Writers' Club
Leo seems to have made me a special friend. He is one of the slower and older boys. Communication with him is difficult, seems to understand very little. Early on in class he was ignoring all that was going on, completely absorbed in a note of multi-folded paper. Since he doesn't read well, I wondered at his deliberation as I confiscated the missive and put it on my desk. This caused him some visible distress. Towards the end of the day, the note was still there, I called Leo in and returned it, saying he can have notes, but shouldn't read them during class. This oddly enough seemed to make him my friend and he'd go out of his way to pass by and greet me in the morning or on the playground.
Next thing I know, he'd joined the Writers' Club, one of the least communicative kids in the school. Well teachers wouldn't be teachers if they didn't believe in miracles. A few day ago, in class I was trying to extend Leo's attention span, finally went up to his desk, while speaking to him, he seemed to nod off. His response was of someone sleep deprived. I checked with other teachers and Ms. Mwanza, alerted them but we know almost nothing of his home life.
Next Writers' Club we were reporting on our assignment, an outline for our first story. Most of the boys had stories of a boy meets girl variety. We get to Leo's: A man comes home and beats his wife. She responds, "No problem."
How much of Leo's story is actually 'his story'?
Immigration Office (an obligatory story of anyone extending their visa in Zambia, I know I did one on my last visit here, sorry)
To keep one from getting bogged down in their problems, the Imm. Off. has a specail program called Visa Extension. You must drop whatever positive work you might be doing and go in person to get in line, sign in and then face a bewildering array of desks numbered from 1 to 16. This is completely different from my last visit. Do you do the desks in order, or just pick your lucky number? I knew this was my "shake down visit" where I'd learn everything I done wrong and what I must do on my next visit to be successful. I took careful notes this Friday afternoon. On Monday I gathered all the needed items, photos, xerox pass port pages, letters with proper letterhead and signatures and finally a bank check for the amount of the fee. With high hopes I presented the fruits of my labors (labours) on Monday. HA!! The bank check which I had gotten at some time and effort was correct for the fixed fee quoted on Friday, but was not even close to the Monday's fee. The only good news was that it was less. Rush back to the bank (45 min one way) wait in another line, explain the error, get yet another check while they decide what to do with the last one, back through the afternoon traffic while my stomach reminds me of no lunch, and arrive before the Imm. Off. closed. A Hollywood Movie finish, except that the Cashiers Office closes 1/2 before the rest, it being closed, there was no one to give the money too.
Since it seemed that the last step was to pay, Philip decides he can do that tomorrow on his own while I get back to teaching. Just before lunch (which would have been sausage and nshima) the driver hands me a note from Philip explaining that they took the check, but my face must be there for the final stamping of my pass port. Rush out, get to the office to find that I have just made it for their afternoon break. Finally get in and find a desk with no line. I am offerred a seat while the man at the desk goes through a tall stack of papers. After he complete about five, he kindly lets me know that this will be the last, before he gets to me. A short story later and he stamps my pass port. "When do I return?" I ask. Next month. I can hardly wait.
New Generator
A new large, heavy (2 tons) generator arrived yesterday. It is automatic, turns on at power outages and off when electricity returns. It is powerful enough to run our stoves, hot water heaters, etc. But,( there is alway a but) it needs to be moved to a yet to be poured concrete pad and then hooked up to our system. When? who knows.
Blog pressing out of Africa,
Sam
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Life and Death
Most happy to announce the arrival of Shabach Mvula. (Philip & Maria's) Long awaited, assisted finally by a doctor and cesarian delivery. Both parents are recovering rapidly. Certainly hard on the mother. But I was most aware of the toll it took on the father, who in Zambia is kept at a good distance both physically and informationally.
Hospital staff are not open nor forthcoming regarding the status of ones spouse. Briefest of info offerred at long intervals. An expectant father lives via his cell phone waiting for THE call, but instead he is sharing his lack of current knowledge with innumerable friends who call for updates, only to be told, "No word yet." It took three days before we got the positive news.
On a completely opposite note, the father of one of our teachers died and to show our respects, faculty divided in half each going on consecutive days. The first group visited outside the home (house remains empty until after the burial) with family, friends and relatives. Meanwhile back at the school I was left with the 3rd grade class for a couple of hours at the end of the day. They had their assignment to finish their drawings of the "food groups" they had studied in science and then each was to select a story book and read it to the class. The drawing went fairly well with minor clashes over the least available color of crayons and the very slow student who was more intent on hording crayons than finishing his work.
Third graders have a hard time making decissions, especially those having to do with earth-shattering importance: which book will I read in front of the class? A few quickly grabbed the one they wanted, others though could not be satisfied, every book had to be inspected, then tossed aside. Several of this sort make the problem more acute. Finally the subsitute-teacher had to step in and decide for the last ones.
This is not the way I would have chosen to spend one of the hottest afternoons we've had. The readers were shy and seemed to know that if they spoke softly (mumbled) they might finesse the hard words.
The listeners couldn't hear enough to hold their attention. I got one of the better students to assist the "reader" while I tried to keep some decorum. But order slowly melted away in the heat like ice cream at a 4th of July picnic. I got to abreiviating the stories to a couple pages, finally the last student tried to read a story way beyond his skill level. I beleive there is a process in physics which describes going from order to chaos, need not review that here.
Suffice to say that it is sad when an old would-be sub teacher is defeated by a class of third graders. Doesn't leave much self-esteem. Yet I know, had it been filmed, it would be classic comedy. Took longer to unwind that evening.
Next day was my turn and we went to the funeral and grave site for the burial. The church was packed. The deceased was 78 with 11 children. We stood outside the church in a hint of shade. From there we drove to the cemetery. The intense African sun encourage me to take my hat. "No hats at a funeral" said Philip with some authority. Thinking this would not take long, I went bare headed.
Beside the grave was the usual piles of dirt but also freshly mixed cement. The casket was lowered and some dirt followed. Then the cement and finally the remainder of the dirt. By standers helped the two-man cemetery crew with this work. When all the dirt was used up, more had to be acquired near by to nicely round off the grave with a mound a couple of feet high. The minister spoke a few words and then folks moved off. It took about 45 min. Philip explained the cement was to discourage the coffin robbers. They can be resold as new, there being no used-coffin market.
We returned to school, I had to wait for one class period to end the day and run home to my aloe for a tender head.
A-peelingly yours,
Sam
Hospital staff are not open nor forthcoming regarding the status of ones spouse. Briefest of info offerred at long intervals. An expectant father lives via his cell phone waiting for THE call, but instead he is sharing his lack of current knowledge with innumerable friends who call for updates, only to be told, "No word yet." It took three days before we got the positive news.
On a completely opposite note, the father of one of our teachers died and to show our respects, faculty divided in half each going on consecutive days. The first group visited outside the home (house remains empty until after the burial) with family, friends and relatives. Meanwhile back at the school I was left with the 3rd grade class for a couple of hours at the end of the day. They had their assignment to finish their drawings of the "food groups" they had studied in science and then each was to select a story book and read it to the class. The drawing went fairly well with minor clashes over the least available color of crayons and the very slow student who was more intent on hording crayons than finishing his work.
Third graders have a hard time making decissions, especially those having to do with earth-shattering importance: which book will I read in front of the class? A few quickly grabbed the one they wanted, others though could not be satisfied, every book had to be inspected, then tossed aside. Several of this sort make the problem more acute. Finally the subsitute-teacher had to step in and decide for the last ones.
This is not the way I would have chosen to spend one of the hottest afternoons we've had. The readers were shy and seemed to know that if they spoke softly (mumbled) they might finesse the hard words.
The listeners couldn't hear enough to hold their attention. I got one of the better students to assist the "reader" while I tried to keep some decorum. But order slowly melted away in the heat like ice cream at a 4th of July picnic. I got to abreiviating the stories to a couple pages, finally the last student tried to read a story way beyond his skill level. I beleive there is a process in physics which describes going from order to chaos, need not review that here.
Suffice to say that it is sad when an old would-be sub teacher is defeated by a class of third graders. Doesn't leave much self-esteem. Yet I know, had it been filmed, it would be classic comedy. Took longer to unwind that evening.
Next day was my turn and we went to the funeral and grave site for the burial. The church was packed. The deceased was 78 with 11 children. We stood outside the church in a hint of shade. From there we drove to the cemetery. The intense African sun encourage me to take my hat. "No hats at a funeral" said Philip with some authority. Thinking this would not take long, I went bare headed.
Beside the grave was the usual piles of dirt but also freshly mixed cement. The casket was lowered and some dirt followed. Then the cement and finally the remainder of the dirt. By standers helped the two-man cemetery crew with this work. When all the dirt was used up, more had to be acquired near by to nicely round off the grave with a mound a couple of feet high. The minister spoke a few words and then folks moved off. It took about 45 min. Philip explained the cement was to discourage the coffin robbers. They can be resold as new, there being no used-coffin market.
We returned to school, I had to wait for one class period to end the day and run home to my aloe for a tender head.
A-peelingly yours,
Sam
Saturday, February 7, 2009
More from Zambia
Blogging just now is difficult and this time its not the computer's fault. Just as I am starting this at this email cafe, just outside has started some very loud singing, dancing, drumming, but I must keep my back to it and blog on...
I have a new friend at school. A second grader named Julius Zulu. Bright open face, always with a smile or that bright, expectant look as if I was about to do something wonderful. He started by greeting me on the playground (not unusual) but he isn't just passing by like the other children. He stands there. So we discuss the weather and what he is learning and what subjects he likes best.
His next appearances have been in my classroom while I am working by myself and the students are suppose to be outside. "I want to learn math" he says with some enthusiam. What teacher can say no to that? Only once I put him off, just long enough to go get my lunch and return, not eating with the other teachers as I usually would.
We do drill exercises in addition and subtraction. He is not a finger counter, that habit that keeps most Zambia children very slow. With those kids, I insist that they sit on their hands when we drill, fast enough that there is not time to count.
Lately Julius has brough a couple of his friends, two or three. If there is not time for math, he askes me for a story, just now its a specific story, "The man whose house was too small". Once in class I was caught without a storybook, so I told a story, rather than read. Thank you UURE folks for providing me with good material, wish I had paid more attention. The first story was a Jewish tale about a man whose house was too small and went to his rabbi. Well here it was about a man who went to the village and got help from the chief or wiseman. He gets the help he needs, the house doesn't change, but the man's perception of his house. Fun to discuss what happens with the children. Anyway, its seems that is the favorite of today and there it usually not time to tell it with voices and actions which a good African story deserves, so Julius, remember Julius, well he'll be back again. If only all my interactions with children were this positive....
One day this week, I was sitting in the lunchroom eating my rice and sour milk. I was on one of those short chairs for preschoolers, had my back to the door. I turned when someone entered and because of my deminished height, I was eye-to-eye with a strange (not seen her before) little girl. She was wide-eyed with surprize. So I greeted her silently by mimicking her experssion. Not good. Fear quickly spread across her face. I looked away, coverd my face, but a few seconds later, I could hear her crying.
I had heard the face of an old muzungu can make children cry. Some Zambian parents, I am told use just the thought of one to make their children behave. "The big, bad muzungu will get you!" Well I got this one and there was nothing I could do.
Blog pressing out of Africa with the drums still throbbing behind me,
Sam
I have a new friend at school. A second grader named Julius Zulu. Bright open face, always with a smile or that bright, expectant look as if I was about to do something wonderful. He started by greeting me on the playground (not unusual) but he isn't just passing by like the other children. He stands there. So we discuss the weather and what he is learning and what subjects he likes best.
His next appearances have been in my classroom while I am working by myself and the students are suppose to be outside. "I want to learn math" he says with some enthusiam. What teacher can say no to that? Only once I put him off, just long enough to go get my lunch and return, not eating with the other teachers as I usually would.
We do drill exercises in addition and subtraction. He is not a finger counter, that habit that keeps most Zambia children very slow. With those kids, I insist that they sit on their hands when we drill, fast enough that there is not time to count.
Lately Julius has brough a couple of his friends, two or three. If there is not time for math, he askes me for a story, just now its a specific story, "The man whose house was too small". Once in class I was caught without a storybook, so I told a story, rather than read. Thank you UURE folks for providing me with good material, wish I had paid more attention. The first story was a Jewish tale about a man whose house was too small and went to his rabbi. Well here it was about a man who went to the village and got help from the chief or wiseman. He gets the help he needs, the house doesn't change, but the man's perception of his house. Fun to discuss what happens with the children. Anyway, its seems that is the favorite of today and there it usually not time to tell it with voices and actions which a good African story deserves, so Julius, remember Julius, well he'll be back again. If only all my interactions with children were this positive....
One day this week, I was sitting in the lunchroom eating my rice and sour milk. I was on one of those short chairs for preschoolers, had my back to the door. I turned when someone entered and because of my deminished height, I was eye-to-eye with a strange (not seen her before) little girl. She was wide-eyed with surprize. So I greeted her silently by mimicking her experssion. Not good. Fear quickly spread across her face. I looked away, coverd my face, but a few seconds later, I could hear her crying.
I had heard the face of an old muzungu can make children cry. Some Zambian parents, I am told use just the thought of one to make their children behave. "The big, bad muzungu will get you!" Well I got this one and there was nothing I could do.
Blog pressing out of Africa with the drums still throbbing behind me,
Sam
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)