When I was in third grade, a girl, hereafter to be known as Long Lost Friend (LLF)* moved to my hometown. She joined my third grade class and we quickly became friends. I remember her lighting the menorah at my house on Chanukah, and joining her as an angel in the Christmas pageant at her Methodist church. I swam in the pool in her backyard, and she came to my dance recitals. Her mom taught me how to decoupage (an embarrassingly formative moment of my life). When we were in fourth grade, we went to the public library together to gather research for the report and diorama about the animal of your choice project. She chose a panda bear and I chose a koala. The research session was cut short by my becoming suddenly ill, and later that evening she dropped off a get-well card at my house. On the front was a koala bear hugging a eucalyptus tree. The message printed inside read, “Sorry you’re feeling ‘down under.’” Maybe I even still have it somewhere.
I also remember when at the end of fourth grade, she called me crying, to tell me that she was moving. I for some reason know that she was sitting on her father’s lap when she made this phone call, but have no idea of how I came to have this knowledge. I have a photo somewhere of the two of us with my sister hanging onto the back of the moving truck, and there is an identical photo of both of our brothers.
That was fifteen years ago. Soon after she moved, we saw each other a few times, but the most memorable part of these visits was the time her grandparents attempted to drive me across the border to Canada (she was living in Toronto then). I had no passport then, just a hand-scribbled note from my mom asking the patrol to allow her daughter to cross an international border with Mr. and Mrs. X. The guards were not impressed, but let me through anyway after giving us the requisite hard time. LLF eventually moved from Canada back to the states, and I think I saw her once in Massachusetts. After that, we lost touch for more than ten years.
A month or so ago, I received nearly identical e-mails from my brother and sister in quick succession (both more social networking on the internet savvy than I) alerting me to LLF’s Facebook status. Apparently, she joined the Peace Corps, was assigned of all places to Lesotho, and had enthusiastically posted this information on her profile. I immediately tried to contact her and subsequently, we sent a few exclamation point-riddled emails back and forth. She said in one that she had chills. So did I. She of course had some questions about Lesotho. I unfortunately did not have many answers; most were along the lines of “wait and see and enjoy being challenged and surprised.” And of course, we made tentative plans to find each other when she touched down in the mountain kingdom.
This did not seem like it would be difficult. She would actually be staying down the street from my work for a little while. Even while attending the same elementary school, we did not live in such close proximity. We will practically be in shouting range of each other, and certainly close enough to meet up. In my mind, this grand reunion takes approximately five minutes. Why? Because I can’t just leave 21 preschoolers to go play with my friend, and I am sure her training schedule is packed. But five minutes with someone you haven’t seen in more than a decade, half way around the world from where you met, in a country most people have never heard of, promises to be a pretty amazing five minutes. (Of course, I imagine the first five minutes will lead to other and longer meetings after she settles in to her more permanent placement on a mountaintop somewhere). I started thinking about how these sorts of unbelievable coincidences must happen all the time, and if it was not for Facebook, how few we would know about! Everything seemed perfect and perfectly easy.
Then Peace Corps heard about the intended reunion, and in a display of stunning paranoia informed me that LLF and I are not allowed to see each other until she swears in, early next year, and becomes an official volunteer. Apparently, trainees may not make any “trips.” Apparently, walking down the street qualifies as a trip, as trainees may not step foot out of the training center during their stay in the capital, except on the supervised and bussed trip to Shop-rite (also around the corner). I have also been told to not attempt to stop by where she is staying. Why? Peace Corps trainees may only have contact with Peace Corps employees and selected volunteers and trainers. I was told, bluntly, that were I to see LLF, I am liable to give her wrong and/or prejudiced information about Lesotho!
Wouldn’t want that. Too bad about Google, Wikipedia and the blogs of disgruntled PC volunteers and expats (this one included) that LLF is probably obsessively searching for information, any at all, about her home for the next two years. Too bad about Facebook where I can discover a long-lost friend is headed to Lesotho, and within seconds can give her all the wrong and prejudiced information I want about Lesotho.
Yeah, I could do that in person too, but mostly, I just want to see her face, so that when I run into her on the street, I know that it’s her I’m running into. But now two buildings on the same street seem no different than two buildings on different continents, though thoughts of a furtive encounter in the frozen foods aisl of Shop-rite seems an appealing option. Meet you at the fish fingers, LLF.
*I don’t want to use her real name, or a real-sounding fake name, because although I think my blog is fairly difficult to find without the address, I don’t want to get her (or someone with her pseudonym) into trouble with Peace Corps. BUT if you’re curious who this mysterious ex ‘field-dweller is, particularly Tamaques grads, shoot me a line. If you guess it, you definitely win something.
(And in my own display of paranoia- it is my heritage after all- after noticing that my blog is getting significantly more hits than usual, since I am writing so often about work, I've tried to more or less remove my name from the postings, though again, the blog does not come up on Google or anything like that.)
Monday, November 9, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
How I Came to Africa and Became a 16 year-old Chinese Muslim
If you’re pale and go to Africa, you have to get used to being addressed as White Person. Or obrunni. Or mzungu. Mulungu. Toubab. This is sometimes followed by a list of countries. England? Australia? You come from Germany? America, ah! Go Obama! I was often called “ama” (mother) in Malawi, “sistah” in Ghana or by one man, “small small American” (the additional “small” replacing the word “very” in Ghanaian English vernacular).
Here in Lesotho, I should be Lekhooa. Though I find Ausi (sister) or ‘Me, (mama) or even banana or nana (little girl and baby respectively) preferable to being called by a color, for every one time I hear “Lekhooa,” I get about ten “Machinas.”
Machina, if it is not obvious to you, means Chinese person. I must have been called Machina for months before I realized it. In May, when my Sesotho was at its most competent, while running in the morning, I heard clear as a bell, “Ha uena, Machina” (“Hey you, Chinese person”). I stopped in my tracks turned back to the two men who had passed me and said, “Are you blind?!” They laughed and said, “Oh!” and my neighbors and I had a good laugh about it on the way to school.
But since then, I started noticing that I was being referred to as Chinese in various ways at least two or three times a week. As I said, more often than being called “Lekhooa,” I am addressed as Machina, Chinese, Chinesey and Mao Tse Tung by Basotho of all ages from toddler to the elderly and seemingly of a variety of social classes. I am often greeted on the street with a “Nia hao” (hello in Mandarin). On more than one occasion, I have been taunted with streams of fake Chinese (including once by a group of students in the uniform of a prestigious international secondary school). At the bank, the teller once stared at me dumbfounded when I told him I wanted to make a deposit. After an awkwardly long pause, he came to, and said, “Sorry, I was just surprised you are speaking English because you look so Chinese.” (Where to start? “There are Chinese people in America?” “There are Chinese people who speak English?” “You were a moron to think that in the first place, and an even bigger moron to say it aloud?” “Shut up and process my damn deposit before I scream?”)
Oh, by the way, in general, I think it is fair to say that the Basotho hate the Chinese. The Chinese own successful businesses, not just in Maseru, but seemingly in every small village and town in the country. They own the textile factories, which along with mining provide more jobs to Basotho than any other profession. The main complaint of Basotho people is that the Chinese steal business away from the locals. One of my dearest colleagues also informed me “they keep dirty houses.” Needless to say, it’s not nice to be associated with a group that attracts so much animosity (more bluntly, it’s not nice to be hated), and arguing that I’m not Chinese in some ways seems like a tacit agreement that “Chinese” is indeed something to be ashamed of.
Also, by the way, in case it’s been so long since you’ve seen me that you forgot what I look like, I have pinkish skin, herbal tea-colored hair (no milk) and eyes wide and round enough to suggest a thyroid disorder. And whether it is right or wrong, accurate or not, un-PC and racist, I associate none of these features with those of Chinese people. I’ve started surveying people of various ethnicities and nationalities (American, Indian, New Zealander, Zambian, Italian), as well as Basotho with varying degrees of education to ask them what the heck is so Chinese about me. Most of them act completely shocked and only one Mosotho finally conceded with, “Do you have a Chinese grandmother?” This suggests that most Basotho do not think I’m Chinese, but those that do feel compelled to remind me of it. Most agreed that my height (five feet) could be a contributing factor. Round face made sense enough. Some Basotho said it was probably my hair style and glasses. I didn’t think that the haphazard arrangement hanging down from my scalp counts as a “style,” and moreover, whether I’m wearing glasses or contacts, or have my hair in a bun, tied back, braided or hanging loose, seems to have no bearing on my presumed racial/national identity of the day.
When I told my boss about this phenomenon he said incredulously, “You’re definitely a WASP.” Well he got the W right (despite what the Basotho think). Being a Jew in Lesotho has it’s own set of complications. I have yet to meet a Basotho who isn’t Christian and when you befriend one, it isn’t long before they invite you to their Mormon, Pentacostal, revivalist or non-denominational Christian church. The following is a compilation of various conversations that then ensue.
Me: No thank you, I’m not a Christian.
Christian: You don’t like Christians?
Me: No, I just happen to not be one, and churches are for Christians.
Christian: Are you a Muslim?
Me: No, I’m a Jew.
Christian: Oh. Is that some kind of Muslim?
Me: No.
Christian: So what do you do?
Me: You don’t know what Jews are? You know, the people who live in Israel that aren’t Muslims? They follow only the old testament of the bible? Jesus was a Jew?
Christian: Jesus! So Jews believe in Jesus!
Me: Nope.
Christian: Why?
Me: Because they don’t. Christians believe it, Jews don’t. That’s why they are two different religions.
Christian: But I don’t understand. Jesus was a Jew. And he’s for Christians. But you are not a Christian?
Me: Correct.
Christian: And you still don’t like Jesus?
Me: It’s not that I don’t like him. But if I have to be any religion, I’m going to go with the one I was born with, and in that religion, Jesus is not prophet or the son of god any more than anyone else is a child of god, just a nice guy who liked to build stuff.
Christian: But you accept Him as your personal savior, right?
Me: I accept that you believe He is your personal savior.
[awkward pause]
Christian: So you go to the mosque?
One of my colleagues is a praying machine. She prayed that my class would settle down, she prays that I will find a husband, she hasn’t admitted it but I’m pretty sure she prays I’ll convert or at the very least not end up in hell, and once she told me, “I will pray that you never leave Lesotho. I will pray even though you don’t believe in god.” I replied that I never said I don’t believe in god, only that I don’t believe in Jesus. The Fijian-British librarian overhearing the conversation thought this was a hilarious statement, so I once again patiently explained this apparent irony, meanwhile wanting to scream that I did not ask to be the spokesperson of the Jewish people, and if they could know the most basic information about world religious, I could go back to being a heathen instead of disgruntled Hebrew school teacher.
On only one occasion did the church invitation end up going down a different road. When I told the Ugandan kindergarten teacher that I don’t go to church because I’m Jewish, she told me, “I see. Yes, we have Jews in Uganda.” I almost kissed her for saving me from a mind-numbing conversation about why Jews don’t believe in Jesus and are also not Muslims. Hoping she could offer some insight on my prior conversations, I asked her how the Basotho could know nothing about Jews, especially when there are Jews in South Africa. She said simply and disappointingly, “Because Basotho are ignorant and small-minded.” So much for insight.
So apparently tolerance (see Chinese example) and world religions are not taught in schools, and I should know, because apparently I’m sweet sixteen (with a massive case of deja vous). Although I got stopped a couple of times in the NYC Port Authority by police thinking I’m a runaway teen, and my driver’s license got mercilessly scrutinized in the doorways of bars, my birthdays have never been sliced off so dramatically as they are in South Africa and Lesotho. If I mention the word “school,” people ask what grade I’m in. Other expats ask what my parents do (as in, which NGO or embassy or mission do they work for and why have they let me out at night alone). Teenage girls looking for cleaning jobs knock on my door and ask if my father is home, high school boys hit on me, middle school boys hit on me, fourteen year old girls link their arms in mine and want to be my friend. And the first time we met, at least one colleague and one parent thought I was a student, not a teacher (and the school only goes up to eighth grade)! When people find out my age, or ask me, and I make them guess, 16 is the most popular answer, followed closely by 15.
While WWOOFing on the farm of a woman with two teenage sons in July, we met their friends for a picnic in the forest. Chatting with the 10 year-old son of the other family, he was surprised to hear me mention teaching. He looked slightly disturbed and asked how old I was. When I said 24 his eyes widened further and he said, “But how can you be Matt’s girlfriend?” Unbeknownst to me, the matriarch of the family friends informed her kids that I must be Matt’s (the sixteen year old son of the farmer) girlfriend. When I had finished choking on the last of my laughter-induced tears. Both mothers conversed rapidly about my young looking skin and wondered if it was an American thing. Matt guessed South Africans have more stress than Americans which contributes to aging, although I thought the sun was the likelier aging culprit on the South African side of things. But what do I know? I’m just a teenager who can’t speak English and has a one-way ticket to hell.
Here in Lesotho, I should be Lekhooa. Though I find Ausi (sister) or ‘Me, (mama) or even banana or nana (little girl and baby respectively) preferable to being called by a color, for every one time I hear “Lekhooa,” I get about ten “Machinas.”
Machina, if it is not obvious to you, means Chinese person. I must have been called Machina for months before I realized it. In May, when my Sesotho was at its most competent, while running in the morning, I heard clear as a bell, “Ha uena, Machina” (“Hey you, Chinese person”). I stopped in my tracks turned back to the two men who had passed me and said, “Are you blind?!” They laughed and said, “Oh!” and my neighbors and I had a good laugh about it on the way to school.
But since then, I started noticing that I was being referred to as Chinese in various ways at least two or three times a week. As I said, more often than being called “Lekhooa,” I am addressed as Machina, Chinese, Chinesey and Mao Tse Tung by Basotho of all ages from toddler to the elderly and seemingly of a variety of social classes. I am often greeted on the street with a “Nia hao” (hello in Mandarin). On more than one occasion, I have been taunted with streams of fake Chinese (including once by a group of students in the uniform of a prestigious international secondary school). At the bank, the teller once stared at me dumbfounded when I told him I wanted to make a deposit. After an awkwardly long pause, he came to, and said, “Sorry, I was just surprised you are speaking English because you look so Chinese.” (Where to start? “There are Chinese people in America?” “There are Chinese people who speak English?” “You were a moron to think that in the first place, and an even bigger moron to say it aloud?” “Shut up and process my damn deposit before I scream?”)
Oh, by the way, in general, I think it is fair to say that the Basotho hate the Chinese. The Chinese own successful businesses, not just in Maseru, but seemingly in every small village and town in the country. They own the textile factories, which along with mining provide more jobs to Basotho than any other profession. The main complaint of Basotho people is that the Chinese steal business away from the locals. One of my dearest colleagues also informed me “they keep dirty houses.” Needless to say, it’s not nice to be associated with a group that attracts so much animosity (more bluntly, it’s not nice to be hated), and arguing that I’m not Chinese in some ways seems like a tacit agreement that “Chinese” is indeed something to be ashamed of.
Also, by the way, in case it’s been so long since you’ve seen me that you forgot what I look like, I have pinkish skin, herbal tea-colored hair (no milk) and eyes wide and round enough to suggest a thyroid disorder. And whether it is right or wrong, accurate or not, un-PC and racist, I associate none of these features with those of Chinese people. I’ve started surveying people of various ethnicities and nationalities (American, Indian, New Zealander, Zambian, Italian), as well as Basotho with varying degrees of education to ask them what the heck is so Chinese about me. Most of them act completely shocked and only one Mosotho finally conceded with, “Do you have a Chinese grandmother?” This suggests that most Basotho do not think I’m Chinese, but those that do feel compelled to remind me of it. Most agreed that my height (five feet) could be a contributing factor. Round face made sense enough. Some Basotho said it was probably my hair style and glasses. I didn’t think that the haphazard arrangement hanging down from my scalp counts as a “style,” and moreover, whether I’m wearing glasses or contacts, or have my hair in a bun, tied back, braided or hanging loose, seems to have no bearing on my presumed racial/national identity of the day.
When I told my boss about this phenomenon he said incredulously, “You’re definitely a WASP.” Well he got the W right (despite what the Basotho think). Being a Jew in Lesotho has it’s own set of complications. I have yet to meet a Basotho who isn’t Christian and when you befriend one, it isn’t long before they invite you to their Mormon, Pentacostal, revivalist or non-denominational Christian church. The following is a compilation of various conversations that then ensue.
Me: No thank you, I’m not a Christian.
Christian: You don’t like Christians?
Me: No, I just happen to not be one, and churches are for Christians.
Christian: Are you a Muslim?
Me: No, I’m a Jew.
Christian: Oh. Is that some kind of Muslim?
Me: No.
Christian: So what do you do?
Me: You don’t know what Jews are? You know, the people who live in Israel that aren’t Muslims? They follow only the old testament of the bible? Jesus was a Jew?
Christian: Jesus! So Jews believe in Jesus!
Me: Nope.
Christian: Why?
Me: Because they don’t. Christians believe it, Jews don’t. That’s why they are two different religions.
Christian: But I don’t understand. Jesus was a Jew. And he’s for Christians. But you are not a Christian?
Me: Correct.
Christian: And you still don’t like Jesus?
Me: It’s not that I don’t like him. But if I have to be any religion, I’m going to go with the one I was born with, and in that religion, Jesus is not prophet or the son of god any more than anyone else is a child of god, just a nice guy who liked to build stuff.
Christian: But you accept Him as your personal savior, right?
Me: I accept that you believe He is your personal savior.
[awkward pause]
Christian: So you go to the mosque?
One of my colleagues is a praying machine. She prayed that my class would settle down, she prays that I will find a husband, she hasn’t admitted it but I’m pretty sure she prays I’ll convert or at the very least not end up in hell, and once she told me, “I will pray that you never leave Lesotho. I will pray even though you don’t believe in god.” I replied that I never said I don’t believe in god, only that I don’t believe in Jesus. The Fijian-British librarian overhearing the conversation thought this was a hilarious statement, so I once again patiently explained this apparent irony, meanwhile wanting to scream that I did not ask to be the spokesperson of the Jewish people, and if they could know the most basic information about world religious, I could go back to being a heathen instead of disgruntled Hebrew school teacher.
On only one occasion did the church invitation end up going down a different road. When I told the Ugandan kindergarten teacher that I don’t go to church because I’m Jewish, she told me, “I see. Yes, we have Jews in Uganda.” I almost kissed her for saving me from a mind-numbing conversation about why Jews don’t believe in Jesus and are also not Muslims. Hoping she could offer some insight on my prior conversations, I asked her how the Basotho could know nothing about Jews, especially when there are Jews in South Africa. She said simply and disappointingly, “Because Basotho are ignorant and small-minded.” So much for insight.
So apparently tolerance (see Chinese example) and world religions are not taught in schools, and I should know, because apparently I’m sweet sixteen (with a massive case of deja vous). Although I got stopped a couple of times in the NYC Port Authority by police thinking I’m a runaway teen, and my driver’s license got mercilessly scrutinized in the doorways of bars, my birthdays have never been sliced off so dramatically as they are in South Africa and Lesotho. If I mention the word “school,” people ask what grade I’m in. Other expats ask what my parents do (as in, which NGO or embassy or mission do they work for and why have they let me out at night alone). Teenage girls looking for cleaning jobs knock on my door and ask if my father is home, high school boys hit on me, middle school boys hit on me, fourteen year old girls link their arms in mine and want to be my friend. And the first time we met, at least one colleague and one parent thought I was a student, not a teacher (and the school only goes up to eighth grade)! When people find out my age, or ask me, and I make them guess, 16 is the most popular answer, followed closely by 15.
While WWOOFing on the farm of a woman with two teenage sons in July, we met their friends for a picnic in the forest. Chatting with the 10 year-old son of the other family, he was surprised to hear me mention teaching. He looked slightly disturbed and asked how old I was. When I said 24 his eyes widened further and he said, “But how can you be Matt’s girlfriend?” Unbeknownst to me, the matriarch of the family friends informed her kids that I must be Matt’s (the sixteen year old son of the farmer) girlfriend. When I had finished choking on the last of my laughter-induced tears. Both mothers conversed rapidly about my young looking skin and wondered if it was an American thing. Matt guessed South Africans have more stress than Americans which contributes to aging, although I thought the sun was the likelier aging culprit on the South African side of things. But what do I know? I’m just a teenager who can’t speak English and has a one-way ticket to hell.
Monday, November 2, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 26, 2009
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:
- Huh?
- Really?
- 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.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 12, 2009
"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).
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
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!
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!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)