Monday, May 31, 2010

Sekhambane, Speeches, and the Seaside

Previously unemployed, Patrick and Lucia are workers who've learned the skill of candle making at one of the income-generating projects to which I've been assigned. We sit together for hours at a time in their workshop.  They've given this business the moniker "Bambanani Candles" (bambanani is the Sesotho/Zulu word for "working together" or "standing strong together").  There are cultural differences I just have to laugh at, one being my American ideas about division of labor and efficiency.  South Africans just don't have the same Ford-inspired production principles like the assembly line.  Its not uncommon that Patrick or Lucia to make a few candles, shave off the rough edges when they cool, wrap them, tag them, price them... and then start over with the next small batch.  Africans also don't have the same Western concept of "job creation"... In fact, I sensed on my first day that I wouldn't simply be helping them with the marketing and development of their small business.  Nope, I'd be rolling up my sleeves and getting in the hot wax with them.  To them, it doesn't matter that each candle I make or wrap depletes from the sum of their work, and consequently, the hours of paid work available to them.  What's important is that when I'm with them, we can laugh together and work together, we can bambanani.  

They've also agreed to help me learn Sesotho as we bambanani and I'm swapping those lessons for help with their applications to a nursing school about an hour's drive from Kroonstad.  There are highly competitive government bursaries available to some students in this nursing school, and it includes a living stipend worth much more than we can pay them here.  I feel a bit strange helping them pursue another option to the Bambanani project, but I understand their dilemma.  Neither seems to have a passion for nursing, but for both, getting a bursary would mean a better life for their families.

Since it's too expensive to get a taxi to the city, they're hitchhiking there in a few days.  I haven't decided whether I'll accompany them yet, though I think with a man in the trio we should be quite safe.  Hitchhiking here is much more common than in the States too. :)

Over the hours, I've learned about their children and the struggles to put food on the table.  When the candle business wasn't running, Patrick and his girlfriend supported themselves and their little girl on 600 South African Rand per month (less than $80).  He just smiled when I asked if they ever went hungry. "Sure, sure, of course we do.  My girlfriend and I just drink coffee before bed and look forward to our next meal, whenever it comes.  But my little girl always has something.  She isn't going to suffer because of me."  Lucia describes how difficult it has been for her to send one of her four children, the oldest who's twelve, to live four hours away with her mother, because she can't feed him herself.

Despite these struggles, the generosity overflows.   I've started bringing extra fruit and tea with my lunch both Patrick and Lucia insist on sharing their meals with me.  One of my favorites is an indigineous delicacy they make or buy called "bunny chow" or in Sesotho/Zulu "sekhambane" (I'll have to ask the kids at St. Peter's the correct spelling).  The cooks at St. Peter's also make and sell it for R5 (about 80 cents), so I've had to practice temperance (two per week is my goal).  Making sekhambane involves cutting an unsliced loaf of white bread into thirds.  Each portion consists of a third of a loaf, which as been hollowed out.  Inside is a piece of pologny, the closest equivalent for which would be bologna in the States, a layer of a spicy mango chutney-esque mixture called acha, and a layer of chips (thick fries).  Then the filling is capped with the bread portion that was taken out.  Carbohydrate overload, but its DELICIOUS!

This weekend Lucia and her husband invited me to attend their church.  During apartheid times the South African government made distinctions between "white," "black," and "colored" people these distinctions still manifest themselves in the Kroonstad community.  The church was almost entirely colored people, with a few black people and one or two white people other than me.  The service took place in a reclaimed building that served as a movie cinema years ago.  The environment felt nothing like a church, but the moving praise and worship music and the choir (which was about half the congregation) made up for any lacking in "churchiness."

Other than that, life here is wonderful... We're being spoiled rotten, by those who can afford it and by those who can't but want to anyway.  This weekend, we enjoyed the quintessentially Afrikaans get together with some new friends... they invited us over on Saturday for a braai watched the Super 14 rugby finals and had a braai (South African barbecue).  Then on Sunday, an Indian family called the Josephs, invited us over for a delicious feast of fish briyani (who knew baracuda was so darn tasty).  The Josephs have essentially become our family-away-from-home.  This weekend, they're taking us with them to Durban to see the seaside, which will be a nice vacation from the tall grasses of the savanna we now call home (not that we need one).

One insight I've been thinking about a lot lately has been the grace of receiving hospitality.  It feels more comfortable to extend it than to accept it, I've found, but whether its sekhambane from Patrick and Lucia or a seaside trip with the Josephs, I'm realizing it takes a humble heart to accept and enjoy the love offered by others and not instantly think of how I can "even the score" by returning the favor.  Of course, this too is important, but receiving graciously and allowing your enjoyment to bless the giver of the gift is a gift in and of itself.  This is the most challenging when the person who desperately wants to give is far less privileged than you, but it's equally if not more important to allow them to be the giver sometimes and not always the recipient.

What else? Oh, the students at St. Peter's recently had the opportunity to compete in a regional speech and debate competition some of the rural schools organized.  With my background in college speech, I thought I'd offer the teacher organizing the team my help.  I helped him judge auditions for the 6 spots available on the St. Peter's team... over twenty students tried out.  Their speeches ranged on topics from HIV/AIDS to human trafficking during the World Cup (http://www.ngopulse.org/article/human-trafficking-and-2010-fifa-world-cup).   We narrowed the group down after much deliberation and helped coach the lucky 6 before the competition.  St. Peter's took four 1st and two 2nd place awards!  It was incredible... I'm looking forward to helping develop the team.  They're amazingly passionate speakers.  This week, the entire student body is sitting national exams.  Tomorrow I'm helping proctor the tests.

 

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Goooood Mowning Teeechas

"Gooooood Mowning Teeeechas. Gooooood Mowning Sistaaaas.  Howww aaaah youuuu?”  It’s difficult keeping a “serious face” when one hundred 7th, 8th, and 9th grade Sesotho students offer you such a warm greeting in unison.  It was my first daily assembly.  As the students proceeded to sing the St. Peter Claver School song, I quickly removed the smile that’d appeared on my face.  During teacher training, I’d been advised by another teacher, “Don’t smile until Christmas. They’ll think you’re a pushover.”  Despite the students’ charm and my joy, my legs trembled, and I was thankful I’d worn a long skirt my first day.  All I could think was, “A year ago you were still a student, Sarah. High school students will never buy this act.”
Somehow when the Zimbabwean head administrator, Sr. Melta, asked me to say a few words to the hundred or so students, all I could muster was: “Hi, I’m Sarah.  I’m 23 years old, and I’m from America.  I’m from Colorado, where we have the beautiful Rocky Mountains and where it snows a lot.  I heard you don’t have snow here. (Laughs galore).  I’ll miss the snow and my family and friends in the States, but I’m so happy to be here with you this year.”  Their applause and smiles assuaged the lump in my throat.  Three weeks have passed, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t let more than a few smiles slip.   I’m learning to live with that.  Teaching’s more natural for me than I’d thought. 
St. Peter’s runs through the ninth grade, and I’m working with the oldest two grades.   I must say, while I cherish the delightfully artless grins of the primary students as I greet them in the schoolyard, there’s something to love in these mischievous, pubescent 8th and 9th graders.  That first day, I sat in on a 9th grade social science class taught by Marie, a spunky young teacher wearing a worn-in newspaper boy’s hat, a blue striped skirt, and teal leather sandals.  She wrote the words development and infrastructure on the board.  “Who here can tell me… What is development? What does it mean to say a country has been developed,” she asked, just like that.  “To improve somewhere” one young man shouted. “To have lots of jobs and everyone having money to buy a house, food, and clothing,” chimed another.  Several students shouted, “Not like we have here!”
To the students, their part of South Africa is not “developed,” but “undeveloped.” In my university classes, we often used the term “developing,” but it struck me that these terms are inherently relative to the perspective of the person using them. These students see little evidence that their community is “developing,” so it simply remains “undeveloped” in their eyes.
The poverty in Maokeng, the township outside Kroonstad where the Sisters of Notre Dame built this school more than a half century ago, is striking.  The children live here but have heard stories of what big houses there are just a few hours drive away in Johannesburg, where most of them have never been.  The juxtaposition of developed suburbs of Johannesburg and impoverished townships like Maokeng smacked me in the face with the reality of inequity on a scale that’s even incomparable to homelessness in the U.S. or the poverty I saw in rural Saltillo, Mexico.  And if the lack of food, running water, and electricity in many parts, diseases like tuberculosis and HIV devastate this community.  Children and adults die from opportunistic diseases and the effects of AIDS on a weekly basis.  On Saturdays in Maokeng, every tenth home or so a crude displays a white tent in front of it, indicating that someone in that home has died. 
As the class discussion continued, Marie and I began to teach the class together.  In their workbooks, the students read aloud a lesson about the “Rich North” and the “Poor South,” analyzing a world map that assigned southern Asia (excluding Australia), South America, and Africa to the latter category.  I hoped Marie wouldn’t ask me for my input as a person from the "Rich North," but inevitably, she did.  The students asked me what its like to live in a place where you have the option of many jobs.  They were shocked to hear that anyone in the U.S. was homeless, but even as I explained this reality for some Americans, I knew in my mind that few in the U.S., even our homeless, know starvation like some of these kids.  The only food many of them consume throughout the week are the five free lunches the nuns make them at school.  Hunger pangs from Friday evening to Monday sure take the fun out of a weekend. 
Despite challenges like empty bellies, these students haven’t ceased to amaze me since that first day.  One of many funny anecdotes: The 8th and 9th graders are currently working on science projects, and I agreed to help two boys with their project on whether Lucozade (sports drink), Coca-Cola (yes, it’s made its way everywhere), or water is better for athletes before their workout (the World Cup has infiltrated every part of their psyches lol).  I agreed to give them a ride to the library in town after school.  To my surprise, nine other students were waiting for me at the library, informing me of the order in which they came so I’d know who to help first.  Helping those two boys for a few hours turned into meeting students for the next several weeks… They’ll wait for hours just for fifteen minutes of your undivided attention.  The students have continued coming in droves, walking the two kilometers to town or taking a “taxi” (a man with some mechanized vehicle) if they can get the five rand (about 80 cents) to pay for it.  
The library is miserably outdated, the newest book being at least twenty years old.  But we’re doing our best.  The projects are due on Thursday, so it’ll be a busy week…