kinderfolk

I learned a lot in my first two years in international education. I can say pee pee in Amharic, poo poo in Portuguese and cuddle in Dutch. I can sing about "All My Little Ducklings" in German and the Sesotho version of Head, Shoulders Knees and Toes (roughly translated to "Oh, child, your mother is suffering, burning in her body parts. Head, shoulders, nose, mouth, chest, waist, knees and toes.") I taught a child with the last name Mofo and a Buddhist named Tyranny (phonetical spelling). I ate a lot of international food in the name of research- thumbs up for spuculaas.

I am now in my 3rd year of international teaching (6th year in Early Childhood Education) and am faced with a new school, new country and new grade.

Meet the Kinderfolk (well, most of them)...

The Bride: She's not happy unless she's getting married in the dress-up corner or talking while I'm talking.

The UN Interpreter: She's only 4, but her stellar translation skills (English, German, French) prevent many a misunderstanding in my class.


Frick and Frack stumble confusedly around my class causing an annoying but quiet stream of chaos.


The Cowboy: Known as such for his favorite hat, during a discussion of words we agree not to say in Kindergarten (stupid, shut up, go away, you're not my friend) The Cowboy suggested adding "fuck it" to the list. Great Idea.

Precocious: She has a tendency to sprinkle words like "massive" in conversation (keep in mind she's only five). And being half Scottish, she taught me what the word "titchy" means.

Fidget: His name says it all. In fact, I suspect he's a little autistic. Then again, he could just have a touch of inherited weirdness (a parent told me he is not allowed to have rice and beans in the cafeteria because of his ears).

Pear Blossom: I learned in the elementary school library that this is the name of the Korean Cinderella. This child is spends the majority of her free time twirling with a piece of fabric trailing behind her.

Baby Gap: This child belongs on a baby gap ad. With a Polish mother and Congolese father he is one of the half of my class who have one African parent and one European or American parent. My class is full of tan, curly haired, multi-lingual babies.

Rattinger: He got his blog alias because he told me this was his name on the first day of school. His name is nothing even close to this.

Saying Goodbye to a Mosotho Hero

It was a sad weekend for Lesotho and for the American expat community in particular. In addition to the widely mourned and publicized murder of a Peace Corps volunteer on Friday, we lost a second victim to gunshot wounds the following night in an attempted hijacking.

Ntate Pohleili was one of the superstar dads at the American school. This was obvious to anyone who knows his two incredible children. But he became a true hero my class when he allowed us to visit his bread factory during our study of baking. It might not seem like much but a viewing of trucks unloading massive sacks of flour, a perilous walk through a maze of conveyer belts and a peek through a gargantuan room-sized oven can be unforgettable to a four-year-old.

For me that trip marked the end of a string of ridiculous, hilarious, often disastrous field trips in my two years teaching there. It was certainly the most dangerous. Ntate Pohleili was extremely wary about 21 3 and 4 year olds touring all manner of hot, sharp and limb stealing machinery but we arranged to go with his 5th grade daughter's class and we assigned each big kid a little guy. Those 5th graders took their jobs seriously, not simply holding their buddy's hand, but holding both. Nonetheless, I remember thinking that this would never be allowed back home, probably for good reason, and only weeks before my departure, it made me sad about leaving.

Sending love and thoughts from the Congo to Lesotho to the Peace Corps Community, the American school and the Pohleili family.

And Now I'm A Better Teacher

I just finished the experience I like to refer to as the most torturous $800 ever spent. And for those of you who haven't run into my text-book wielding, frantic self complete with bugged out eyes in the past 5 weeks, we can also call that, "Statistics." Specifically On-Line Intro to Statistics at Union County College. Why would I spend such a hefty fee on such an unpleasant experience? Well the New York State Department of Education, and by extension, the institution that will recommend me to receive my teaching license, requires that I have certain pre-requisites as an Early Childhood Educator. I took some of the courses in college and tested out of others, but a looming math course remained. 

And while UCC isn't the most challenging of institutions (indeed, in one assignment to post a project proposal including abstract, outline and reference list, a classmate posted only this, "Statistics in genetics. The statistics you need in genetics is so hard even the best mathematician would go crazy"), I was nonetheless taking a standard semester-long college level math course crammed into five weeks. As an online course, this meant that I read the text book and quizzed myself using the the text book website with no educational guidance or instruction while my faceless, voiceless professor kicked back in her bathrobe and laughed at our misfortune. 

And this $800 worth of mind numbing numbers is supposed to make me a better teacher? Ha! (And if I had grasped the content a bit better I would statistically prove the legitimacy of that sarcastic laugh). Yes, teachers should be proficient in basic skills. And New York State tests for these skills in not one, but two different exams, both of which are required for licensure. And the most ridiculous part is New York State has absolutely no requirement for course work in math pedagogy, which would actually be useful.

Actually, the most ridiculous part is I can't resell my $165 text book because it comes with the online computer code that has a one-time use only.

Make Love Not War

These are bonobos, one of the four great apes (quick: name the other three!)* and our closest genetic relations. Found exclusively in the Congo, they are very in danger of extinction. Bonobos are sold in the local markets as pets and the folks at this reserve buy them and bring them to their new home. All 50 adults were acquired this way, and 12 babies have been born on the reserve.

In this matriarchal society, conflict is solved through sex, and the bonobo range of sexual activity includes kissing, oral sex, masturbation... really you should just google bonobo and sexual behavior for the complete scoop.

This posting does not contain any ape porn, but I hope you like the remarkably human expressions.

*orangutang, gorilla, chimpanzee

DRC Packing List

Yes, that is a gallon of sunscreen.

A Bit Random...

(One of) the reason(s) it takes me so long to pack is that I stumble across papers. And I have to read them. Boring forms. Letters and postcards. Drawings from my students. And what I spend most time pondering and trying to remember, little scraps of things that I jotted something down on.

One such piece of paper, splashed with yellow paint stains says, "mataramputana." This is Sesotho for scribble. I love this word. It's long, it bounces. It sounds exactly as a word for scribble should sound. (Although I think "scribble" is also a pretty good word for scribble).

One of the assistant teachers (Zambian by birth, Mosotho by marriage, with a little piece of her adolescent heart still somewhere in Malawi) wrote it down for me. I made some comment about the word which I can't remember now. She replied, in Zambia, we say "mwandakandandgyankapo."

It means the act of spreading peanuts on a straw mat for drying. I found this out awhile later when we realized that I thought we were having a conversation about words that mean "scribble" and she thought we were having a conversation about words that are long.

Another funny thing I found, copied down from a hilarious text I received from a taxi driver two years ago: "Hi dear, zambia is moaning for 21 days. Only after,can i send u da touch bcoz offices wil remain closed. Ope u under wit me."

Lost in translation? Let me help you out. "Hi Dear, Zamiba is mouring for 21 day. Only after, can I send you the torch because offices will remain closed. Hope you understand."

(I left my head torch in his taxi when he dropped me off at the airport. He discovered it when he got back to town and drove all the way back to the airport but I had already boarded the plane. The president died that weekend and he promised to mail it when the post office opened again).

On Running “The Ultimate Human Race”

I’m happy I did it. By which I mean, mostly I’m happy it’s over. Veteran runners told me how much running downhill for 56 miles hurts. They were right. And whoever describe the pain as one that shreds your muscles, even more right.


I woke up at 3:30 am the morning of Comrades for all the pre-race rituals. Oatmeal, sunscreen, hairpins, strategically placed tape (better than Vaseline to ward away chafing) and we slogged through the marathon traffic to the starting line. Mike gave me a hug and told me not to worry, that I had all day (that thought in itself was worrying though) and I spent most of the time before the gun went off waiting on a ludicrous line for the bathrooms. In fact, I was so late to the starting line that I wasn’t allowed to line up with my seed, but had to funnel in at the back. When the gun went off I watched the elite runners take off from the big screen TV overhead and ten minutes later, I too had passed the finish line, wedged behind two men from Save the Rhinos decked out in full rhinoceros costumes.

I had hoped to run the race in under 10 hours, but fairly early in the day, I decided that would definitely not happen. For one thing, the pain set in after barely 30k (less than 19 miles), which I certainly hadn’t counted on. And on top of that, some combination of nerves, stress and neon syrupy sports drink made me really, really ill. I eventually switched from Energade to water and chocolates or banana, but it was a chore to keep anything down. Even honey, my steadfast stand-in for energy gels made me nauseous (and honey is supposed to be good for your stomach)!

When every step I took felt like I was being stabbed with a blunt knife, I hung back and waited for the pacer with the 12-hour flag (the maximum time allowed to complete the race). I eventually had to walk every downhill. Even the rhinos, and some guys dressed dressed in equally cumbersome outfits as blood cells and platelets were passing me. But it was either walk down the hills or fall down them. Oddly enough, I had no problem running up hill, but those inclines were few and far between. And the thing is, it still hurts. It just hurts differently to run uphill than yet another downhill, and you end up truly welcoming the prospect of variety in your pain.
Of course, it wasn’t the entirely miserable event I am making it sound like. The race is essentially a little more than two standard marathons. Just after the first marathon mark, I approached a swell of noise, and I realized that the runners up ahead were cheering back at the spectators. When I reached that section of the road, I realized we were passing the Enthembi Children’s Home and the residents were lining the street. Many were in wheelchairs or leaning on crutches, many had missing limbs or limbs shriveled or bent at angles that made my stomach drop. Some were crawling on the ground because they can’t stand. But my goodness, they cheered loud. It’s the kind of thing that makes your heart crack into a hundred pieces, and shuts up the whiny voice in your head, because you put yourself on this road and your damn lucky to be running on it.
Much further into the race, I had another oddly uplifting encounter. A black man ran up alongside me and said, “I know you.” I turned my head and he said, “You ran the Kosmos.” It was true, I had. It was just strange that he recognized me, because the race was so overwhelmingly white, it was he who should have stood out to me. I confirmed that I had run that race. And he nodded and said, “You beat me.” He carried on ahead and I didn’t see him for the rest of the race.
I also had an amazing support crew who made the trip to Durban to sweep my broken body into a pile if I finished and my broken heart into a pile if I didn’t. Erica and Colleen came from the school with me, and waved signs made by students (theirs, not mine who are too young to write). CiCi who was a cross-country teammate at NYU who is currently living in South Africa was there as well, with a colleague she dragged along and for some reason forced to dress as a banana. They made appearances at several points along the route and they were one of the few reasons that I ended up finishing. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to let them know that I decided to finish about 2 hours later than originally planned at as the time cut-off neared, I knew they would be worried that I wouldn’t make it.
In the last few kilometers, I saw countless runners passed out, hooked up to oxygen or being carried on stretchers. I couldn’t wait to see the finish line, but I could not move any faster than a hobble. When I finally turned into the stadium, there were so many people that I had to come to a dead stop for a few minutes and a hundred meters later, we practically had to line up to cross the finish line.
I cannot describe the relief that I felt. The teachers came to collect me. I attempted to sit down which took several tries, while one of them went to find my backpack. I felt like one giant bruise. A man was lying passed out on the grass nearby, his limbs splayed like a bent starfish. His three-year-old daughter was lying face-down on top of him, taking a nap. When I finally had to stand again, walking took all of my concentration. For some reason, I kept involuntarily swerving to the right, which I tried to counteract by exuberantly swinging my arms. I looked drunk.
We began the trip back to Maseru the next morning. At every gas station and rest stop and restaurant along the way, I could pick out the other Comrades runners. I could hear their groans across the parking lot, pick out their unsteady, limping gaits, and sympathize with the grimace and hoist technique of getting up from the table after lunch. There were several of us on the line to cross the border into Lesotho that night, with our Comrades t-shirts or backpacks, Nedbank caps and gazes wearily eyeing the occupied benches.
And now it’s over. So much of my time here, especially this last year has been spent training and planning and thinking about Comrades. I thought it would be weird once it was over. But it’s not. Your body adjusts to sleeping a little later in the morning and not running and lifting and biking constantly. Your watch and knee brace and sneakers find their way into the corners of the house. The scabby outlines of your running clothes, chafed for months on your skin begin to fade. And your time, somehow just fills up.

Over the weekend I was in Ladybrand on the South African side of the border. As I got on a minibus taxi to go back to Maseru a man said, “You didn’t run here today.” I told him I had just run the Comrades Marathon the week before. His silent look seemed to say, “So?” I continued, “It was a long run, I’m resting now.” He stared at me for what seemed like about a minute and then asked, “Did you win?” I said no and he shrugged and walked away. It took 12 hours to finish. It took 2 years. And after all that, you realize it was just a run. And I think that’s a good thing.