular attendee of the book swap, but Ron and I did not repeat the strategy because 1. we have absolute opposite tastes in books and 2. it is really laid back and no one keeps track of how much your leaving behind and how much you are taken. It’s rather karmic really. They just assume all the books will eventually come back to the swap (little do they know, when I find one I love, and keep it and unload a poorly chosen bookstore purchase instead). So these days, I choose my books, eat some soup and discuss the pros and cons of kindles and Stephanie Meyers books (I can’t bring myself to become familiar with either) with the other readers.
When another neighbor had to leave Lesotho urgently and for good, she left all her books to me. She said, “You can trade them at the book swap. Who knows, you might even like them.” I tried to read some of them. I really did. But with titles like Cherry Cheesecake Murder and Apocaliptick, multiple books by Janet Evanovich, and bafflingly, Crime and Punishment. I just couldn’t get past the first few pages. And, call me a snob, but I was really embarrassed to bring them to the swap in case anyone thought that I would actually choose to own such things. So I would bring one book at a time, hidden between John Irving novels and Bill Bryson travel diaries. It took me half a year, but I’ve traded them all. Some people were surprised to see me still accumulating books at the April swap when I had less than two months in Lesotho. Little to they know, I’m not going to miss the May one. I’ll only have three weeks to go by then, but I need something for the plane ride.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
How To Grieve For a Baby
The title of this post is rather misleading. I don't know how to grieve for a baby. Especially the banana-eating baby on the left, who happened to have suffered enormously. Babies don’t have to die of measles. Even in Africa. Even orphans. Even if they have HIV**. But that’s not what I’m writing about. Like I said, I don’t know how to grieve for a baby. But I made some rules regarding writing about it.
1. 20/20 hindsight is banned.
2. Also banned: the words “senseless” and “tragic” (even if they apply).
3. Also banned: the phrases “better place,” “for the best,” and “at least.”
So maybe this isn’t about grieving for a baby at all. Maybe it’s just about a baby.
Tsepong arrived at the orphanage almost exactly a year ago. This was before the babies started arriving at an alarming rate, at a time when each new arrival was an event, and when the smaller numbers, although not necessary to know and love them, at least made it easier. His mother had died. He and his older sister and brother were brought by two other female relatives, along with a garbage bag full of clothes for the three of them. The arrival of the new children was made all the more memorable by Tsepong’s spectacular diarrhea that day which managed to all but destroy his brother’s clothing, his crib and the carpet. So I bonded with him that first day over a sudsy bucket bath and a pair of clean pajamas. (This episode did not prove to be a habit with him, although he was remarkably, frighteningly, skinny).
In my mind he is dressed in white short-sleeved onesies, so these particular memories must have taken place in the dead of summer, because even in springtime their care-givers dress them like they are about to enter the tundra. I would sit him on the blue mat, with his legs splayed, his hands between his feet, and lie down on my stomach facing him. Unlike some of the others, he didn’t mind toppling over. He used to fall asleep in my arms in the late afternoon.
I was away for the month of July, trying my hand at organic farming and related arts and sciences. When I returned, he was walking. And no longer skinny. He was approaching a spherical state, really. Any time I entered the nursery at the orphanage, though far below my eye level, I always knew that the first little body attached to my leg like a barnacle was his. Even better, the moment I knelt down or scooped him up, the side of his warm head would connect to my collarbone, like a moth to a flame, a paperclip to a magnet. He made me think I had the best collarbone in the world. A magic collarbone. And with his soft hair tickling that bone of mine that still has the imprint of his skull, he would put his cool, moist smile to my neck, and greet me with the laugh that lived in his throat.
**I do not know what his HIV status was.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Rest of Cape Town
Unlike any other fellow Maseru expat I am aware of, I don’t love Cape Town. I was told by my former boss that Cape Town is good for when you need to get to Europe (I believe his euphemism for ‘civilization’) but can’t get to Europe. He warned me not to go to soon after my arrival in Maseru, or I would be unimpressed. I went for the first time about 10 months after my arrival on the continent, and then again exactly a year later. I still wasn’t impressed. It has mountains and ocean and winelands plus all the typical urban “stuff,” museums, restaurants and the like. It just seems to lack something for me, the vibrancy and quirks and gritty charm that make me fall in love with a city.
So when a friend told me the night I should have been tucked into my own bed, but due to a problem with my plane ticket, I ended up imprisoned in a luxurious hotel with an ocean view courtesy of South African Airways, that there were worse things to be than stuck in Cape Town, I didn’t exactly see his point. Also, gorgeous as the hotel and surrounding beach was, I was not actually in Cape Town, but truly stranded miles outside the city on some forgotten corner of the Atlantic. I truly tried to make the best of it, savoring the meal courtesy of my SAA voucher, reading Memoirs of a Geisha in the hot yellow sand, and dancing in the surf early the next morning, but really, I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.
Early the next morning, while waiting to check in to my rescheduled flight, I saw the employee who I fought with the day before. And it was just my luck that out of the dozen or more ticket counters, I was sent to hers. She didn’t look pleased to see me either, but while the day before, her claws were out, today, with genuine sympathy (possibly tinged with fear) she said, “I am so sorry that I have to give you bad news again, but your flight has been cancelled.” I was speechless. I have never missed a flight or had a flight cancelled in my life, and in pre-volcanic ash times, my sense of perspective was not what it might have been. After waiting an hour at ticket sales, I was told that they could send me on a different route, but it wouldn’t get me to Bloemfontein until nighttime, which meant that I still wouldn’t get home until the following day, and would probably miss work, for really no good reason.
Shamelessly playing up the part of the tiny, white, foreign girl, I told her that I couldn’t be traveling after dark, especially at bus stations and borders, that I don’t know a soul in Bloemfontein and any other number of points that would cause the woman behind the counter to envision tales of my slain body in the papers the next day. She said there was nothing she could do. My misery was genuine, though far from unique, as I was in a crowd of stranded, crying faces. Fortunately though, I was the youngest-or at least I appeared to be-and this got me home. Assuming I was a minor, and a troublesome one at that, more than a few people conspired to get me the last seat on another airline into Bloemfontein (and more importantly for them, out of their airport). And I made it back to Maseru in time for the birthday party of a student that I had promised to attend.
My last time in Cape Town, I did all the touristy things (museums, wine, penguins, Nelson Mandela’s prison cell) with the exception of going to the top of Table Mountain. It’s a mountain. It looks like a table. Lesotho has tons of mountains. Some uncannily breast-like. I have some sort of ridiculous opposition to the idea of going up Table Mountain. So considering I have done all the touristy things I think are worth doing, I looked for some less obvious things to occupy my time. I sought out little farmer’s markets, gazed up at the crackly screen of the planetarium observatory, meandered the bays and had a Thai massage that sent post-marathon lactic acid fleeing my body in terror.
And shopped. Now I am not a shopper, with the exception of farmer’s markets and bookstores. And I did a little at both of those. Actually a lot. The school librarian sent me to Cape Town with 2,000 ZAR (enough for about 30 books) to buy new titles for the Early Childhood section of the library. So I bought fresh breads and shiny-paged glue-smelling picture books and was happy.
I also had a shoe-shopping task ahead of me. The week after I got back was the school’s annual dinner/dance. Last year, I wore a dress fashioned out of a second-hand mumu that looked decent, if slightly like the upholstery on my late grandmother’s couch. I decided to go more formal this year with a not-previously-owned red dress from a flea market. Unfortunately, the shoes I bought last year got danced to shreds and at the kiddie racks in Maseru my only options for a replacement were magenta and leopard-print. (And even someone whose two nicest dresses come from a mumu and flea market knows that magenta and red don’t match). I figured in between buying organic tomatoes and South African fairytales I would stumble across a pair of plain, flat, black, size 3 shoes. Ha! 1st problem: Size 3 (or 5 US) is an endangered species in this South Africa. 2nd problem: Stilettos are not. I thought I found a pair I could live with (and more importantly dance in). “Do you have something similar without the heel though?” I asked the saleswoman. She looked at me with obvious disgust and said, “That’s not a heel, that’s a wedge.”
And this point, I quit shoe-shopping, and figured buying a new dress would be easier. I pulled a plain black dress (goes with magenta right?) from the rack of a neighboring store and the saleswoman asked if I wanted the matching panties. Apparently, I cannot tell the difference between a dress and pajamas. At this point, I quit shopping altogether, knowing that after 10 minutes of dancing I would ditch my shoes anyway and that my bare feet match anything.
I devoted the rest of my time in Cape Town to taking trains up and down the coast. Riding public transportation for the first time(s) is a humbling experience anywhere. In Cape Town I found this particularly true. I stayed with a friend who lived only two blocks from a train station. His proximity to the station was about the only thing that prevented me from quitting train travel altogether. To make taking trains in and around Cape Town any more difficult would take a concerted effort on the part of several evil geniuses. Perhaps I have been spoiled by the Metro Transit Authority of New York City, but the Cape Town train system had none of the features that make the subway bearable: a voice announcing the stations over a loudspeaker, lights inside the train cars indicating the station approaching or at the very least, a list of stations in the order in which they appear posted inside the train. Each station has only two signs bearing its name, at either ends of the platform. You usually miss the first because you whiz by before the train begins to slow down. You usually don’t see the second one until you pass it while the train is pulling out of the station. The windows are so low, that to actually see the signs, you have to crouch down and tilt your head at a ridiculous angle, usually only to find that the window is too corroded to see out of anyway. And if by some miraculous stroke of luck (or by repeatedly harassing the seasoned train traveler next you, are we there yet? Are we there yet?), you know where you are in enough time to depart appropriately, you will stand like an idiot waiting for the doors to open before someone tells you they are manual. And I mean really manual. My shoulder cracked audibly while struggling to free myself of the amused train car until an old man thrust his shopping bag full of frozen chop meat at me and yanked it open himself. But the ordeal is not quite over. Cape Town train riders have not yet seemed to grasp the concept of letting passengers disembark before they crowd onto the train. When attempting to exit, I found it best not to look anyone trying to board the train in the eye, just protect your vital organs and step into the crowd like it’s a mosh pit.
And since I seem to be telling my tales of Cape Town in reverse order, I should end with a little about the ultra-marathon from five feet up, mid-back of the pack. I arrived in Cape Town the evening before the race and ran into sometimes running partner Chris on the street. He has been swilling coke all day, and spastically tells me our race bags didn’t come with pins to attach our numbers to our shirts (they actually did, but his brain was so saturated with caffeine he didn’t have the patience to get to the bottom of his bag). Another runner had collected my bag for me and I hadn’t gotten it from him yet, so I took Chris’s word and we set out in search for safety pins, while he stopped periodically for more coke, or carbs in any form. After purchasing pins, we next searched for an Italian restaurant for further carbo-loading, but had to settle for Thai. It was here (or rather later that night) I learned that all noodles are not created equal, and I will never again replace spaghetti with tomato sauce for pad Thai. Chris said, “I’ll have the 980 calorie please,” and I saw that all nutrition facts were on the menu. I quickly changed my order from my original choice which I now saw was only 207 calories to a more substantial option, wondering when will I ever again change my order because it doesn’t have enough calories? Actually, when will I ever again eat in a restaurant that prints calories on the menu?
Whether from nerves or the queasy feeling of an MSG overdose, I slept two hours at most that night and was greeted in the morning by Chris’s near constant refrain, “We must be mad.” A friend drove us to the start, and we actually hit traffic at 5 in the morning, all cars full of people sipping powerade and chewing bananas. The traffic slowed to a halt and we got out of the car to walk the rest of the way. We all got separated in the massive crowd, although I did run into some other Maseru folk on line for the port-a-potties of all places. As a fine rain started, I lined myself up toward the back.
Two Oceans Marathon is a misnomer. Contrary to popular belief, the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet not at Cape Town but at Cape Aguilas, several hours drive from Cape Town, although some will argue that Indian Ocean currents travel up past Cape Town. But one ocean was plenty beautiful for me. One of my favorite moments of the race was rounding a corner and noticing the ocean for the first time a split second before Chris and getting to point it out to him (having the height advantage of more than a foot, he gets to see most everything first, including a whale as we ran along Kalk Bay).
I didn’t have any particular goal in mind since this was practice for the Comrades next month. I got a chance to see what the pacing is like, how much food and drink I need to consume en route and what sorts of stress and pain my body will feel. My knee hurt at the beginning, but the pain subsided fairly quickly until about the 45th kilometer. I was pretty sure I could feel it swelling at that point and it looked pretty wrecked at the end. I could see the front was puffy. I was physically incapable of turning my body to see the back but a companion confirmed it was a dead ringer for the front. Luckily, it healed remarkably quickly and an orthopedist finally diagnosed it as IT Band Friction Syndrome with some secondary issues from altering my stride. These South African doctors are used to crazy runners that want to do Comrades on their broken bodies and they are pretty good about doing what they can to help people be able to stay in the race. In addition to stretching and training advice, I’ve got these ibuprofen patches now. It’s like crack for my knee and I feel great.
Also, as someone who has never really been injured before, or has had any real medical issue, (or has attempted ultra-marathoning before) I have never thought so much about my body as I do now. And lately I’ve been attempting to figure out how to best train my body to be prepared for Comrades while preserving my knee. So while walking the beaches, sniffing melons, trying on shoes, riding trains and browsing for books, in Cape Town, I was also attempting to learn the art of balance. By pure coincidence, I found when I returned to Maseru, that in my suitcase were an equal number of boxes of tofu and bars of really good chocolate (both of which you cannot get here)…of course if you check my kitchen now, two weeks later, you will find much more of one in the refrigerator than the other in the cupboard :)
So when a friend told me the night I should have been tucked into my own bed, but due to a problem with my plane ticket, I ended up imprisoned in a luxurious hotel with an ocean view courtesy of South African Airways, that there were worse things to be than stuck in Cape Town, I didn’t exactly see his point. Also, gorgeous as the hotel and surrounding beach was, I was not actually in Cape Town, but truly stranded miles outside the city on some forgotten corner of the Atlantic. I truly tried to make the best of it, savoring the meal courtesy of my SAA voucher, reading Memoirs of a Geisha in the hot yellow sand, and dancing in the surf early the next morning, but really, I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.
Early the next morning, while waiting to check in to my rescheduled flight, I saw the employee who I fought with the day before. And it was just my luck that out of the dozen or more ticket counters, I was sent to hers. She didn’t look pleased to see me either, but while the day before, her claws were out, today, with genuine sympathy (possibly tinged with fear) she said, “I am so sorry that I have to give you bad news again, but your flight has been cancelled.” I was speechless. I have never missed a flight or had a flight cancelled in my life, and in pre-volcanic ash times, my sense of perspective was not what it might have been. After waiting an hour at ticket sales, I was told that they could send me on a different route, but it wouldn’t get me to Bloemfontein until nighttime, which meant that I still wouldn’t get home until the following day, and would probably miss work, for really no good reason.
Shamelessly playing up the part of the tiny, white, foreign girl, I told her that I couldn’t be traveling after dark, especially at bus stations and borders, that I don’t know a soul in Bloemfontein and any other number of points that would cause the woman behind the counter to envision tales of my slain body in the papers the next day. She said there was nothing she could do. My misery was genuine, though far from unique, as I was in a crowd of stranded, crying faces. Fortunately though, I was the youngest-or at least I appeared to be-and this got me home. Assuming I was a minor, and a troublesome one at that, more than a few people conspired to get me the last seat on another airline into Bloemfontein (and more importantly for them, out of their airport). And I made it back to Maseru in time for the birthday party of a student that I had promised to attend.
My last time in Cape Town, I did all the touristy things (museums, wine, penguins, Nelson Mandela’s prison cell) with the exception of going to the top of Table Mountain. It’s a mountain. It looks like a table. Lesotho has tons of mountains. Some uncannily breast-like. I have some sort of ridiculous opposition to the idea of going up Table Mountain. So considering I have done all the touristy things I think are worth doing, I looked for some less obvious things to occupy my time. I sought out little farmer’s markets, gazed up at the crackly screen of the planetarium observatory, meandered the bays and had a Thai massage that sent post-marathon lactic acid fleeing my body in terror.
And shopped. Now I am not a shopper, with the exception of farmer’s markets and bookstores. And I did a little at both of those. Actually a lot. The school librarian sent me to Cape Town with 2,000 ZAR (enough for about 30 books) to buy new titles for the Early Childhood section of the library. So I bought fresh breads and shiny-paged glue-smelling picture books and was happy.
I also had a shoe-shopping task ahead of me. The week after I got back was the school’s annual dinner/dance. Last year, I wore a dress fashioned out of a second-hand mumu that looked decent, if slightly like the upholstery on my late grandmother’s couch. I decided to go more formal this year with a not-previously-owned red dress from a flea market. Unfortunately, the shoes I bought last year got danced to shreds and at the kiddie racks in Maseru my only options for a replacement were magenta and leopard-print. (And even someone whose two nicest dresses come from a mumu and flea market knows that magenta and red don’t match). I figured in between buying organic tomatoes and South African fairytales I would stumble across a pair of plain, flat, black, size 3 shoes. Ha! 1st problem: Size 3 (or 5 US) is an endangered species in this South Africa. 2nd problem: Stilettos are not. I thought I found a pair I could live with (and more importantly dance in). “Do you have something similar without the heel though?” I asked the saleswoman. She looked at me with obvious disgust and said, “That’s not a heel, that’s a wedge.”
And this point, I quit shoe-shopping, and figured buying a new dress would be easier. I pulled a plain black dress (goes with magenta right?) from the rack of a neighboring store and the saleswoman asked if I wanted the matching panties. Apparently, I cannot tell the difference between a dress and pajamas. At this point, I quit shopping altogether, knowing that after 10 minutes of dancing I would ditch my shoes anyway and that my bare feet match anything.
I devoted the rest of my time in Cape Town to taking trains up and down the coast. Riding public transportation for the first time(s) is a humbling experience anywhere. In Cape Town I found this particularly true. I stayed with a friend who lived only two blocks from a train station. His proximity to the station was about the only thing that prevented me from quitting train travel altogether. To make taking trains in and around Cape Town any more difficult would take a concerted effort on the part of several evil geniuses. Perhaps I have been spoiled by the Metro Transit Authority of New York City, but the Cape Town train system had none of the features that make the subway bearable: a voice announcing the stations over a loudspeaker, lights inside the train cars indicating the station approaching or at the very least, a list of stations in the order in which they appear posted inside the train. Each station has only two signs bearing its name, at either ends of the platform. You usually miss the first because you whiz by before the train begins to slow down. You usually don’t see the second one until you pass it while the train is pulling out of the station. The windows are so low, that to actually see the signs, you have to crouch down and tilt your head at a ridiculous angle, usually only to find that the window is too corroded to see out of anyway. And if by some miraculous stroke of luck (or by repeatedly harassing the seasoned train traveler next you, are we there yet? Are we there yet?), you know where you are in enough time to depart appropriately, you will stand like an idiot waiting for the doors to open before someone tells you they are manual. And I mean really manual. My shoulder cracked audibly while struggling to free myself of the amused train car until an old man thrust his shopping bag full of frozen chop meat at me and yanked it open himself. But the ordeal is not quite over. Cape Town train riders have not yet seemed to grasp the concept of letting passengers disembark before they crowd onto the train. When attempting to exit, I found it best not to look anyone trying to board the train in the eye, just protect your vital organs and step into the crowd like it’s a mosh pit.
And since I seem to be telling my tales of Cape Town in reverse order, I should end with a little about the ultra-marathon from five feet up, mid-back of the pack. I arrived in Cape Town the evening before the race and ran into sometimes running partner Chris on the street. He has been swilling coke all day, and spastically tells me our race bags didn’t come with pins to attach our numbers to our shirts (they actually did, but his brain was so saturated with caffeine he didn’t have the patience to get to the bottom of his bag). Another runner had collected my bag for me and I hadn’t gotten it from him yet, so I took Chris’s word and we set out in search for safety pins, while he stopped periodically for more coke, or carbs in any form. After purchasing pins, we next searched for an Italian restaurant for further carbo-loading, but had to settle for Thai. It was here (or rather later that night) I learned that all noodles are not created equal, and I will never again replace spaghetti with tomato sauce for pad Thai. Chris said, “I’ll have the 980 calorie please,” and I saw that all nutrition facts were on the menu. I quickly changed my order from my original choice which I now saw was only 207 calories to a more substantial option, wondering when will I ever again change my order because it doesn’t have enough calories? Actually, when will I ever again eat in a restaurant that prints calories on the menu?
Whether from nerves or the queasy feeling of an MSG overdose, I slept two hours at most that night and was greeted in the morning by Chris’s near constant refrain, “We must be mad.” A friend drove us to the start, and we actually hit traffic at 5 in the morning, all cars full of people sipping powerade and chewing bananas. The traffic slowed to a halt and we got out of the car to walk the rest of the way. We all got separated in the massive crowd, although I did run into some other Maseru folk on line for the port-a-potties of all places. As a fine rain started, I lined myself up toward the back.
Two Oceans Marathon is a misnomer. Contrary to popular belief, the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet not at Cape Town but at Cape Aguilas, several hours drive from Cape Town, although some will argue that Indian Ocean currents travel up past Cape Town. But one ocean was plenty beautiful for me. One of my favorite moments of the race was rounding a corner and noticing the ocean for the first time a split second before Chris and getting to point it out to him (having the height advantage of more than a foot, he gets to see most everything first, including a whale as we ran along Kalk Bay).
I didn’t have any particular goal in mind since this was practice for the Comrades next month. I got a chance to see what the pacing is like, how much food and drink I need to consume en route and what sorts of stress and pain my body will feel. My knee hurt at the beginning, but the pain subsided fairly quickly until about the 45th kilometer. I was pretty sure I could feel it swelling at that point and it looked pretty wrecked at the end. I could see the front was puffy. I was physically incapable of turning my body to see the back but a companion confirmed it was a dead ringer for the front. Luckily, it healed remarkably quickly and an orthopedist finally diagnosed it as IT Band Friction Syndrome with some secondary issues from altering my stride. These South African doctors are used to crazy runners that want to do Comrades on their broken bodies and they are pretty good about doing what they can to help people be able to stay in the race. In addition to stretching and training advice, I’ve got these ibuprofen patches now. It’s like crack for my knee and I feel great.
Also, as someone who has never really been injured before, or has had any real medical issue, (or has attempted ultra-marathoning before) I have never thought so much about my body as I do now. And lately I’ve been attempting to figure out how to best train my body to be prepared for Comrades while preserving my knee. So while walking the beaches, sniffing melons, trying on shoes, riding trains and browsing for books, in Cape Town, I was also attempting to learn the art of balance. By pure coincidence, I found when I returned to Maseru, that in my suitcase were an equal number of boxes of tofu and bars of really good chocolate (both of which you cannot get here)…of course if you check my kitchen now, two weeks later, you will find much more of one in the refrigerator than the other in the cupboard :)
Thursday, April 15, 2010
5 Runners That I Know
Two weeks ago, the night before my first ultra marathon, I received an email from a friend. It was sent to two others as well; the four of us ran on the same high school cross-country team.
Kate, training for her first marathon said: "I am on a low mileage week (long run: only 14!), yet still was able to achieve a goal that I've been aiming for my entire running career...I bet the Attackerman [that's me] can guess, when I say that it is the most hardcore thing a runner can do...I puked during a run...It really is something I've equated with ultra-awesome athletes since my WHS track days. And here is the story... Now, maybe yesterday I had ice cream for dinner with a dessert of peeps. So maybe I wasn't properly fueled. And I certainly knew it from the beginning of the run, when not even a half-mile into it I slowed down because I had that feeling in my stomach. I thought that I knew how to push the line appropriately without tanking or ralphing. But as Josh and I are .75 miles from the end of the run, going not-fast but uphill, I stopped, said "I've just got to puke", then puked. Gu and gatorade. A few times. Then started running again! It was f***ing phenomenal...I ran until I puked, and then I ran some more.
Only another runner would understand how impressed I was. I don’t neccessarily advocate running to the point of vomiting, and despite what a few graphic remarks about my knee in recent posts suggest, I am not a masochist. Yet, all the runners I know appreciate the way putting one foot in front of the other again and again and again makes one discover and challenge the limits and possibilities of their own bodies.
Fellow former Blue Devil, Kathleen replied "Lately, when I run I start to get teary eyed as I imagine racing again, running as fast as I possibly can. I'm not ready to race yet, but I have been running an hour about 3x a week. My new orthodics make me a superhuman! My orthodics have addressed my 'one leg shorter than the other' problem and I feel so straight whenever I wear them. It's amazing."
Hearing about their running, particularly the night before my first ultra marathon was enormously inspiring. Angela, a medical student at Columbia University, has yet to surface from her hospital rotations to tell us what she’s up to. But hearing from the others reminded me of watching her race one day. It was the end of the season, but the first time she was able to compete that year. She was worried about the race, but when the gun went off, in the biggest display of courage and love I have ever witnessed, she did what everyone else did. She ran. It took her 30 minutes to complete 2 miles. She was the last to finish, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who the real winner was that day. She was 16 years old at the time, and she had cancer.
Running makes people do truly remarkable things. After a year of lonely running in Maseru, I’ve been lucky to find a few amazing running partners. I met one of them on the way to the Soweto Marathon. He was running the 10k (which I believe would have been the longest he ever ran) and he gave me a ride up to the race. In the first conversation we ever had, he informed me he would never run a marathon, and stopped short of telling me he thinks I’m insane for 1) doing it and 2) liking it, though he made these feelings clear later. It took a few months, but I eventually coerced him into running with me. He contemplated running the Two Oceans half-marathon until he found out that unlike the ultra marathon, the half marathon did not actually reach the ocean. His solution? Less than 6 months after the Soweto 10k, he ran the 56k Two Oceans ultra marathon. (Technically he remained true to his word and has still never run a marathon).
To train for the Soweto Marathon, I used to do long runs going across the border. While doing some post run grocery shopping in Ladybrand, the nearest South African town, an English man approached me and asked me if I had run all the way there. I confirmed this, and he asked if I’m mad. Shortly after this meeting, he joined the ranks of the insane, and we started training for Comrades together. Chris had run his first and only marathon 20 years before at the age of 21. A former paratrooper at well over 6 feet tall, I have never had such harassment-free running as I do with Chris. It's like running with a body guard. We would meet at 5:30 am and while I gasped for air, he would chat away sharing army nutrition tips (baby food is easily digested energy during grueling exercise), aphorisms (“no one can take this away from you”) and hard core-ness (“If we can’t find a hotel near the race, I’ll sleep outside next to my car"). On his birthday, he told me that he makes the same mistakes at 41 that he did at 21. Being closer to the latter than the former, I didn’t know if I should find this a comforting thought or a terrifying one. Chris became my Two Oceans hero on the starting line. Rather, it was a little before the starting line, as we were lined up so far back from the starting line, we couldn't even see it. 30 seconds after the gun went off we could still sense absolutely no forward movement from the runners ahead. Chris, towering over the rest of us, peered down the street and said he couldn’t believe how many of us there were, it looked like minute or so until we could begin moving- not running, necessarily, but sort of drifting forward. I craned my neck wistfully, but couldn’t see beyond the hairy shoulders of the runner right in front of me. So Chris lifted me up above the crowd to the cheers of the other runners around us, and I saw through the fine rain and the 6 am darkness, for as far as my eyes could see, thousands of pinpricks of runners surging forward like a wave.
2 minutes and 35 seconds after the gun went off, I finally reached the starting line. And thus began my first ultra marathon, which I ran with gratitude and respect to one runner who ran until she vomited and then ran some more, one runner who flies in her orthotics, one runner who raced in between chemo treatments and jogs today cancer-free on the streets of New York City, one runner who ran 56 kilometers to see the ocean and one runner who showed me 7,000 others who ran my first ultra with me.
Kate, training for her first marathon said: "I am on a low mileage week (long run: only 14!), yet still was able to achieve a goal that I've been aiming for my entire running career...I bet the Attackerman [that's me] can guess, when I say that it is the most hardcore thing a runner can do...I puked during a run...It really is something I've equated with ultra-awesome athletes since my WHS track days. And here is the story... Now, maybe yesterday I had ice cream for dinner with a dessert of peeps. So maybe I wasn't properly fueled. And I certainly knew it from the beginning of the run, when not even a half-mile into it I slowed down because I had that feeling in my stomach. I thought that I knew how to push the line appropriately without tanking or ralphing. But as Josh and I are .75 miles from the end of the run, going not-fast but uphill, I stopped, said "I've just got to puke", then puked. Gu and gatorade. A few times. Then started running again! It was f***ing phenomenal...I ran until I puked, and then I ran some more.
Only another runner would understand how impressed I was. I don’t neccessarily advocate running to the point of vomiting, and despite what a few graphic remarks about my knee in recent posts suggest, I am not a masochist. Yet, all the runners I know appreciate the way putting one foot in front of the other again and again and again makes one discover and challenge the limits and possibilities of their own bodies.
Fellow former Blue Devil, Kathleen replied "Lately, when I run I start to get teary eyed as I imagine racing again, running as fast as I possibly can. I'm not ready to race yet, but I have been running an hour about 3x a week. My new orthodics make me a superhuman! My orthodics have addressed my 'one leg shorter than the other' problem and I feel so straight whenever I wear them. It's amazing."
Hearing about their running, particularly the night before my first ultra marathon was enormously inspiring. Angela, a medical student at Columbia University, has yet to surface from her hospital rotations to tell us what she’s up to. But hearing from the others reminded me of watching her race one day. It was the end of the season, but the first time she was able to compete that year. She was worried about the race, but when the gun went off, in the biggest display of courage and love I have ever witnessed, she did what everyone else did. She ran. It took her 30 minutes to complete 2 miles. She was the last to finish, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who the real winner was that day. She was 16 years old at the time, and she had cancer.
Running makes people do truly remarkable things. After a year of lonely running in Maseru, I’ve been lucky to find a few amazing running partners. I met one of them on the way to the Soweto Marathon. He was running the 10k (which I believe would have been the longest he ever ran) and he gave me a ride up to the race. In the first conversation we ever had, he informed me he would never run a marathon, and stopped short of telling me he thinks I’m insane for 1) doing it and 2) liking it, though he made these feelings clear later. It took a few months, but I eventually coerced him into running with me. He contemplated running the Two Oceans half-marathon until he found out that unlike the ultra marathon, the half marathon did not actually reach the ocean. His solution? Less than 6 months after the Soweto 10k, he ran the 56k Two Oceans ultra marathon. (Technically he remained true to his word and has still never run a marathon).
To train for the Soweto Marathon, I used to do long runs going across the border. While doing some post run grocery shopping in Ladybrand, the nearest South African town, an English man approached me and asked me if I had run all the way there. I confirmed this, and he asked if I’m mad. Shortly after this meeting, he joined the ranks of the insane, and we started training for Comrades together. Chris had run his first and only marathon 20 years before at the age of 21. A former paratrooper at well over 6 feet tall, I have never had such harassment-free running as I do with Chris. It's like running with a body guard. We would meet at 5:30 am and while I gasped for air, he would chat away sharing army nutrition tips (baby food is easily digested energy during grueling exercise), aphorisms (“no one can take this away from you”) and hard core-ness (“If we can’t find a hotel near the race, I’ll sleep outside next to my car"). On his birthday, he told me that he makes the same mistakes at 41 that he did at 21. Being closer to the latter than the former, I didn’t know if I should find this a comforting thought or a terrifying one. Chris became my Two Oceans hero on the starting line. Rather, it was a little before the starting line, as we were lined up so far back from the starting line, we couldn't even see it. 30 seconds after the gun went off we could still sense absolutely no forward movement from the runners ahead. Chris, towering over the rest of us, peered down the street and said he couldn’t believe how many of us there were, it looked like minute or so until we could begin moving- not running, necessarily, but sort of drifting forward. I craned my neck wistfully, but couldn’t see beyond the hairy shoulders of the runner right in front of me. So Chris lifted me up above the crowd to the cheers of the other runners around us, and I saw through the fine rain and the 6 am darkness, for as far as my eyes could see, thousands of pinpricks of runners surging forward like a wave.
2 minutes and 35 seconds after the gun went off, I finally reached the starting line. And thus began my first ultra marathon, which I ran with gratitude and respect to one runner who ran until she vomited and then ran some more, one runner who flies in her orthotics, one runner who raced in between chemo treatments and jogs today cancer-free on the streets of New York City, one runner who ran 56 kilometers to see the ocean and one runner who showed me 7,000 others who ran my first ultra with me.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
The Postal Service and the Prehistoric
It's been awhile since I've updated you on the intra classroom affairs.
Back when I was in the US, I had my assistant teach a Post Office project. It was something easy to do in my absence, and its field trip conclusion coincided with Valentine's Day, so all the children could mail their very own valentines. Aside from the post office books and valentine-making instructions I left behind, I am not quite sure what went on those nearly two weeks I was away. I did get to come back just in time for the field trip though. The best part of this was putting the valentines in envelopes. A few children were familiar with the process, but most showed a mixture of shock and disgust at my suggestion, not to mention demonstration. A few cried when I said, "your turn." Some, enjoying the flavor of the gluey flap, practically ate their envelopes and we had to give them new ones.
When we arrived at the post office, the assistant-teacher went inside to find the man she had made the arrangements with. 10, 15, 20 minutes went by. My students were sitting outside the post office window in a neat but noisy row on the corner of a busy street. We started a sing-a-long and attracted much attention from passers-by. When the neat but noisy row swelled into an impatient riot though, I rushed inside to see what was taking so long. Our tour guide, it seemed, was in South Africa. He would be back "soon." I wheedled a receptionist to find us someone else to do the tour, but she wouldn't even let the children come inside. "Please," I said, "They are only three. They cannot wait much longer and the street outside is very busy." "You shouldn't be in such a rush," she told me. The assistant teacher spat something back in Sesotho. I asked her to translate and she said, "The children are climbing up the walls." I turned and sure enough, they were climbing up the railings, pressing the chubby faces against the glass that muffled their screams.
Another 10 minutes went by an the receptionist finally let us in. The children, stir crazy, set about dismantling the post office in the few more minutes it took for our postal worker to arrive and begin the tour. The tour was dry to say the least, and I had to play translator (I certainly don't do baby talk to preschoolers, but his language and explanations were not digestible to three year olds). Then we made a 21 pint-size-person line (much to the fury of the customers that came in shortly after), and each child bought his or her own stamp and dropped their card in the appropriate box. While in line, the children began licking the outsides of their envelopes (possibly they were getting hungry by then) and I had to briefly confiscate a few to save them from disintegration. "Wait for your stamps! You can lick your stamps!" A few of them, crazed by the impending taste of postal glue, sucked their stamps like candy and I had to scrape one off the back of Tlotliso's tongue with my fingernail. We thanked our very late tour guide with a deafening performance of postal/Valentine's Day songs, and surprisingly, the customers and employees looked a little wistful as we waved goodbye and made a noisy exit.
This week concludes a six week study of dinosaurs. I prefer projects that involve field trips, but their are no museums with fossils nearby and the dinosaur footprints you can find in the rocks here all involved strenuous hiking. Then again, after 4 field trips in 5 weeks, I needed a break from the stress and exhaustion that comes from organizing these adventures and subsequently taking 21 small children out into the world. So we got a little creative. With a tape measure we figured out how long various dinsaurs would stretch across our campus. We also made a life-size model of T Rex jaws and teeth on the floor and discovered, yeah, we could be easily swallowed. We played paleontologist and pieced together together cut up paper dinosaur skeletons and we simulated dinosaur battles (T Rex goes to bite Triceratops. Stick him with your horns, Triceratops! Stick him with your horns!) I very much stressed that dinosaurs have disappeared and cannot come back, and to the silent disapproval of the missionaries and staunchly Christian, that dinosaurs lived BEFORE people. Overall, I was very proud of the concepts they were able to grasp, and of their new dino-vocabulary (fossil, extinct, fierce, prehistoric). Instead of a field trip to conclude the study, we made The Preschool Dinosaur Book. This involved massive photocopying on my part, and you know me and appliances, a field trip probably would have been easier.
This afternoon I leave for Cape Town for my first ultra marathon (56 k, about 35 miles) in preparation for the big one (Comrades on May 30, 89k/56miles). As you probably know from reading recent posts, my knee is pretty angry at all these long distances as of late, and I can't seem to get more than 15 or 20 k in without a protest. So after another frustrating week of rest, I'm hoping for a fairly painless and non-swelling Saturday. Yesterday, in a typical short person move, I fell off of a shelf in the PE storage room. I landed squarely on my tailbone, with the plastic, wheeled trunk full of PE equipment I was trying to put away, landing squarely on my other knee. At least now I have two busted knees so if nothing else, I will limp evenly.
Back when I was in the US, I had my assistant teach a Post Office project. It was something easy to do in my absence, and its field trip conclusion coincided with Valentine's Day, so all the children could mail their very own valentines. Aside from the post office books and valentine-making instructions I left behind, I am not quite sure what went on those nearly two weeks I was away. I did get to come back just in time for the field trip though. The best part of this was putting the valentines in envelopes. A few children were familiar with the process, but most showed a mixture of shock and disgust at my suggestion, not to mention demonstration. A few cried when I said, "your turn." Some, enjoying the flavor of the gluey flap, practically ate their envelopes and we had to give them new ones.
When we arrived at the post office, the assistant-teacher went inside to find the man she had made the arrangements with. 10, 15, 20 minutes went by. My students were sitting outside the post office window in a neat but noisy row on the corner of a busy street. We started a sing-a-long and attracted much attention from passers-by. When the neat but noisy row swelled into an impatient riot though, I rushed inside to see what was taking so long. Our tour guide, it seemed, was in South Africa. He would be back "soon." I wheedled a receptionist to find us someone else to do the tour, but she wouldn't even let the children come inside. "Please," I said, "They are only three. They cannot wait much longer and the street outside is very busy." "You shouldn't be in such a rush," she told me. The assistant teacher spat something back in Sesotho. I asked her to translate and she said, "The children are climbing up the walls." I turned and sure enough, they were climbing up the railings, pressing the chubby faces against the glass that muffled their screams.
Another 10 minutes went by an the receptionist finally let us in. The children, stir crazy, set about dismantling the post office in the few more minutes it took for our postal worker to arrive and begin the tour. The tour was dry to say the least, and I had to play translator (I certainly don't do baby talk to preschoolers, but his language and explanations were not digestible to three year olds). Then we made a 21 pint-size-person line (much to the fury of the customers that came in shortly after), and each child bought his or her own stamp and dropped their card in the appropriate box. While in line, the children began licking the outsides of their envelopes (possibly they were getting hungry by then) and I had to briefly confiscate a few to save them from disintegration. "Wait for your stamps! You can lick your stamps!" A few of them, crazed by the impending taste of postal glue, sucked their stamps like candy and I had to scrape one off the back of Tlotliso's tongue with my fingernail. We thanked our very late tour guide with a deafening performance of postal/Valentine's Day songs, and surprisingly, the customers and employees looked a little wistful as we waved goodbye and made a noisy exit.
This week concludes a six week study of dinosaurs. I prefer projects that involve field trips, but their are no museums with fossils nearby and the dinosaur footprints you can find in the rocks here all involved strenuous hiking. Then again, after 4 field trips in 5 weeks, I needed a break from the stress and exhaustion that comes from organizing these adventures and subsequently taking 21 small children out into the world. So we got a little creative. With a tape measure we figured out how long various dinsaurs would stretch across our campus. We also made a life-size model of T Rex jaws and teeth on the floor and discovered, yeah, we could be easily swallowed. We played paleontologist and pieced together together cut up paper dinosaur skeletons and we simulated dinosaur battles (T Rex goes to bite Triceratops. Stick him with your horns, Triceratops! Stick him with your horns!) I very much stressed that dinosaurs have disappeared and cannot come back, and to the silent disapproval of the missionaries and staunchly Christian, that dinosaurs lived BEFORE people. Overall, I was very proud of the concepts they were able to grasp, and of their new dino-vocabulary (fossil, extinct, fierce, prehistoric). Instead of a field trip to conclude the study, we made The Preschool Dinosaur Book. This involved massive photocopying on my part, and you know me and appliances, a field trip probably would have been easier.
This afternoon I leave for Cape Town for my first ultra marathon (56 k, about 35 miles) in preparation for the big one (Comrades on May 30, 89k/56miles). As you probably know from reading recent posts, my knee is pretty angry at all these long distances as of late, and I can't seem to get more than 15 or 20 k in without a protest. So after another frustrating week of rest, I'm hoping for a fairly painless and non-swelling Saturday. Yesterday, in a typical short person move, I fell off of a shelf in the PE storage room. I landed squarely on my tailbone, with the plastic, wheeled trunk full of PE equipment I was trying to put away, landing squarely on my other knee. At least now I have two busted knees so if nothing else, I will limp evenly.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
How it Went
When I got on the starting line on Saturday at 6 am for a 73-kilometer day, I hadn’t run in three days. And the last time I ran, I made it one kilometer before the snapping in the back of my knee kicked up and I had to hobble home feeling pathetic. After three cranky days of popping anti-inflammatories, icing to the point of freezer burn and smearing horse meds on my flank or leg or whatever, I didn’t have particularly high hopes that I would finish the marathon, let alone spring back for the half-marathon and 10 k later that day. On the 4+ hour drive to Lake Umuzi in Mphulanga province, Mike repeatedly turned around with a gleam in his eye saying, “Are ya ready for the challenge? Are ya?” I said, “I don’t know if I can even run one kilometer.” Mike was also injured (plantar fasciitis and Achilles something or other), but at least he could run in a straight line. The pain I could deal with, it was the snapping that was immobilizing.
Mike used to live in the town where the race was held. He took me to meet his runner friends and bragged to them that I was running my first Comrades in May. One of them said something snide sounding in Afrikaans and Mike replied in English, “only just.” I surmised the man had asked if I qualified and I felt very indignant by the exchange. Later I found out he asked a somewhat less insulting, “Is she old enough?” It’s a problem I have in this country- appearing to Southern African eyes to be about ten years younger than I am, coming off as something like a more believable Doogie Houser with a better theme song.
I dubiously went through all the pre-race rituals, pasta the night before, bananas in the morning, special socks, plus all that horse-and-advil-voodoo on my knee. I fell asleep early but if I shifted in the middle of the night, a sharp pain jolted me awake. I was nervous in the morning, not knowing how far I’d be able to make it . . . and not particularly wanting today to be the first day that rather than finishing a race on foot, getting hauled back in a medical vehicle. Mike gave me some pain pills to carry with me and take mid-race. I thought he was nuts, but it must be a South African thing, because another man offered me some mid-race.
Luckily, the course was flat. Well, maybe it wasn’t, but it’s the flattest thing I’ve run in Southern Africa. South Africans don’t believe in designing flat courses. In America, a fast, flat course is supposed to be a draw for runners. In South Africa, the hillier the better, and the courses loop and snake to make sure you climb and descend as many meters as possible at the steepest gradient the natural geography will allow.
For the first 10 k, the pain was distracting, but it was the longest I had been able to run without stopping in a week. Then it subsided into a dull nauseating ache in my knee and, for some reason, now my foot. By 30 k, the rest of my body caught up, so no particular pain seemed significant. At that point in a marathon you just hurt, no matter how slow you go, and I was going slow, trying to pace myself for the two races later that day. For part of the race I ran by a man who boasted he had a fractured bone in his foot. He said he was just going to run through it because it was too close to Comrades (the 89 k race I’m running in May) to rest and it was going to be his 20th. He bounded ahead on his broken metatarcel and I didn’t see him again. Lunatics, these South African runners.
I finished the marathon, and amazingly, I felt decent enough to continue with the next two races later that day. I stopped at the Medi-Clinic (South African hospital) tent where a nice lady iced and arnica-d me and then called over a medical professional of unspecified position to “do nice, special things for your knee.” She poked, prodded and contorted me, called it an inflamed meniscus, and warned that if I wanted to do Comrades, I’m better off calling it a day, resting a week and then resuming training. She also pointed out that my knee was swollen. Very. Front and back. Then she called over someone else- a physical therapist who is also a runner. The physical therapist thought it was IT band friction syndrome, but agreed with her predecessor on everything else. Then they taught me how to tape my knee and told me a type of brace I can get (or where to cut a hole in my current and apparently useless one). She apologized profusely for convincing me to drop out of the 3-in-1 challenge but assured me with a week of rest and a week of easy(er) runs, I should be able to run the 2 Oceans Marathon (at 56k, my first ultra) in three weeks, and the Comrades.
I met up with Mike who ran 3:11 on his injured foot. He nodded when I told him the verdicts and prophecies of the Medi-Clinic tent, but I could tell he was thinking, “lame.” And he gave some half-hearted, “Yeah, you run anymore today, then you’ll have to take a month to recover,” but I could tell he was thinking, “wimp.” Mike limped his half marathon in 2 hours. Just by the times, you could tell he was in pain- 3:11 marathon, 2 hour half marathon- you do the math. But he stayed on for the 10k because it was his fifth year doing the race and he would get his permanent number this year. I think that is another South African running phenomenon- if you run a particular race for a certain number of years, any time you do that race from then on, you get the same number to wear on your shirt and no one else can ever have that number.
I spent the remainder of the day feeling pathetic and lazy for only running a marathon. And only in South Africa, can one feel pathetic and lazy for “only” running a marathon. The lunacy is definitely contagious.
Mike used to live in the town where the race was held. He took me to meet his runner friends and bragged to them that I was running my first Comrades in May. One of them said something snide sounding in Afrikaans and Mike replied in English, “only just.” I surmised the man had asked if I qualified and I felt very indignant by the exchange. Later I found out he asked a somewhat less insulting, “Is she old enough?” It’s a problem I have in this country- appearing to Southern African eyes to be about ten years younger than I am, coming off as something like a more believable Doogie Houser with a better theme song.
I dubiously went through all the pre-race rituals, pasta the night before, bananas in the morning, special socks, plus all that horse-and-advil-voodoo on my knee. I fell asleep early but if I shifted in the middle of the night, a sharp pain jolted me awake. I was nervous in the morning, not knowing how far I’d be able to make it . . . and not particularly wanting today to be the first day that rather than finishing a race on foot, getting hauled back in a medical vehicle. Mike gave me some pain pills to carry with me and take mid-race. I thought he was nuts, but it must be a South African thing, because another man offered me some mid-race.
Luckily, the course was flat. Well, maybe it wasn’t, but it’s the flattest thing I’ve run in Southern Africa. South Africans don’t believe in designing flat courses. In America, a fast, flat course is supposed to be a draw for runners. In South Africa, the hillier the better, and the courses loop and snake to make sure you climb and descend as many meters as possible at the steepest gradient the natural geography will allow.
For the first 10 k, the pain was distracting, but it was the longest I had been able to run without stopping in a week. Then it subsided into a dull nauseating ache in my knee and, for some reason, now my foot. By 30 k, the rest of my body caught up, so no particular pain seemed significant. At that point in a marathon you just hurt, no matter how slow you go, and I was going slow, trying to pace myself for the two races later that day. For part of the race I ran by a man who boasted he had a fractured bone in his foot. He said he was just going to run through it because it was too close to Comrades (the 89 k race I’m running in May) to rest and it was going to be his 20th. He bounded ahead on his broken metatarcel and I didn’t see him again. Lunatics, these South African runners.
I finished the marathon, and amazingly, I felt decent enough to continue with the next two races later that day. I stopped at the Medi-Clinic (South African hospital) tent where a nice lady iced and arnica-d me and then called over a medical professional of unspecified position to “do nice, special things for your knee.” She poked, prodded and contorted me, called it an inflamed meniscus, and warned that if I wanted to do Comrades, I’m better off calling it a day, resting a week and then resuming training. She also pointed out that my knee was swollen. Very. Front and back. Then she called over someone else- a physical therapist who is also a runner. The physical therapist thought it was IT band friction syndrome, but agreed with her predecessor on everything else. Then they taught me how to tape my knee and told me a type of brace I can get (or where to cut a hole in my current and apparently useless one). She apologized profusely for convincing me to drop out of the 3-in-1 challenge but assured me with a week of rest and a week of easy(er) runs, I should be able to run the 2 Oceans Marathon (at 56k, my first ultra) in three weeks, and the Comrades.
I met up with Mike who ran 3:11 on his injured foot. He nodded when I told him the verdicts and prophecies of the Medi-Clinic tent, but I could tell he was thinking, “lame.” And he gave some half-hearted, “Yeah, you run anymore today, then you’ll have to take a month to recover,” but I could tell he was thinking, “wimp.” Mike limped his half marathon in 2 hours. Just by the times, you could tell he was in pain- 3:11 marathon, 2 hour half marathon- you do the math. But he stayed on for the 10k because it was his fifth year doing the race and he would get his permanent number this year. I think that is another South African running phenomenon- if you run a particular race for a certain number of years, any time you do that race from then on, you get the same number to wear on your shirt and no one else can ever have that number.
I spent the remainder of the day feeling pathetic and lazy for only running a marathon. And only in South Africa, can one feel pathetic and lazy for “only” running a marathon. The lunacy is definitely contagious.
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