3 Good Omens and the Second 42

The Good Omens

1. Wednesday: It was one of my last training runs before the marathon- a quick and easy three miles. The sky was overcast, but that's nothing new for the time of year. After about two miles, the sky opened up and threw down hail and rain by the bucketful. Having never experienced hail before coming to Lesotho, I used to be quite amused by the phenomenon, witnessed from the snug confines of my house. No more. Hail hurts. I slung my left arm (which now looks like someone took a bat to it) over my head and took off my glasses and sprinted blindly home, up to my ankles in water and screaming obsenities at the sky. (Why this is a good omen, I have no idea, but it somehow seemed a sign that the race would be ok).
2. Friday: Last year for Halloween I dressed as a tree (brown pants with vertical bark-esque stictching, shirt with a leaf pattern and paper leaves and flowers wound around my arms and head). No one had any clue what I was supposed to be ("Eve" was one guess, "mother nature" another). Two days after Halloween, I had an abysmal marathon and discovered bad costume = bad marathon. I thought it would be wise to steer clear of flora this year, but ended up dressing as a strawberry. Nobody mistook me for a biblical figure or philosophical concept and a couple even knew what I was supposed to be.

3. Saturday: On my college cross country team, we had several people superstitious about their bib numbers. When they got their number, the first thing they would do was try to figure out some sort of mathematical, personal or historical significance of the numbers. When I picked up my number for the marathon, it was 2345. It doesn't get any better than that!

The 42 Kilometers

I have been pondering running the comrades marathon (http://www.comrades.com/) which has a qualifying time of sub 5 hours. I have run much faster, but on this course, which is quite hilly, I have also run much slower. I was told to aim for 4:45 to give myself some room for cramping, fatigue and other small disasters. Except I got so excited that I took off in the low 50s for the first 10 k, under 2 hours at the half way point, slowing down the next 10 k, and from 31 k on, fantasizing about lying down in the road and being trampled by the other runners. I got a disproportionate amount of cheers to those around me, partially because I was often the only woman in a pack of men (go lady! strong woman!) but mostly because people probably thought I was far younger than I am due to my stature and fat head (wow baby girl! look at that little girl go!) The cheers were encouraging but I still hobbled up the last few hills, sure those around me could hear the screeching feeling in my hips. I missed the markers for the last three kilometers, and was stunned when I saw the finish line approaching. My time was about 4:48, fast enough to qualify for comrades. . .

Some Bad Luck (With a Little Good Luck For Me)

A fellow Maseru expat who was also a stranger to me until Saturday, was kind enough to wait for me at the finish line. He had run the 10 k race earlier that day and was part of a big international contingent that came up from Lesotho. He found me as soon as I finished and before I had time to catch my breath and wipe the salt off my face, said, "I'm going to tell you some bad news in one minute." All I could think was that the bag with my passport had been stolen out of someone's car and I now had to live in Soweto. Well, it turned out that of the four cars from Maseru that drove to the races, one had been stolen and two had been broken into. People lost in addition to car, wallets, ipods, phones, etc. By a ridiculous and random stroke of luck, the car that contained my stuff was the only car that hadn't been broken into. All of these cars had Lesotho plates, and I was later told that 7 other cars with Lesotho plates had been stolen from the parking lot, that cars with Lesotho plates are targeted in South Africa because they are difficult to trace, and that the race organizers cut the security by two thirds and put that one third on the course, looking for bandits (people that don't register or pay for races but run the course anyway).

And a Little Bit More of Good Luck

I decided to sign up for the comrades today, just in case I decide to run it. Although registration only opened yesterday and there are 5,000 spots for new runners, the spaces were expected to fill quickly because of the world cup. I almost gave up because the credit card info wasn't going through and finally decided after some internal debate to use my American card. I signed up and 2 hours later when I went to look something up, I saw the registration was already entirely fille up! Whew, just made it!

PS

I didn't see any protesters.

The Stand-In

On Sunday I will be running in the Soweto Marathon. Amidst what has now become an annual scramble to find transport to and from the race, a place to stay, and a night-before pasta source, I was informed by another runner about a silent and stagnant protest that will occur on the starting line.

The following has been posted on various running websites: “All runners are advised of the Silent Protest schedules at the Soweto Marathon on 1 November. At the firing of the starter’s gun at 6am, runners will remain standing on the start line for 2 minutes in a show of athletic ubuntu.* The protest, done in the presence of national TV and leading South African media, is to remind the national federation and local organizing province that those two bodies have failed in their collective essence undermined the sporting code. Furthermore, the athletes wish to prompt and to urge all administrators to consider the hundreds and thousands of mainly recreation and some part time professional athletes in this country, that as elected officials; acting free of race, gender, religious or political conviction, they are accountable for their actions and that they must follow clear governance with good consciousness and restore the credibility of the sport. This we demand for the benefit of athletes, supporters, sponsors, all administrators and other athletic stakeholders in South Africa.”

My various thoughts upon reading this were:

1. Huh?
2. Really?
3. Sigh.

Huh? I had to read the thing a few times to wrap my head around what is actually being protested. First of all, it is impossibly vague. Second of all, the word “run” has no mention within the actual explanation of the protest and an Indian colleague had to remind me that in British English, “athletics” refers specifically to running and not, as it does in America, to all sports. After that, I realized the protest is probably in response to Caster Semenya, winner of the women’s 800 meter World Championships. The drastic improvement in her performance, the margin by which she won and Semenya’s physical appearance lead her sex (whether she was unknowingly intersex) to be called into question. Details that should have remained confidential about gender tests were made public and the International Association of Athletics Federation has been accused of racism, in addition to the more obvious disregard of her privacy. 

Really? So I think I get what the protest is about, and it seems compelling enough that some runners would want to organize and participate in the protest. But it seems unlikely to work (and by “work,” I mean for the vast majority of marathoners to participate, otherwise the start of the race will look no different from the start of any other race) for the following reasons:

-Elite runners have money and titles to win. Are they going to risk that when the gun goes off without knowing whether or not their opponents are going to take advantage of a two-minute head start?

-Many runners have times they are aiming to run for personal satisfaction or to qualify for other bigger and more competitive races that require qualifying times. Again, are they going to risk that for the protest?

-Some people are simply not going to want to take part in this protest or any protest.

-Not all runners are going to be aware of the protest unless they have stumbled across the above blurb on running websites.

Sigh: I fall into the category of people who would like to run certain times to stroke their egos and qualify for other races. I am not confident that I can spare two minutes to stand around in ubuntu, in addition to the time it would already take me to get to the starting line when I am seeded yards and yards behind it. If the protest is going to go better than I expect, I’m going to have a really irritable two minutes, getting worked up about the time I will no longer finish in, all with a lot of bumping, shoving, tripping, general chaos and anger that is not a good way to start 26.2 miles of warm and hilly running. Lastly, just as I am annoyed when someone tries to prevent me from protesting (ie: the police), I will be annoyed if someone tries to force me to protest (if the people in front of me don’t move, I can’t move).

There are going to be thousands of runners in this race and the starting line can only be as wide as the road, trail or path you are running on. Runners line up according to the time they are expected to run, which is based on previous races whenever applicable. The fastest runners are at the front and the slowest at the back. When the gun goes off, only those near the front start running and the rest of us run when those in front of us have started moving. This can take anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes and in really big races you can’t even see the starting line until you are running across it. The race sponsors are not sponsoring the protest and I don’t know that any of the protest organizers will be timing the two minutes and alerting the protesters when it is time to begin. So I’ve decided that as I always do, I will start running a stride after the person in front of me, glance at my watch as my sneakers cross the starting line and struggle to make it to the finish. And maybe at the end of the race, or later on the news, I will find out if I protested or not.   

*means humanness or community, I think in Xhosa

Zambia, Again

My first time in Zambia, about 2 and a half years ago, I spent my time in South Luangwa National Park turning my head left and right, from elephant to lion to zebra, twitching from spending too many hours sitting inside a vehicle. Last year, I went to Zambia again, where I very memorably emptied the contents of my stomach on bus, car and canoe from the Malawian border to Victoria Falls to an island in the Zambezi River and allllll the way back to Lusaka, the capital.

I am back in Lusaka for the Association of International Schools in Africa conference, along with four other teachers and our new director. While my last visits were marked by (other than motion sickness) wildlife spottings of both the intentional and accidental variety, spottings of a disproportionate number of people with disfiguring facial growths and a personal bristling against Zambian aggression (which is apparently relative as coming from Malawi I definitely felt this the first two times, but coming from Lesotho, Zambians don't seem aggressive at all), this time around, I'm much more in conference-land than Zambia-land, with all the powerpoint presentations and over-cooked buffet food that implies.

I've had the chance to run a bit every morning before plenaries, institutes and workshops (which still does not seem to balance out all the sitting I'm being required to do) and I am completely and amazingly ignored by my fellow early-rising pedestrians. Unlike Maseru, it really smells like "Africa" here, which to me means blossoms on trees, burning trash, rotting fruit and fresh dirt. This is all the more noticeable in the early morning, before car exhaust competes with these other scents.

My neighbor and assistant teacher from last year asked me to do her a couple of favors while in Zambia, her country of birth, namely to deposit some money for her into her father's account and to pick up some mopane worms for her (dried caterpillars) to eat. I asked her where to deposit the money, and she said "any bank." Betty does not have a bank account herself and I had to explain to her that it would have to be deposited at the bank in which he has an account. She wrote down all the details for me, and luckily the receptionist at the hotel directed me to a nearby branch. When I asked the teller for a deposit slip, he gave me an eighth of a torn up piece of printer paper. I said, "oh, those, I already have one," and handed him the scrap of looseleaf Betty had given me. I felt a little shady handing over Betty's cash given the circumstances, but the receipt looked legitimate.

Hunting down mopane worms in the city market place was a tougher task. They seem to be out of season. I told Betty before I left that I might not be able to bring worms through customs, and she said, "if you can't bring me caterpillars, get kapenta." Kapenta is a small fish you can buy dried. I explained that if they confiscate caterpillars, I assume they would confiscate fish. My nose found the fish before my eyes did and I promptly decided that I would NOT be transporting them in my duffel bag, tote bag or pockets (sorry Betty!)

The conference itself is not as relevant to early childhood education as I would like, and so far has not been as stimulating and engaging as I found it to be last year. Yesterday morning there was a keynote address by the man who inspired the movie Fly Away Home. Who knows what this has to do with education, but at least the title of the talk did not have a colon in it (ie: Unpacking [Fill in Big Words Here]: The Implications of Big Word and Big Word on Big Word). I have my last workshop tomorrow and the presenter is a singer/storyteller. It lists "laughing" in the handout under what participants will do in the workshop, and you can't go wrong with that.

"You grow, you grow, you grow and then you die"

This is what 3 year old Charlie announced to the class during morning meeting after I explained to them why I keep drawings, photos, notes and observations about them in an obese binder (so they and I can see how much they are growing).

Meet My Students, Part III

Only a few more. . .
The Bulldozer enjoys any number of not so endearing past times including, drinking water that is blackened with paint from dirty brushes, throwing his body on other children or the table, throwing his body on the table and wriggling around until everything on the table is on the floor, and dumping everything on the floor which on one occassion most unfortunately included an 800 piece lego set. His aunt, who raises him, is truly an idiot. While discussing Refiloe's infantile speech (this child is seriously delayed) the aunt said "he doesn't know how to speak because I am too busy to talk to him." When I asked what this child spends most of the waking hours he is not in school doing, she said, "He watches wrestling on TV."

Roshina, from Pakistan, used to be inseparable from her denim hand bag and animal print sunglasses. Thankfully, I have weaned her to the point where these items can rest on her hook in the hallway without causing a major crisis.

Imogene is one half of the German, Chinese, Malaysian twins. She is trilingual (German, English and Cantonese) with scarily advanced fine motor skills.

Ellen is Imogene's partner in crime and is discernible from her sister by the unrulier hair and mischievous grin.

If Toloana wasn't such a happy, oblivious child, I might find her rather annoying sometimes. Whenever I sit next to her, I end up with bruises on my thigh the exact size and shape of her small, pointy elbows. She also begins every sentence with "I want my. . ." so "May I go to the bathroom" becomes "I want my toilet" and so on.

Tlotliso is all but silent, although his parents tell me he is a chatterbox at home and gets into all kinds of trouble. I've seen the latter but I'm still waiting for the former. The only occasion in which I heard a steady stream of words come out of his mouth was when I gave him a simple direction in Sesotho (take this chair) but I couldn't catch a word of his response.

Katleho is so quiet and sweet and easy that half of the time, I forget he exists. And whenever I am writing about the children or need to recall a list of their names in my head, I always get up to 20, then search my brain before I remember "Katleho!" Sorry buddy, you're last again but I still love you.



Random Funny Stories:

The other day Sean was sitting on my lap and my hands were resting on his lap. His shorts felt disconcertingly damp, but then again, we had just been drinking water and he isn't all that coordinated. I pointed and said, "What's that?" He looked down and said, "Um, that's my penis." Oh child, I was asking what's on your pants, not in them. . . at least no one entered the room halfway through the exchange.

Chinzera brought a yellow plastic gun to school one morning and amused himself by pointing it at his friends and whispering gun shot noises. Charlie, of the pseudo neo-hippie parents, glanced at the gun and said, "Hey, I like your leaf blower." This very same leaf blower fan had a major accident on the playground (which was during my planning period). He romoved the soiled clothing, trod in his feces and proceeded to continue playing, while trailing his excrement around campus. I spotted him from the window wearing nothing but a yellow rain slicker!

Meet My Students, Part II

I introduced you to some of my students in my last post, and thought I should get around to the next batch. I’ll start with the students I had last year. (And no, they did not fail preschool. Because the roster wasn’t full in August, the school admitted newly-turned three year olds in January. Now they are three-and-a-half and so not yet old enough for the next class).

Some of you may remember Sean, the main character of a gross anecdote I e-mailed upon request, its contents too graphic for me to post on the blog. Thank goodness he is now fully toilet trained. Sean is like a puppy, a golden-haired, yappy, giggly, nuzzly puppy boy. Today he told me, "Ms. Sawa, I was dwiving to kindermusik and I saw you wunning. You were wunning on the on the woad. You should wun on the gwass!" So busted.

I wouldn’t know if Janelle is a night owl, but her morning time grumpiness is more fitting for a teenager than a three year old. She is blindly affectionate and encounters with her often leave me feeling border-line violated. Physically she is the epitome of a Dutch girl stereotype and her father is so tall that on family reading night, while reading the book Actual Size by Steven Jenkins (a non-fiction picture book of size superlatives in the animal kingdom), I had him stand on his toes with his arms over his head to depict the approximate height of an Alaskan brown bear.

Esther is actually just old enough to move to the next class but since her family is moving to Tanzania today
:( and she would only be in the class a month, her mother preferred she stay with me. I spent a good portion of last year holding this crying, mopey child. This year she was far more independent and I kind of missed the snuggling (and her constant German babbling before she sucked it up and tried speaking in English).

Jenna is South African by birth and has the lovliest New Zealand accent she picked up from her adoptive mother. She is just about the happiest, easiest, squishiest child, and it's just my luck that I only have her in my class a short time while her mother is working here temporarily from South Africa.

Palesa is the baby of the school and she knows it. She’s the youngest, tiniest, most awkwardly running person on campus. No one can resist scooping her up, especially when she cries . . .and especially the particularly heartbreaking variety of weeping in which tears roll soundlessly down her cheeks.

Kevin’s crying is a little more resistible. He prefers an ear-splitting screech to using words. His language development is quite delayed so it’s understandable, and he’s obviously used to having his screeches responded to at home. When he’s not screeching, he has the smiliest face. . . and some pretty cool robot-esque dance moves.

Kabelo: Class Biter.

Back to Maseru: Shaving the Proverbial Armpits

There is no painless way to return to the 9-5 (by which  I mean 7-3) life in a dusty city after two months mucking around barefoot, off the grid and drunk on sunshine. But a quick way to switch gears is to invite a little panic into that window in which you've already unpacked but haven't put anything away. And for me that was to look at my class roster.

TWENTY-ONE THREE YEAR OLDS.

TWENTY-ONE THREE YEAR OLDS SPEAKING 12 LANGUAGES.

Do you have any idea of the volume of separation anxiety tears 21 children can produce? Do you have any idea the gallons of nervous pee just waiting to flood tights, jeans and floor? (The number of accidents are, for obvious reasons, far greater at the beginning of the school year, and I swear I can see the evidence on the mottled brown carpet like rings on a tree). Do you have any idea how much confusion can ensue when you put 21 children who have never been to school before in one room? And the way the confusion multiplies when there is .5 different languages per capita and I speak fluently a grand total of one?

Although my neighbor and colleague teaches fifth grade, she understood enough to buy me a back to school gift of a botle of Amarula (a South African liqueur). This after I asked her, "screwdrivers are part of a balanced breakfast, right?"

Dressed in polka dots and red maryjanes, I hung name tags around my students' necks like leis at a Hawaiian airport. I shook dozens of parental hands and collected their dutiful offerings of lunchboxes, spare changes of clothing and epipens. Then I smiled them out of the room and met my new students.

Charlie is the obvious product of having two cool parents and three years of overhearing conversations peppered with SAT words. One of his classic moves is to start immediately screaming my name at any given point he can't see me. Then when he spots me, he runs over, head butts me in the crotch and says, "Pop! I'm right here!" He is more than a little dramatic, and the day after his best friend went away, he threw himself on the dusty ground of the playground, clawing at the earth and bellowing her name, "BELLA! BELLA!," in what ammounted to an unintentional farce of A Streetcar Named Desire.

Rebecca is a tiny Kenyan who is fiesty as hell. She hits, spits and giggles as if her life depends on it. She even cries with gusto and after vigorous weeping sessions she is known to vomit, a quirk made all the more memorable to her teachers by the vibrantly colored yogurt drinks she consumes each day at snack time.

Assefa comes from Ethiopia and her striking beauty is made that much more startling by her faint unibrow. Her English is unintelligible and she doesn't understand a damn word I say, but the way she enthusiastically responds "ok!" to everything nonetheless has a irresistable appeal amidst the general preschooler rebellion.

Alpa is . . . well, I pulled the mother aside one day and asked, seriously and without exaggeration, if her child ever sits down. . .

Isabella's manly Italian accent is shockingly inconguous to the sweet, blond pigtails. She was fine the first day until her 8 year old brother stomped over to my class midway through the morning to check up on her. In his uncannily identical voice he told her, "You are a big girl, you must be brave," followed by an affectionate shove that sent her sprawling, and the rest of the day wailing and calling for him despite the fact that he knocked her flat. These days she is my faithful shadow. The first time she got picked up from school by a family friend, she refused to go with him, clinging to me, crying, "I don't want to go. I don't want to go. AHHHHHHHHHHH! I love you! I want to go with you!" I had to carry her kicking and screaming to the neighboring UN where he works, rushing past the guard as I didn't have the requisite passport on me, and place her apologetically in his car. Now she is more compliant thanks to a chocolatey bribe (from him, not me).

Chenzira is significantly quieter than the others. He likes to limit his vocal exertion by whispering, remaining silent, or contriving other ways to reduce his need to speak. Raised eyebrows, I've learned, means "yes."

It is Maria's personal philosophy that a kiss (or several) cures everything. One day after several disruptions during a book I was reading, I put the book on my lap and informed her that I was upset that she was not listening and disturbing the story for other children. Her eyes widened. "You are upset? Ms. Sara is upset, guys." She got up and walked toward me stepping on (inviting cries of pain) and stumbling over several children on the way, kissed my hand elaborately about a dozen times and said, "You're better, ok?" She sort of missed the point but how could I stay upset after that?

And that's  just a third of my students, not including the bulldozer who was suspended until a second assistant teacher could be hired. . .

Here's to nine more months of tears, kisses, giggles, pink vomit and happy (hopefully) chaos!