Saturday, November 19, 2011

rain on a tin roof

One thing I think everyone should experience at least once in a lifetime is the sound of rain falling on a tin roof.  Considering the lack of tin roofs in America these days, I hadn’t hear of it until I got to Africa, either.  When it falls lightly and gently, it could put me straight to sleep any time of the day.  I usually lay on my bed and close my eyes and just listen.  But when it pours, I can’t even hear myself talk out loud.  And when the wind starts blowing along with it, my roof literally slams up and down as if it’s about to blow off.  It’s a piece of scrap metal held down by fifteen or so rocks on top.  Genius African architecture; houses made of dried poop and held together by rocks!

Other strange things happen on my roof that I’ve come to expect every day.  After the asshole roosters wake me up anytime around 5am, I lay in bed and listen to Joseph, the family donkey, whinny outside my window.  Then, at exactly 6:00am every morning (yes, I’ve clocked it), a bird plops down on my roof and cooes.  He starts out at a low “hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo” that gradually gets louder and louder until he’s in a full-blown “HOOuuuHOOOuuuuHOOOuuu!” for about five minutes.  Then he flies off somewhere to start his day.  I’ve tried to explain him to the other volunteers, and I can actually do an almost perfect impression of him.

            So you can imagine how happy I was the other morning when I decided to burn my trash first thing after I woke up.  Which, by the way, has become one of my favorite parts of the week.  I love the smell of burning plastic.  Did I mention this before?  I love sitting and watching my plastic bags and bottles curl up in the flames…and the smoke smells good.  It’s probably so bad for me.  For some reason, it reminds me of the smell of the roasted peppers at the Farmer’s Market that my mom and I went to every Saturday morning during Denver summers.

            Anyway, I was out burning my trash early one morning this week.  I was squatted down next to the flames, inhaling as much cancer smoke as I could, and I saw a bird fly up and land on my roof.  I immediately looked at my watch.  6:00am.  No way.  Sure enough, he started his slow, low “hoo-hoo”… his neck was bobbing up and down and his feathers got all fluffy.  He wasn’t anything special, just a little gray, fluffy guy.  But I finally saw him!  I couldn’t have been more thrilled.  He’s my favorite of the entire morning crew at my house; he lets me sleep in until 6 at least.

            I finished “practice teaching” this week.  My kids were amazing.  I am so happy to be teaching.  I especially love seeing them outside of class; I was walking through a nearby town last week when a group of kids a few yards away started yelling “Mees Hannah! Mees Hannah!”  In my fourth grade class, I had them make nametags for an “ice breaker” the first day I taught.  They folded pieces of paper into thirds and wrote their names and drew a picture of something they liked.  I chose a few unwilling volunteers randomly and made them introduce themselves to me and tell me what they liked.  The “Nike swoosh” was probably my favorite.  They speak in class so quietly; they are all shy and have their heads ducked down and their hands covering their mouths when they answer.  I’ve been told that it’s out of fear of being beaten by their teachers.  Corporal punishment is alive and well in Lesotho, although I’ve only seen it mildly.  It makes me sad, and I hope I can reach my students in a way that their Basotho teachers might not be able to.  Anyway, after our ice breaker, the kids immediately warmed up to me throughout the entire class period...all 51 of them were raising their hands and jumping out of their seats to be called on.  

The next day, I didn’t teach them but instead watched a fellow volunteer teach.  She started her class by asking them to go around the room one by one and introduce themselves.  They started fumbling around in their notebooks and shuffling papers, and several of them turned and were smiling at me.  I realized they were taking out their nametags from my class the day before and putting them on their desks!  My eyes literally filled with tears!  I think my internal motherly instinct is going to go crazy teaching primary school in Africa.  I love these kids. J

Cooking for myself has been surprisingly hard.  I know I am a good cook in America.  I wrote a food blog, for crying out loud.  It’s just hard to be creative when you don’t have a fridge to keep good food fresh, like cheese and meat and milk.  I have been eating things like pasta, beans, rice, and eggs.  I’m also having a tough time cooking (and eating) for one.  I always seem to cook just a little bit extra: too much for dinner, not enough to save for leftovers.  And it makes me sad sometimes eating alone all the time.  Food for me is such a cultural thing; it should be delicious and shared by people you love, with good conversation.  I can’t stand eating in silence, so I usually turn on BBC radio during meals.  I did get my first care package the other day from my Mom and Andy! Thank you!!! I’m trying hard to ration my candy and tea, but I’ve already blasted through half the bag of Swedish fish J.

Next week I’ll be staying at my site, alone, for five days.  Kind of like a test-run, to see if I’m actually tough enough to do the real thing for two years!  I’m sure I’ll have lots to update you on when I’m back in my training village.

I miss you all very much.  I was reading People magazine this morning (from my care package!) and saw all of the advertisements for the “holiday season”.  If you know me at all, you know what a nut I am for the holidays.  I would kill right about now for a steamy cup of peppermint hot chocolate and whipped cream, sitting curled up next to a fire and listening to Christmas music!!!

Sending my love from Africa-- Hannah

Saturday, November 5, 2011

dust and doughnuts

I have dust in everything.  Dust in my bed, in my shoes (and in between my toes), in my notebooks, on my backpack… I can feel little grits of dust sometimes in my teeth when I drink out of my Nalgene.  I asked a Sesotho teacher today if her eyes are just permanently dried out after being accustomed to dust storms all the time. She said no.  The bucket bathing situation doesn’t seem to help my case.  It’s amazing how dirty the water from each bath is, even while I’m bathing every day.  I think I’m one of the few volunteers, actually, who still bucket bathes every morning.  I’ve mastered the art of bucket bathing!  I’m not going to resort to shaving my head!

This week, we started “peer teaching” with other volunteers to prepare for actual teaching next week.  We’ll be taking over one or two classes a week at a local primary school.  I’m teaching grades 5 and 6 English, three classes in total.  I talked to another volunteer and worked it out so I can co-teach a class with her as well, to get extra practice.  Today’s peer teaching session got me excited to start what I’m actually here to do.  The kids are out for summer break in two weeks, and after that we’ll hold a volunteer “summer school” (I don’t think those two words have ever gone together in American English…?) where kids can come and listen to the white girl lecture. J

In all honesty, the kids here are what has been and what will keep me from hopping on a plane headed straight back to the States.  They are so so wonderful.  It’s taken the neighborhood girls a few weeks to warm up to me, but now they are outside my door every afternoon, waiting with their notebooks to get homework help.  If they don’t have homework, they end up writing verb charts on my walls (what African kids do for fun…) or having me judge cartwheel contests.  Two nights ago, I almost shooed them away to work on laundry and fetching water for a bath, and instead they asked if they could do it all for me! Even when my door is closed (a sign I’m busy or napping), they’ll play on my steps until I come outside, or if it’s just one girl she’ll sing loud enough so to make sure I know she’s there and waiting.

My Sesotho class is not getting any easier.  I feel as if I’ve got the general greetings down, so when someone sees me walking along the road I can say hello and ask how they are doing.  A common question here is “where are you going? What are you going to do?” or “where are you coming from? What were you doing?”  I’m still working on those ones.  I usually point and say a simple noun.  “School.”  “Toilet.”  “Road.”  I sound like a caveman, but I usually get my point across.

Next week, we start cooking for ourselves!!!!!!!!! I am thrilled.  The food here is less than average; it’s pretty bland.  Every day for lunch I can expect white rice, beetroot, sweet potato, and if I’m lucky peas or carrots doused in mayonnaise.  It doesn’t sound horrible, but anything gets old after a few days of eating it over and over.  One thing I’ve fallen in love with is the steamed bread, called maqebekoane.  I’m apparently learning how to make it with my family on Sunday, so I’ll try to post the recipe.  It’s super moist and airy, perfect for soaking up beans or soup.  I usually have 6 huge slices piled on my plate every morning at breakfast. 

My family has discovered my love for peanut butter, and now it mysteriously appears in different parts of my meals.  Peanut butter and cheese sandwiches.  Peanut butter and eggs in the morning.  A piece of bread with peanut butter, and a tomato on the side.  I can tell they’re not sure how to put it in my meals, but I love the effort.  Another great meal I had (definitely mandated by the Peace Corps; they provide host families with a flexible American menu to serve, which turns out pretty interesting) was macaroni and cheese.  A bowl of spaghetti, and two still-wrapped slices of cheddar cheese on the side.  I just kind of tore up the cheese and put it on top of the spaghetti.  During these meals, my family chooses not to eat with me and instead eat their usual rice-and-spinach mix.  My host mother has a “no thank you” helping to be polite: a few noodles that she pushes around on her plate until I’m finished.  But they all still sit politely, watching and smiling until I finish everything.  If I can’t finish, which is usually the case, they gobble up my leftovers.  They even eat the chicken bones!

I miss you all so much, but I’m finally feeling more and more settled in my new home.  It’s even become somewhat charming to wash my hands the old fashioned way, with a pitcher over a basin.  I feel like I just time-warped back to the pioneer days.  I told Juli the other day, you never appreciate everything you have until one day when you have nothing.  It sounds cheesy, but true.  So go eat some chips and salsa and have a marg in my honor! J

Thinking of you in Africa, +8 hours ahead.  Love you.

Hannah