This May, I will be hopefully completing my second ultra marathon. This particular race, at 89 K of hilly roads, is dubbed, "the ultimate human race." When a friend of mine who ran it last year heard I was thinknig about signing up, he put me in touch with a South African man who lives near by who has completed it about 20 times.
His name is Mike and I do whatever he tells me. If he's run it 20 times, he must know a thing or two in addition to being obviously crazy.
He also convinced me to join him for a race in South Africa known as the Kosmos 3-in-1. The idea is to run a marathon in the morning, a half marathon at 1 pm and a 10 k in the evening, totaling 73 K (16 less than the Comrades). Plus it gives your body an idea of what it feels like to be vertical and in motion all day.
I signed up, and a week before the big day, something funky at the back of my knee started snapping like a rubberband. Yesterday was my fourth day in a row of giving up midway on a run and hobbling home. Yesterday, I shut the blinds, threw my skirt on the couch, squeezed into a knee support, donned my new sneakers and ran around my livingroom. I convinced myself I was healed, ate a chocolate bar and called it a night.
Then at 5:10 this morning, the rubberband started snapping one kilometer down the road. Have I ever mentioned that running may be the only thing that keeps me sane in the kingdom in the sky? It is.
The 3-in-one is three days away, so I emailed Mike in a panic saying I don't think I can run. His reply: "It is probably an over use injury as you body is adjusting to higher milage. I am also currently injured and Lisa got some "Ice Man" a healing gel used in Horses. I have applied this week with remarkable results." Within an hour, I had the horse meds delivered to my work with "We'll pick up for the race Friday morning. How is pasta for dinner that night?"
I should be outside doing PE with a group of 3-6 year olds but I'm supposed to rest for a couple days. So I'm sitting barefoot at my computer, an ice pack tied to me with a scrap of Mozambican fabric, smelling like a medicated horse.
**Note, if you have any knee-related expertise and advice, please share, but my cranky brain cannot handle a lecture right now.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Reading Month Challenge
March is Reading Month at school. Each year we set a goal and if the students reach it, the director has to do "something." Last year, his phone, laptop and keys to his office were confiscated and he was required to sit in a rocking chair all day (about six hours) reading aloud. By 2:30, his voice was wrecked and his daughter (my student at the time) told me her daddy spent the rest of the day asleep on the sofa. The year before he ate a massive grasshopper. The teachers have come up with the Reading Month challenge in the past, but this year, the children are all putting forth their suggestions.
The first graders first said the director should kiss a girl, and the boys, (deciding that was too mean perhaps) voted to change that to kissing a frog. I tried to explain the concept to my three and four year olds ("If you read lots and lots of books at home, Mr. Director will have to do something for you"). Some initial suggestions were:
-give us cake
-kiss us
-pat our head
-take us to the seaside
-bring toys
Then I introduced the idea that we could ask him to do something funny, so they added,
-be a clown
-be a ballerina (I informed them that Mr. Director already said "no cross dressing, please.")
-jump up and down
-jump up and on a trampoline
-go camping (it is a little funny to imagine this guy camping)
Or we can ask him to do something difficult, I suggested, so they went on with,
-read a book (well, it is difficult for a three year old)
-build a house
-make a washing machine
and my favorite. . .
-I think you should give me a paper bag and a bridge and a mountain.
The first graders first said the director should kiss a girl, and the boys, (deciding that was too mean perhaps) voted to change that to kissing a frog. I tried to explain the concept to my three and four year olds ("If you read lots and lots of books at home, Mr. Director will have to do something for you"). Some initial suggestions were:
-give us cake
-kiss us
-pat our head
-take us to the seaside
-bring toys
Then I introduced the idea that we could ask him to do something funny, so they added,
-be a clown
-be a ballerina (I informed them that Mr. Director already said "no cross dressing, please.")
-jump up and down
-jump up and on a trampoline
-go camping (it is a little funny to imagine this guy camping)
Or we can ask him to do something difficult, I suggested, so they went on with,
-read a book (well, it is difficult for a three year old)
-build a house
-make a washing machine
and my favorite. . .
-I think you should give me a paper bag and a bridge and a mountain.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Back to the US
When I landed in JFK, it didn’t take long to get into an argument with a (very rude) utter moron. On my customs form, I wrote down Lesotho and USA in the space for country of residence. I have a residence permit for Lesotho, but I am still a legal resident of the state of NJ (I have a driver’s license and am registered to vote there). When I got to the front of the line at customs, the agent asked, “Which country are you a resident of?” I said, “Lesotho and U-” before I was cut off. “You can’t have two countries.” I try to explain the situation so that he could tell me which is the country relevant to put on the form, but he cuts me off every time I open my mouth and just keeps repeating, “Yeah, yeah, you have to pick ONE.” Finally I just said, “Fine. USA.” He scribbles something on my form. “So you are now staying permanently in the USA.” “No, for ten days,” I told him. Then he shouted that the US is therefore not my country of residence (which we could have ascertained long before had he actually tried to listen to me). I threw up my hands, “Then put Lesotho.” “I can’t!” he said. “I already crossed it out!. . . and I don’t know how to spell it.” I spat out the letters before stomping off to baggage, and the man called after me, “Welcome hoooome!”
Welcome home indeed. It took about an hour for our luggage to appear on the baggage carousel and a terrified voice would intermittently apologize for the wait, which he would blame on a different vague problem every time. When I emerged into the arrivals area, my parents were waiting with a coat and scarf. Knowing that the New York winter would be at least 60 degrees warmer than the Lesotho summer I was coming from, I emailed my parents from my layover in London (Heathrow being it’s own freezing-and expensive-hell) to bring me some winter things to the airport. I bundled up over my linen pants and t-shirt which smelled like horse and sweat as I had boarded the plane a day and a half before, immediately following a pony-riding field trip with my students.
The entire way from the airport to my parent’s house, I was pretty sure we were going to crash, but my father kept insisting we were just in the midst of a little something called traffic. And not the kind of traffic we have here in Southern Africa where you brake a lot and crawl along the road, but the kind of the traffic where you drive as you normally would, only the road is as congested as a bumper cars arena. Culture shock #1: tri-state area traffic.
I spent the last bit of bitterly freezing daylight, running through the leafless tree-lined suburb and fell asleep in front of a plate of eggplant in a Jersey diner meets Jersey Italian kind of a restaurant. Thus ended my first day in America after a 20-month absence.
I spent the following day in New York City. Culture shock #2: double-decker trains. That’s right. New Jersey transit, when did you get so . . . tall? I fell down the stairs my first time on one of those. And it was not on the stairs to the upper story, but on the stairs going from the doorway to the seats on the bottom . . .because I was staring at the second story. Culture shock #3: obese pigeons. They were actually spherical. When I met Angela at the Met, I asked her what on earth had happened to this ubiquitous city critter, but she claimed that is how they always look. For the rest of the day I managed to disgust an employee of the museum by losing my entrance badge and requesting another, eat vegan Thai, and attempt to get a slice of vegan chocolate peanut butter cake at my favorite bakery/bar/music venue/used record store, but settled for a less satisfying cupcake instead when I found they were all out.
But the real reason for my trip to the US besides stuffing myself full of warm, fresh bagels that taste slightly of the paper bag they sell them in was for job interviews.
The job fair was like a freaky parallel universe where a normal job application process goes into fast forward. For several weeks leading up to the job fair, you post your profile on the agency’s website, scour the website for openings and email countless resumes to schools. Once you arrive at the actual fair, technology goes backward a couple centuries, and communication happens via notes. Everyone has a folder in a filing drawer and candidates can write messages to recruiters and vice versa. Upon arriving at the fair I saw a postcard in my folder that said, “Have you ever dreamt of working in a chalet in Central Switzerland right on Lake Luzern with a small group of 4-5 year olds?? I would love to talk to you-please stop by our table and set up an appointment!!”
1. No I haven’t ever dreamt of working in a chalet in Central Switzerland right on Lake Luzern with a small group of 4-5 year olds. . .but I am now!
2. Is this really a request for a job interview or are you trying to sell me something?
During the 4 hours of sign-ups, you wander around a massive hotel conference room trying to get schools to grant you an interview for later that weekend. Posters behind each table indicate what positions are open and if there are any requirements. When I made my stop at the table for the school in Switzerland, the openings were listed as-I am not joking-soccer positions. It said, verbatim:
-Striker (With ability to teach High School math)
-Midfield (Some High School IT experience needed)
-Defense (Prefer experience in Primary and Middle School learning support)
-Goal keeper (Background in Middle School General Science).
-Winger (Must be experience in Early Childhood, Quick on feet)
-Bus Driver (Also need to teach primary German[?!])
So I actually had to walk up to a school principal (who inquired, in writing, about my Swiss chalet dreams), introduce myself and say, “I would like to apply for the position of Winger.”
I tried to stick close to European tables because they all had chocolates. After inquiring at a school in Helsinki, I reached for a hazlenut bar, only the recruiter thought I was going for a handshake and extended his arm. I made an awkward U-turn from the chocolate bowl to his hand but he had already pulled his hand away. It could not have been more awkward, but he just said, “Go on, have some chocolate.”
In addition to applying to be a Winger at the chalet school, I set up interviews with schools in Accra, Cairo, Doha (on a whim), Kinshasa, Kuala Lumpur, Mumbai, Sadiola (middle of nowhere mine in Mali) Sofia, a school in Japan whose city I can’t remember, and ditto for Saudi Arabia. I actually had no intention of working in Saudi Arabia-EVER-but the director hunted me down and charmed me into signing up. I later cancelled that interview. Interestingly, another teacher who was interviewing for a school in Saudi Arabia told me it’s known as the New Jersey of the Middle East, as in, disdained by it’s neighbors (I’m also from Jersey). I spent a fair amount of my networking time teaching people how to pronounce Lesotho (Le-soo-too). Apparently people from Qatar (Cutter) had the same problem. Thus began an exhausting weekend of interviewing in hotel rooms overlooking the frozen Charles.
Perhaps my most interesting interview was with a school in Kuala Lumpur. The elementary school principal was deep-voiced and huge (although my hands are small, I was surprised when we went to shake that my hand was thoroughly engulfed-as in, my fingers could not reach around to the other side of his hand). He was suffering from temporary facial paralysis that left him completely unable to smile. Do you have any idea how unsettling it is for an grim-faced giant with the voice of James Earl Jones to tell you that he likes you? Very.
As you can imagine, there is only one place you can end up after a stressful winter weekend in which you have shaken about 400 people’s hands, and that is with a very bad cold. Luckily my friend Jordan pumped me full of Emergen-C, respiratory tea, osha root extract (vile), elderberry syrup (pretty good), and Kumbucha (a home-fermented Russian tea- tastes like cider vinegar) and I was more or less fit to get on the plane back to summer.
Welcome home indeed. It took about an hour for our luggage to appear on the baggage carousel and a terrified voice would intermittently apologize for the wait, which he would blame on a different vague problem every time. When I emerged into the arrivals area, my parents were waiting with a coat and scarf. Knowing that the New York winter would be at least 60 degrees warmer than the Lesotho summer I was coming from, I emailed my parents from my layover in London (Heathrow being it’s own freezing-and expensive-hell) to bring me some winter things to the airport. I bundled up over my linen pants and t-shirt which smelled like horse and sweat as I had boarded the plane a day and a half before, immediately following a pony-riding field trip with my students.
The entire way from the airport to my parent’s house, I was pretty sure we were going to crash, but my father kept insisting we were just in the midst of a little something called traffic. And not the kind of traffic we have here in Southern Africa where you brake a lot and crawl along the road, but the kind of the traffic where you drive as you normally would, only the road is as congested as a bumper cars arena. Culture shock #1: tri-state area traffic.
I spent the last bit of bitterly freezing daylight, running through the leafless tree-lined suburb and fell asleep in front of a plate of eggplant in a Jersey diner meets Jersey Italian kind of a restaurant. Thus ended my first day in America after a 20-month absence.
I spent the following day in New York City. Culture shock #2: double-decker trains. That’s right. New Jersey transit, when did you get so . . . tall? I fell down the stairs my first time on one of those. And it was not on the stairs to the upper story, but on the stairs going from the doorway to the seats on the bottom . . .because I was staring at the second story. Culture shock #3: obese pigeons. They were actually spherical. When I met Angela at the Met, I asked her what on earth had happened to this ubiquitous city critter, but she claimed that is how they always look. For the rest of the day I managed to disgust an employee of the museum by losing my entrance badge and requesting another, eat vegan Thai, and attempt to get a slice of vegan chocolate peanut butter cake at my favorite bakery/bar/music venue/used record store, but settled for a less satisfying cupcake instead when I found they were all out.
But the real reason for my trip to the US besides stuffing myself full of warm, fresh bagels that taste slightly of the paper bag they sell them in was for job interviews.
The job fair was like a freaky parallel universe where a normal job application process goes into fast forward. For several weeks leading up to the job fair, you post your profile on the agency’s website, scour the website for openings and email countless resumes to schools. Once you arrive at the actual fair, technology goes backward a couple centuries, and communication happens via notes. Everyone has a folder in a filing drawer and candidates can write messages to recruiters and vice versa. Upon arriving at the fair I saw a postcard in my folder that said, “Have you ever dreamt of working in a chalet in Central Switzerland right on Lake Luzern with a small group of 4-5 year olds?? I would love to talk to you-please stop by our table and set up an appointment!!”
1. No I haven’t ever dreamt of working in a chalet in Central Switzerland right on Lake Luzern with a small group of 4-5 year olds. . .but I am now!
2. Is this really a request for a job interview or are you trying to sell me something?
During the 4 hours of sign-ups, you wander around a massive hotel conference room trying to get schools to grant you an interview for later that weekend. Posters behind each table indicate what positions are open and if there are any requirements. When I made my stop at the table for the school in Switzerland, the openings were listed as-I am not joking-soccer positions. It said, verbatim:
-Striker (With ability to teach High School math)
-Midfield (Some High School IT experience needed)
-Defense (Prefer experience in Primary and Middle School learning support)
-Goal keeper (Background in Middle School General Science).
-Winger (Must be experience in Early Childhood, Quick on feet)
-Bus Driver (Also need to teach primary German[?!])
So I actually had to walk up to a school principal (who inquired, in writing, about my Swiss chalet dreams), introduce myself and say, “I would like to apply for the position of Winger.”
I tried to stick close to European tables because they all had chocolates. After inquiring at a school in Helsinki, I reached for a hazlenut bar, only the recruiter thought I was going for a handshake and extended his arm. I made an awkward U-turn from the chocolate bowl to his hand but he had already pulled his hand away. It could not have been more awkward, but he just said, “Go on, have some chocolate.”
In addition to applying to be a Winger at the chalet school, I set up interviews with schools in Accra, Cairo, Doha (on a whim), Kinshasa, Kuala Lumpur, Mumbai, Sadiola (middle of nowhere mine in Mali) Sofia, a school in Japan whose city I can’t remember, and ditto for Saudi Arabia. I actually had no intention of working in Saudi Arabia-EVER-but the director hunted me down and charmed me into signing up. I later cancelled that interview. Interestingly, another teacher who was interviewing for a school in Saudi Arabia told me it’s known as the New Jersey of the Middle East, as in, disdained by it’s neighbors (I’m also from Jersey). I spent a fair amount of my networking time teaching people how to pronounce Lesotho (Le-soo-too). Apparently people from Qatar (Cutter) had the same problem. Thus began an exhausting weekend of interviewing in hotel rooms overlooking the frozen Charles.
Perhaps my most interesting interview was with a school in Kuala Lumpur. The elementary school principal was deep-voiced and huge (although my hands are small, I was surprised when we went to shake that my hand was thoroughly engulfed-as in, my fingers could not reach around to the other side of his hand). He was suffering from temporary facial paralysis that left him completely unable to smile. Do you have any idea how unsettling it is for an grim-faced giant with the voice of James Earl Jones to tell you that he likes you? Very.
As you can imagine, there is only one place you can end up after a stressful winter weekend in which you have shaken about 400 people’s hands, and that is with a very bad cold. Luckily my friend Jordan pumped me full of Emergen-C, respiratory tea, osha root extract (vile), elderberry syrup (pretty good), and Kumbucha (a home-fermented Russian tea- tastes like cider vinegar) and I was more or less fit to get on the plane back to summer.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Outings For Cowgirls and Cowboys
We have a lot of horses here in Lesotho. I thought it would make a good subject for a hands-on study and the children seemed to agree.
After some preliminary research on the children’s part (I love you school library), I took them to the Agricultural College for a field trip. My plan was to have them study horses in three different contexts of Basotho life: agriculture, law enforcement and recreation. My research was to scout out three appropriate field trip sites so one day the school bus driver took me to the Agricultural College and the Police Training College to set things up. (The third and impending field trip is to a pony riding center).
At the Agricultural College I was informed that they have no horses. How silly of me. Agricultural College have horses? This is Lesotho and that would make too much sense. As I was leaving disappointedly, the receptionist told me to check “livestock.” After further questioning, I deduced that there is an adjacent property to the Agricultural College that is in fact part of the Agricultural College, yet . . . See where I’m going here? Lesotho. Logic. Mutually exclusive.
I went to “Livestock.” I proposed the trip. They said, “We have one horse and camels.” I said, “Really? One horse? And camels?” I left. In the car the school bus driver who was chauffeuring me on these inquiries told me that the Agricultural College does have horses (plural) but that they are kept far away in a village. He said this place mainly does veterinary services. Vet! U turn! We went back. I asked if the vet would be able to talk to us. I was told to write a formal application on notebook paper with an official school stamp. The purpose of this piece of paper was to fill up a folder where it would be forgotten about to limit any possibility that the vet might be expecting us.
So began the first field trip of the academic year. I stared the indignant vet in the eye, told her my “application” was approved and between my steady, annoyed teacher gaze and the hopeful horse-loving eyes of the children, she agreed to talk to them about horse health.
My children asked great questions. Dr. Vet clearly is not used to talking to three-year-olds. Rebecca asked, “What happens if a horse falls down?” Dr. Vet said, “
What do you mean?” What do you mean what does she mean? She wants to know what happens when a horse falls down! I repeated Rebecca’s question, and somehow coming from an adult, she was able to respond. She started talking about plaster casts. Charlie raised his hand and said, “What if the horse needs four casts?” Dr. Vet said drew her finger across her throat. “We kill it.” (I’m all for honest answers, but could we tone down the gestures please?) Then Sean, with bodily functions perpetually on the brain asked, “Where does the horse pee and poo?” Dr. Vet and the animal caretaker stared blankly at each other until the caretaker pointed to a spot on the ground and said, “here.” He paused turned his head and pointed to another spot on the ground, “and here.” He continued scouting out droppings and urine puddles, “And here, and here, here, here, here. . .here. EVERYWHERE.” Sean was delighted.
Carefully watching where we stepped, we boarded the bus.
Take II. The Police Training College. At least they were expecting us here. We were assigned an officer and taken immediately to where they keep the horses. They let us into the paddock, locked the gate, and the officer disappeared into the stable. 28 horses bounded down the ramp into the paddock. I felt about a half dozen small hands reaching for mine. “Don’t worry I told them, they won’t come over here.” But they did, the officer nowhere in sight and the horses sniffing and nuzzling the children, nudging them with their noses and releasing their bladders much to Sean’s delight.
Not everyone was as pleased as Sean. About half of my 21 students immediately burst into tears and ran screaming to the gate, rattling the locked chains in hysteria. The rest of the children were all over the horses and loving it. I was trying to lure the criers back, even as the biggest horse of all breathed its hot sour breath in my face before chewing on my skirt. I was freaked out myself, but managed to lure all but two children back to the horses, including Tlotliso, who buried his snotty face in my hair and said, “I’m never coming back here again.” The horses are very well trained so the children were able to freely explore and when the officer reappeared he answered their questions with ease. We were up to our shins in mud and manure, which I consider a plus (for a preschool field trip, not in general). We gathered in the empty stable and learned among other horse facts, how to make bedding for a horse. It involves dried manure so Sean was of course ecstatic to learn about the process.
Then my scholarly little preschoolers scouted out places to sit and sketched their new equine friends with crayons. We finally said goodbye and thanked the officer with a rousing rendition of Yankee Doodle. He was perplexed but appreciative and really, who wouldn’t be?
After some preliminary research on the children’s part (I love you school library), I took them to the Agricultural College for a field trip. My plan was to have them study horses in three different contexts of Basotho life: agriculture, law enforcement and recreation. My research was to scout out three appropriate field trip sites so one day the school bus driver took me to the Agricultural College and the Police Training College to set things up. (The third and impending field trip is to a pony riding center).
At the Agricultural College I was informed that they have no horses. How silly of me. Agricultural College have horses? This is Lesotho and that would make too much sense. As I was leaving disappointedly, the receptionist told me to check “livestock.” After further questioning, I deduced that there is an adjacent property to the Agricultural College that is in fact part of the Agricultural College, yet . . . See where I’m going here? Lesotho. Logic. Mutually exclusive.
I went to “Livestock.” I proposed the trip. They said, “We have one horse and camels.” I said, “Really? One horse? And camels?” I left. In the car the school bus driver who was chauffeuring me on these inquiries told me that the Agricultural College does have horses (plural) but that they are kept far away in a village. He said this place mainly does veterinary services. Vet! U turn! We went back. I asked if the vet would be able to talk to us. I was told to write a formal application on notebook paper with an official school stamp. The purpose of this piece of paper was to fill up a folder where it would be forgotten about to limit any possibility that the vet might be expecting us.
So began the first field trip of the academic year. I stared the indignant vet in the eye, told her my “application” was approved and between my steady, annoyed teacher gaze and the hopeful horse-loving eyes of the children, she agreed to talk to them about horse health.
My children asked great questions. Dr. Vet clearly is not used to talking to three-year-olds. Rebecca asked, “What happens if a horse falls down?” Dr. Vet said, “
What do you mean?” What do you mean what does she mean? She wants to know what happens when a horse falls down! I repeated Rebecca’s question, and somehow coming from an adult, she was able to respond. She started talking about plaster casts. Charlie raised his hand and said, “What if the horse needs four casts?” Dr. Vet said drew her finger across her throat. “We kill it.” (I’m all for honest answers, but could we tone down the gestures please?) Then Sean, with bodily functions perpetually on the brain asked, “Where does the horse pee and poo?” Dr. Vet and the animal caretaker stared blankly at each other until the caretaker pointed to a spot on the ground and said, “here.” He paused turned his head and pointed to another spot on the ground, “and here.” He continued scouting out droppings and urine puddles, “And here, and here, here, here, here. . .here. EVERYWHERE.” Sean was delighted.
Carefully watching where we stepped, we boarded the bus.
Take II. The Police Training College. At least they were expecting us here. We were assigned an officer and taken immediately to where they keep the horses. They let us into the paddock, locked the gate, and the officer disappeared into the stable. 28 horses bounded down the ramp into the paddock. I felt about a half dozen small hands reaching for mine. “Don’t worry I told them, they won’t come over here.” But they did, the officer nowhere in sight and the horses sniffing and nuzzling the children, nudging them with their noses and releasing their bladders much to Sean’s delight.
Not everyone was as pleased as Sean. About half of my 21 students immediately burst into tears and ran screaming to the gate, rattling the locked chains in hysteria. The rest of the children were all over the horses and loving it. I was trying to lure the criers back, even as the biggest horse of all breathed its hot sour breath in my face before chewing on my skirt. I was freaked out myself, but managed to lure all but two children back to the horses, including Tlotliso, who buried his snotty face in my hair and said, “I’m never coming back here again.” The horses are very well trained so the children were able to freely explore and when the officer reappeared he answered their questions with ease. We were up to our shins in mud and manure, which I consider a plus (for a preschool field trip, not in general). We gathered in the empty stable and learned among other horse facts, how to make bedding for a horse. It involves dried manure so Sean was of course ecstatic to learn about the process.
Then my scholarly little preschoolers scouted out places to sit and sketched their new equine friends with crayons. We finally said goodbye and thanked the officer with a rousing rendition of Yankee Doodle. He was perplexed but appreciative and really, who wouldn’t be?
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Three Weeks, Three Countries, Happy New Year
Sani Pass
Durban
Pretty little bird on a gigantic leaf
awesome bark
A lot of children, CiCi included, get lost at the beach on Christmas. A police officer saw us taking this photo and asked us if we think that's funny. I thought he was going to reprimand us, but then he started laughing and said, "yeah, it's pretty funny."
Nambia, Mostly Sand
desert beauty
ship wreck!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Gym
I said I would never join. I hate gyms. People who know that I run ask me if I run at the gym. The gym doesn’t even have a track. Only treadmills. And if you run on the roads you know that we say people who run on the treadmills are (gasp!) not real runners. Sure, they’re putting one foot in front of the other, and unlike in walking, there is a point in each stride where two feet are off the ground, but we generally think if you have legs and you’re not an astronaut in outer space, your running should happen on the pavement, grass, dirt or track, not some soulless, mechanized strip of rubber rotating round and round in front of a television or mirror or other miserable gym-goers doing the same thing and going nowhere.
But I signed up for the Comrades Marathon. At 89 kilometers (about 56 miles) it is an “ultra marathon,” more than twice the distance of a standard marathon (ex: New York, Boston or London marathons). It’s between Durban and Pietermaritzburg in South Africa. The race switches direction every year, which matters because it’s hilly. This year is a “down” run. What I’ve heard this means is that for at least a while you have no idea you’re running mostly down, because there seems to be quite a bit of uphill as well. Later on, when you have dozens of kilometers on your legs, and all the fatigue and lactic acid that come with it, you really start to go down which apparently “rips your legs apart.”
I’ve been told by Mike, the elusive running god of Maseru, going to the gym once or twice a week will . . . well I don’t think he made any exact promises but something about the race destroying me less. He’s run the Comrades about 20 times, and although I have yet to meet him, I do whatever he tells me. Although in this case, I had to get a few people to translate his e-mail which was written in gym-speak, a dialect of English I had never come across before. (And I later found out it indicated I should be lifting weights).
Two teachers smugly drove me over with them (smug because of all the times I refused their offers to join them saying that gyms in general and treadmills in particular embody everything wrong with the modern world.)
When I arrived at the gym, I asked reception something apparently very stupid, which was could I try the gym for a day and then sign up (pay)? In a way it was a silly request because I had already decided to join the gym and there is really only one gym in Maseru, but this is standard procedure in US (which I only know because of how many free trials I rejected over the years). Well, they were pretty dumbfounded that I wanted to enter the gym without paying, so I meekly insisted on at least a tour. Then when I tried to pay with a debit card they said they didn’t have the facilities to accept payment with a card. I asked them where the nearest ATM is and they told me to just pay another day (which was what I had asked to do in the first place- pay after my first day- but I didn’t remind them of that).
The gym is pristine and modern in a way that for a moment made me forget entirely that I am in Africa. This inspired a short-lived feeling of unbelievable relief followed by immediate guilt. The membership card was one of the aspects that most transported me back to America. It’s like a Charlie card (for those of you who frequent Boston public transportation), you don’t even have to swipe, just tap against the turnstile (without even removing it from your wallet). So when I enter the gym, at least I can pretend I’m descending into the Porter Square station with a bagel in hand (Massachusetts are stale, tasteless, ring-shaped rocks in comparison to New York, but at this point I’d take it gladly).
Once I got away without paying, they were displeased at my lack of lock (for the locker room) and sweat towel. My colleagues offered to share and then I was left with the task of tying up my long hair with no elastic or clip (and I couldn’t find anyone with a spare). I know this doesn’t seem like a big deal but I have a lot of hair and I ended up using a strapless bra (colleagues confirmed that worn in the hair, it no longer appears to be an undergarment). So I was off. They told me I couldn’t use the gym for my first three times without a trainer to show me how to use the machines. This was good because
My second trip back to the gym was rather unpleasant. I was first chastised by security for walking through the vehicle gate instead of the adjacent (and camouflaged) pedestrian gate, then by the receptionist for being five minutes late, and finally by the trainer for not remembering how to use the tricep machine. When I was finally on my own though, I couldn’t remember how to use most of the machines, or how to adjust them to my height. When I did figure out how to adjust them, I didn’t feel strong enough to actually pull out the pins and turn the screws, let alone use those machines to lift large amounts of weight. So I wandered around a bit aimlessly and picked out a guy who seemed to be doing the same stuff as me and watched him carefully so I could use the machines after him. Of course he was taller than me, so after he vacatred a machine, I tried to not forget what I was supposed to do as I struggled to compress the machines to their minimum size. At one point, I went to get a manager to help me adjust a machine and I noticed there were more working than usual and they were dressed in suits rather than the usual workout clothes. I started to approach one but he was so standoffish I turned around and headed to a foolproof machine I wouldn’t need help with. Later my neighbor told me that those “managers” were the king’s bodyguards, and that guy I was following around (or stalking as the bodyguards may have interpreted) was the King of Lesotho.
*Apparently this was really popular in the US about a year ago, but being here, I only ever heard of it a couple weeks ago.
But I signed up for the Comrades Marathon. At 89 kilometers (about 56 miles) it is an “ultra marathon,” more than twice the distance of a standard marathon (ex: New York, Boston or London marathons). It’s between Durban and Pietermaritzburg in South Africa. The race switches direction every year, which matters because it’s hilly. This year is a “down” run. What I’ve heard this means is that for at least a while you have no idea you’re running mostly down, because there seems to be quite a bit of uphill as well. Later on, when you have dozens of kilometers on your legs, and all the fatigue and lactic acid that come with it, you really start to go down which apparently “rips your legs apart.”
I’ve been told by Mike, the elusive running god of Maseru, going to the gym once or twice a week will . . . well I don’t think he made any exact promises but something about the race destroying me less. He’s run the Comrades about 20 times, and although I have yet to meet him, I do whatever he tells me. Although in this case, I had to get a few people to translate his e-mail which was written in gym-speak, a dialect of English I had never come across before. (And I later found out it indicated I should be lifting weights).
Two teachers smugly drove me over with them (smug because of all the times I refused their offers to join them saying that gyms in general and treadmills in particular embody everything wrong with the modern world.)
When I arrived at the gym, I asked reception something apparently very stupid, which was could I try the gym for a day and then sign up (pay)? In a way it was a silly request because I had already decided to join the gym and there is really only one gym in Maseru, but this is standard procedure in US (which I only know because of how many free trials I rejected over the years). Well, they were pretty dumbfounded that I wanted to enter the gym without paying, so I meekly insisted on at least a tour. Then when I tried to pay with a debit card they said they didn’t have the facilities to accept payment with a card. I asked them where the nearest ATM is and they told me to just pay another day (which was what I had asked to do in the first place- pay after my first day- but I didn’t remind them of that).
The gym is pristine and modern in a way that for a moment made me forget entirely that I am in Africa. This inspired a short-lived feeling of unbelievable relief followed by immediate guilt. The membership card was one of the aspects that most transported me back to America. It’s like a Charlie card (for those of you who frequent Boston public transportation), you don’t even have to swipe, just tap against the turnstile (without even removing it from your wallet). So when I enter the gym, at least I can pretend I’m descending into the Porter Square station with a bagel in hand (Massachusetts are stale, tasteless, ring-shaped rocks in comparison to New York, but at this point I’d take it gladly).
Once I got away without paying, they were displeased at my lack of lock (for the locker room) and sweat towel. My colleagues offered to share and then I was left with the task of tying up my long hair with no elastic or clip (and I couldn’t find anyone with a spare). I know this doesn’t seem like a big deal but I have a lot of hair and I ended up using a strapless bra (colleagues confirmed that worn in the hair, it no longer appears to be an undergarment). So I was off. They told me I couldn’t use the gym for my first three times without a trainer to show me how to use the machines. This was good because
- All the machines look identical.
- Most of the machines resemble torture devices (the kind that crush you to death or tear your limbs apart) and I was naturally terrified.
- I couldn’t figure out what on earth to do with most of them despite the illustrated instructions.
- The leg press: you lie on your back with the weights attached to a platform you hold up with your toes directly over your face (with no safety catch, say a few inches above where your head is). I asked what happens if your feet slip off the far end of the platform and the trainer said, “Hospital!”
- Some chairs identical to the ones in my gynecologist’s office but with weights instead of speculums.
- Abdominal things (I’m pretty sure they are not machines because they have no moving parts) that I am obviously too short for and that left me dangling precariously upside down gripping on with the tips of my toes like a sloth.
- The scale. They scale is actually at the reception desk, not the locker room. In my experience (and my experience of gyms as you know is limited), weighing is something people generally like to do privately. So my gym machine tutorial awkwardly included the scale (because I don’t know my weight in kilograms which I was told I would have to enter on the bike). I don’t mind if people know what I weigh, I mind if they know that I care. (And I haven’t used the scale since my tutorial so I either really don’t care what I weigh or really mind that people think that I do and I can’t decide which).
My second trip back to the gym was rather unpleasant. I was first chastised by security for walking through the vehicle gate instead of the adjacent (and camouflaged) pedestrian gate, then by the receptionist for being five minutes late, and finally by the trainer for not remembering how to use the tricep machine. When I was finally on my own though, I couldn’t remember how to use most of the machines, or how to adjust them to my height. When I did figure out how to adjust them, I didn’t feel strong enough to actually pull out the pins and turn the screws, let alone use those machines to lift large amounts of weight. So I wandered around a bit aimlessly and picked out a guy who seemed to be doing the same stuff as me and watched him carefully so I could use the machines after him. Of course he was taller than me, so after he vacatred a machine, I tried to not forget what I was supposed to do as I struggled to compress the machines to their minimum size. At one point, I went to get a manager to help me adjust a machine and I noticed there were more working than usual and they were dressed in suits rather than the usual workout clothes. I started to approach one but he was so standoffish I turned around and headed to a foolproof machine I wouldn’t need help with. Later my neighbor told me that those “managers” were the king’s bodyguards, and that guy I was following around (or stalking as the bodyguards may have interpreted) was the King of Lesotho.
*Apparently this was really popular in the US about a year ago, but being here, I only ever heard of it a couple weeks ago.
Monday, December 14, 2009
A Different Kind of Culture Shock
Last week, I went for the first time to the school librarian’s house. She is a good colleague and friend. We share many of the same incompetencies (swimming, driving, whistling) and one great passion (books). And other than swapping book recommendations and bad day stories, our interactions generally revolve around her trying to feed me or find me a “suitable boy” (She even lent me a book by the title, followed by Born Confused about an Indian girl from Jersey who falls in love with an NYU boy- what she was suggesting, I have no idea . . .when her husband heard of her plans he made me a fictitious J Date profile which initially inspired my anger and then a good laugh). While the afternoon early childhood program (my baby) at the school gets off to a glacial start, I head into the library after lunch and assist her in her various duties. So I spend a lot of time with her. Her husband has frequently acted as a default chauffeur, a task he gladly undertakes for the pleasure of watching me (and capturing on film) struggle to open the sliding minivan door against the steep slope of my driveway. I also taught her niece, and frequently take yoga class with her father-in-law. I have been the recipient of many plastic containers of Indian food left over from family gatherings and Indian clothes that she thinks I’ll fit into. But oddly, I have never been inside her house, where she lives in addition to her husband and baby, her in-laws and the niece who spends so much time there she might as well live there.
Last week the niece moved with her mother to Malawi and I wanted to say goodbye to if not a favorite student, certainly one of my biggest fans. This happened to coincide with a night I was meeting her neighbor, to discuss plans to travel to Namibia later this month. I thought it would be fairly simple to pop in, say hello, say goodbye and head next door to pore over Lonely Planet guides.
It was dark and raining, there were no streetlights and the taxi had no headlights. My homemade map was fairly useless under these conditions, but once the driver realized that I figured out he had no clue where we were going and that he didn’t understand a word I was saying, he grabbed my map, and while steering the index finger of his left hand studied it upside down, nodding and swerving all over the road. I snatched my map back from him and he drove me to Leseli Flats, a compound inhabited mainly by expats. This was not my destination and I started saying “dirt road” over and over again. I pointed at the road we were on “good road, good road,” and “Please, I want a bad road. With dirt and rocks.” Miraculously we got there, and their dog didn’t eat me as I ran up the rain-soaked driveway.
I told them I could only stay about ten minutes, which was more than enough time to rile up the 2 year old daughter and 4 year old niece by doing absolutely nothing but being there. Of course, the first thing I was asked as I got in the door was if I ate dinner. It was about 9 o’ clock, so of course I had. I emphasized that this dinner was very big and recently consumed when I saw the food-pushing gleam in the eyes of the women of the house. “Good,” I was told as various cookies and crackers were shoved at me. When I gathered my things at the predetermined 10 minutes after arrival, I was told, “We are making you some vegetarian food. It will be ready in about 15 minutes.”
At this point, I was very late for my next meeting. And the women kept going back and forth to the kitchen doing something that looked elaborate. So I continued to rile up the children and fret about the time. The husband, sensing my White Rabbit of Wonderland anxiety, suggested we call the neighbor over to eat with me but the women stamped their feet and said there would not be enough food. He agreed and turned to me and said, “Don’t worry, he’s Indian, he’ll understand that we have to feed you before we let you go.” And before I knew what was happening, he had called him up and asked for my impending lateness to be excused. The phone was handed to me and a voice not at all amused on the other end asked how much longer I’d be. I posed this question to my captors and as a chorus of “15 minutes” rang out, I cupped the receiver and said, “Ten minutes. Max.” At last the tablecloth on the coffee table was changed, the table shoved toward me and bowls and pots and plates of food were carried out. There were dosas and chutneys, some bread that looked like Ethiopian injera, various vegetables and an entire melon. Twelve different dishes in all. They looked at me expectantly. As I waited for the others to sit down, they said, “Eat, eat!” “I’ll wait for you,” I told them. They shook their heads at me and cast identical looks my way that said, “Poor, dumb American.” “We have already eaten.”
Last week the niece moved with her mother to Malawi and I wanted to say goodbye to if not a favorite student, certainly one of my biggest fans. This happened to coincide with a night I was meeting her neighbor, to discuss plans to travel to Namibia later this month. I thought it would be fairly simple to pop in, say hello, say goodbye and head next door to pore over Lonely Planet guides.
It was dark and raining, there were no streetlights and the taxi had no headlights. My homemade map was fairly useless under these conditions, but once the driver realized that I figured out he had no clue where we were going and that he didn’t understand a word I was saying, he grabbed my map, and while steering the index finger of his left hand studied it upside down, nodding and swerving all over the road. I snatched my map back from him and he drove me to Leseli Flats, a compound inhabited mainly by expats. This was not my destination and I started saying “dirt road” over and over again. I pointed at the road we were on “good road, good road,” and “Please, I want a bad road. With dirt and rocks.” Miraculously we got there, and their dog didn’t eat me as I ran up the rain-soaked driveway.
I told them I could only stay about ten minutes, which was more than enough time to rile up the 2 year old daughter and 4 year old niece by doing absolutely nothing but being there. Of course, the first thing I was asked as I got in the door was if I ate dinner. It was about 9 o’ clock, so of course I had. I emphasized that this dinner was very big and recently consumed when I saw the food-pushing gleam in the eyes of the women of the house. “Good,” I was told as various cookies and crackers were shoved at me. When I gathered my things at the predetermined 10 minutes after arrival, I was told, “We are making you some vegetarian food. It will be ready in about 15 minutes.”
At this point, I was very late for my next meeting. And the women kept going back and forth to the kitchen doing something that looked elaborate. So I continued to rile up the children and fret about the time. The husband, sensing my White Rabbit of Wonderland anxiety, suggested we call the neighbor over to eat with me but the women stamped their feet and said there would not be enough food. He agreed and turned to me and said, “Don’t worry, he’s Indian, he’ll understand that we have to feed you before we let you go.” And before I knew what was happening, he had called him up and asked for my impending lateness to be excused. The phone was handed to me and a voice not at all amused on the other end asked how much longer I’d be. I posed this question to my captors and as a chorus of “15 minutes” rang out, I cupped the receiver and said, “Ten minutes. Max.” At last the tablecloth on the coffee table was changed, the table shoved toward me and bowls and pots and plates of food were carried out. There were dosas and chutneys, some bread that looked like Ethiopian injera, various vegetables and an entire melon. Twelve different dishes in all. They looked at me expectantly. As I waited for the others to sit down, they said, “Eat, eat!” “I’ll wait for you,” I told them. They shook their heads at me and cast identical looks my way that said, “Poor, dumb American.” “We have already eaten.”
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