Don’t mess with South Africa

When I was accepted into the Peace Corps, my position was designated as “education volunteer”.  And while I do work at a school and engage in a good deal of educational work, one of the things you find in the Peace Corps is that you must become a jack of all trades – manager as well as chief cook and bottle washer, all at the same time.  You find yourself becoming something very different from what you expected and from what you were back home in the States.  One thing I certainly never expected, though, was that I would be filling the role of environmentalist.

Outside of the Austin enclave, I think it’s fair to say that Texas and Texans are not known for their environmental sensibilities.  And to be quite honest, I am one of those “non-green” Texans.  I always looked somewhat askance at what I considered to be the crazy antics of the derisively-termed tree-huggers.  I also had a thorough distaste for what I saw as the aggressive agenda of the greenies - people who seemed to want to impose their hippie beliefs on the rest of us.  These views have not entirely changed, and I do still find suspicious, unrealistic, and economically naive a good number of the views and policies of the green contingent.

One of the things I have found from my experience in the Peace Corps, though, is that experiencing on a large scale, behaviour that is otherwise seen as harmless or trivial, causes you to move radically in the other direction.  The best example in my case is punctuality.  As any of my friends and family will tell you, I was serially late in my life in America.  I was always the guy who people were waiting on, consistently arriving 10-20 minutes late.  Having lived for a year now, though, in a country engulfed in “African time” in which people show up whenever they feel like it, I have become decidedly rigid on time, usually ensuring that I am early to whatever appointment or engagement I have made.  Seeing the problems and experiencing the frustration caused by a society in which everyone is late, often by 1 hour or more, has made me realize the great value of punctuality. 

The same can also be said for alcohol.  I enjoy drinking, but living in a place drowning in alcoholism and constant, irresponsible consumption, has definitely made me temper my habits a bit.  This further extends to the topic of my post today, which is that of littering.

The place where I live is, to put it bluntly, absolutely filthy.  Trash (or “rubbish” in South African parlance) is literally everywhere.  It is in the schoolyard, in the streets, and even outside of the local government buildings.  The landscape is strewn with potato chip bags, broken beer bottles, and used tissue paper.  You simply cannot look around without finding some form of litter on the ground.

I know some people who have witnessed or heard about this situation have suggested that it might be a result of lack of trash cans (“rubbish bins”).  The idea is that there simply is not a container readily available in which to deposit the refuse and so people, not having anywhere else to put the stuff, toss it to the floor.  It is true that trash cans are not nearly as prevalent as they are in America, and I, not wanting to be judgmental, wanted to believe this explanation, too.  Unfortunately, I have found from repeated experience, that even when a trash can is located only a few feet away, the students (and residents of the township, in general) will still chuck the garbage on the ground without thinking twice.  When asked why they don’t use the container, they respond with a mixture of confusion and annoyance as to why one would suggest such a thing.  The result is that the entire area resembles a landfill.

This puts me in one of the dicey predicaments, encountered quite often here, where you have to weigh the idea of universal values vs. culture.  For those who are unaware, the slogan “Don’t Mess with Texas” was actually originally part of an anti-littering campaign.  It has, of course, now morphed into a globally acknowledged expression of the general Texas attitude, but for me remains a truism - that to litter is to disrespect our beautiful Lone Star State which I will always call my home.  As a result, you will never find me chucking stuff on the ground, especially if it is not biodegradable.  This is for a guy who, as I mentioned above, is by no means an environmentalist.  I would like to think that as an independent-minded adult, I choose this behaviour on the basis of my own personal, logical analysis.  If I am to be quite honest, though, it is probably more because I had the idea beaten into my head since birth that you simply do not litter.

That attitude, however, does not seem to exist here.  Most Black South Africans do not seem to be bothered by the trash that is ever-present.  (I do not enjoy making racial distinctions like this, but in my experience, White South Africans do not engage in littering on near such a scale.)  I find this to be somewhat ironic given that people many times speak of Africans’ connection to the land, and the importance it plays in their culture and religion.  Such a bond to the earth does not seem to prevent them from treating the land as their wastebasket, though, and this includes township residents and rural villagers, alike.  Holding onto refuse until an appropriate bin is found is seen as needless effort.  I have come to believe that the paeans written to native people and their respect for the land are actually somewhat wrong-headed.  In my opinion, the land inhabited by natives which was found by the earliest explorers and settlers was often not clean and well cared for because of conscious choice by the original residents but rather because the aboriginal people did not produce many things that did not quickly disintegrate or rot away.  What is often hailed as conservation was, I think, sometimes simply a low level of production.

Regardless of this apparent inconsistency between respect for land and casual disposal of trash, the fact remains that it is SOUTH AFRICANS’ land.  The question I must ask myself then is: If their mindset is different, who am I, as a White foreigner, to tell them differently?  Is it not a bit presumptuous of me to tell them they are wrong and need to adopt MY values?  These are the kinds of dilemmas that one encounters as a Peace Corps volunteer.  At what point does development and aid become imperialism and self-righteousness? (It also is not lost on me that the same guy who did not appreciate hippies telling him he should act a certain way is now doing the same thing to others.)

In this case, though, I think I do have reason on my side.  The government of South Africa has stated it is committed to green practices and includes measures relating to this in much of its legislation.  In fact, the most recent summit on global warming was held in the town of Durban on the eastern coast of South Africa.  Littering is decidedly at odds with these goals, and if the popularly elected government promotes this, no one can say that is only MY values I am preaching.  Not to mention, there ARE some very negative consequences that result from littering, making rubbish disposal a practical matter as well.

Practical matters aside, though, the thing that I truly fail to understand is how a good number of Black South Africans, both young and old, seem to not mind the aesthetic effect of the presence of trash all around.  To me, it is just plain UGLY.  I don’t want my home to look like that.  I don’t throw my trash on the ground, and even when I see things on the ground that I didn’t put there, I pick them up and throw them away.  I keep my surroundings clean as a matter of pride.  In my mind, I take ownership of my area.  It is MY place, and I want MY place to look nice.  My fellow residents of Ikhutseng, however, do not share that emotion.

I do not know why so many Black South Africans do not have that same feeling of pride.  People will perhaps adduce apartheid and poverty as the reason.  Perhaps.  To me, though, the reason is not so important as the way forward. Low economic and social station are not impenetrable barriers to good environmental stewardship.  On the contrary.  When you have little, I think it is even more important that you take pride in that small amount that you do have.  It is through such pride in what you have that you learn to value other resources as well.  My mother grew up in a family that very much struggled with money in my mother’s early years yet my maternal grandmother always told my mom that regardless of how much money you have, you can always be clean.  They took this as a point of pride amidst their lack of things, and that has stuck with my mom until today.  I think those are good words to live by.  Regardless of your situation, you can always strive to be clean both personally AND environmentally.

So, at the risk of having Texas copyright lawyers hunt me down, let me end by saying:

Please, please, please – DON’T MESS WITH SOUTH AFRICA.

South African English Word of the Day

Sharp (pronounced “shop”) – good; ok; alright

Guy 1: Everything is ready for our trip.

Guy 2: Sharp!

Peace Corps for God

As I mentioned in my last post, I have recently been reading through papers sent to me by my mom, which contain old sermons delivered by my late grandfather in the 1960s.  They have been a source of continual enjoyment and reflection as they, in a way, make me feel that my grandfather is still with me and in conversation with me.  Such a feeling was further reinforced when I opened up one of the sermons to read the title of “Peace Corps for God”, delivered on August 4, 1963.

Before going over the main content of the message, I just want to say how fascinating it is to read books and writings published in another time period, as they provide incredible insight into history, and how we are shaped by the time we live in.  So often we assume ourselves to be quite independent thinkers, until events force us to realize that we are very much a product of the ideas of our family, friends, age, and time period.  It is quite interesting to see how some of our analyses as well as prognostications can be spot on while others are almost laughable in hindsight. 

Going over the words of my grandfather in 1963 is both a lesson in history and of how much has changed.  He mentions that “Communism seems to be breaking up before our eyes”.  At that time he had no idea that it would persist for another 3 decades before finally falling.

He also scolds churches for not using modern technology like mass media broadcasting and publishing to reach new populations, while simultaneously admitting that churches have become “big business” with massive amounts of funds and administration.  Compare that to now where pastors command megachurch congregations in the tens of thousands, budgets in the tens of millions, services broadcast to every corner of the earth (I can always watch Joel Osteen and T.D. Jakes, regardless of where I am in South Africa), and pastor-written books that spend weeks on the New York Times bestseller lists.

One final interesting anecdote from the sermon: my grandfather speaks of his admiration for the Mormon method of sending most of their young people on two year missions.  I don’t think it would surprise him at all to see how the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints has become one of the key religious organizations in the United States with a burgeoning global population which includes the Republican candidate for President.

Returning to the main content of my grandfather’s message and also the topic of this post, the sermon given so long ago was entitled “Peace Corps for God.”  My grandfather spoke of the failing of modern-day Christian churches to effectively evangelize and was of the opinion that the Peace Corps actually mimics the form of evangelism practiced in the New Testament in which Christians went to work and live among foreign-people, trying to improve their lives here on Earth, as much as trying to save their lives in the hereafter.  My grandfather says:

Now in the last two or three years we have seen the enormous success of the Peace Corps.  I have been told that this is the most successful thing that this present administration has done.  This has done a great deal too to change the image of America, which is much misunderstood in the foreign nations of the world.  In this we have young people, not only young people but the older ones too, American citizens who give two years of their life in a foreign country, working and living amongst the people, to try and teach them our know-how, and try to help them to help themselves.  This, of course, was copied from the New Testament practice, because this is how the New Testament church did it….

It would do many of us good and open up our eyes to spend two years in a foreign land for the sake of the gospel, perhaps as a teacher, as a doctor, as a businessman in the various areas where these countries are opening up.  It might give us the richest experience as well as give us an opportunity to bring the gospel to these places where they do not know it.

Dr. Jauncey goes on to say:

Increasingly the new countries who are finding their independence are impatient of missionaries who go out simply as missionaries or as evangelists.  We have had case after case of missionaries whose visas have been turned down or cancelled because that is all they know.  These countries welcome people who can help them in the struggle for a higher standard of living, possibly by teaching, practicing medicine or carrying out a trade.  These are the areas where we can work, and astonishingly enough this is not something that is new, this is something that goes back to the message of the New Testament.

Looking back 50 years later, it is amazing how wise and forward-thinking my grandfather was, and how his words still ring true today.  I may not be proclaiming the good news of Christ, but I am working to spread my own gospel of equality, improvement, and yes, as ridiculous as it sounds, a gospel of America (which I think itself is a message of equality and improvement).  Shouting the Declaration of Independence or throwing the U.S. Constitution at someone is not going to convince people of the many positives that our nation has to offer.  It is only by my example, by choosing to live and work for change amongst the people, especially when many others do not and will not – that I will truly be able to “convert” people to view Americans as friends and the United States as a force for good.  I believe such “missionary” work will have more impact than any Voice of America production.

Furthermore, I know that even if I fail in my efforts to improve lives and create positive feelings between South Africans and Americans, my time of service will give me, as Dr. Jauncey terms it, the “richest experience” I could perhaps have.  I am not even a year into my service, yet I have already learned a good deal and have made memories to last a lifetime.

All of this makes me wonder whether my grandfather, when delivering this sermon, ever considered the possibility that he would have a grandson who would join the Peace Corps and would find inspiration in his words, 50 years later.  I don’t know.  I can only hope that if he were here today, he would be proud of my work and see me in some way as fulfilling the call, even if in a secular fashion, which he made so many years ago to his congregation.

Note: If anyone is interested in reading the full text of the sermon, I have typed it up and made it available in Microsoft Word format at the link below:

4 August 1963 - Peace Corps for God

South African English Word of the Day

till – cash register

This lane is closed, but she can help you at the next till.

Speaking with the ancestors

One of the more peculiar things I have found during my time here in South Africa has been the belief of many Black South Africans that they can communicate with ancestors who have passed away.  People who will insist that they are devout Catholic, Methodist, Baptist or a number of other Christian sects seem to see no contradiction in what sociologists call syncretism i.e. the combination of Christianity with traditional African religion.  Many Black South Africans, especially in the rural areas, are absolutely certain that the ancestors play a very large role in the lives of the living such that the deceased can cause sickness, misfortune, and sometimes even death.  This belief is one of the reasons why such huge expenditure is made on funerals and tombstones, often by people of very limited means, because it is held that if you do not show the proper respect to the dead, they will be displeased and inflict suffering on you and your family as a result.  Furthermore, I have on more than one occasion at my school, witnessed a student go into a type of seizure, in which they are foaming at the mouth, with their eyes rolled back into their head and body spasming violently.  When I suggested that we should call an ambulance or take the child to the hospital, I was told that this was unnecessary as the young woman was simply being touched by the ancestors and that it would pass in due time (which it did).

I mention this because even though most Americans may not give credence to spiritual beliefs such as those described above, I think there is a yearning in every society to connect with those who have gone before.  This is one reason why people make pilgrimages to see places from which antecedents immigrated, why we hold heritage festivals, why we do genealogical research, and why we insist on making certain kinds of recipes from the “Motherland” that otherwise would seem out of place among our hot dogs and hamburgers.  Having grown up as a regular patron of Huntsville Public Library (which I understand has now opened with all of its expansion and upgrades), I always witnessed with some confusion the activities of the Walker Country Genealogical Society.  Being a young buck, to me it seemed like just a bunch of boring, old people doing boring, old work because they didn’t have anything better to do.  I wondered why they wanted to spend so much time and energy on the past instead of living in the present.

Now, though, I think I am beginning to understand.  Heritage festivals and the like are obviously an attempt to preserve a part of our identity which we consider important and that makes us distinctive.  But just as equally powerful a reason, is that it is our own way of “speaking with the ancestors”.  By finding out about and mimicking the culture and custom of those higher on our family tree, we in some way feel that we are in communion with them.

The source of all of these musings was a package I recently received from my mom that contained several sermons that my grandfather on my mom’s side preached back in the 1960s.  Dr. Jauncey was a scholar, scientist, world traveler, best-selling author, self-made man, minister, and perhaps the smartest person I have ever met in my life.  If I ever list role models, he is at the top of my list.  He passed away in 2008, and I miss being able to chat with him about all the things he did during his incredible life.

Reading through his sermons, though, in typewriter print on 50-year old paper which has been yellowed by age, I get the strange and wonderful sensation that he is right here with me – that he is talking to me, just as if I were sitting in his church back so many years ago when the message was originally delivered.  Even though he is not here, I can hear his voice, and see his face, as I read his words line by line.  I realize that in a way, he IS communicating with me, even if not in the African fashion.

P.S.

I also am now beginning to see the value in keeping old letters, antiques, and other relics from another age, since I imagine that many people have a similar sensation when in contact with things from passed-on relatives.  It also makes me wonder whether the electronic communication which forms the majority of most of our contact today will be able to provide the same experience for those who come after me.  I am skeptical.  For that reason, I see the continuing importance of handwritten letters, as the personal nature of someone’s individual script on paper will never be rivaled by an email in your Gmail inbox.

South African English Word of the Day

babalas – hangover

By the looks of his babalas, I’d say he had one too many drinks last night.

The kingdom of heaven belongs to these

Anyone who has served in the Peace Corps will tell you that it is a roller coaster of emotions and that you have to focus on the highs in order to help you get through the lows.  What I have noticed is that for me, the high moments inevitably seem to involve children.  Whenever people ask me how I enjoy my work, I always respond that I get frustrated working with the adults but absolutely LOVE working with the kids.  Whenever I feel myself getting to my breaking point as a result of the laziness, incompetence, apathy, and selfishness that I unfortunately see displayed in so many grown-ups in my area, it always takes only about 10 minutes of working with my students to correct my cynical view of the world. 

I have come to the realization that adults most times are so set in their ways that they are not willing to change (especially when the attempted change is coming from a younger, White American).  With the kids, though, it seems I still have a chance to change attitudes, mindsets, and behaviors, and thus, outcomes.  For that reason, I have pretty much stopped trying to work with teachers, and instead am now focusing most of my time and energy on my learners.  It reminded me of the story in Matthew where small children were brought to Jesus to be blessed, yet the disciples tried to turn them away – presumably because they were too insignificant for a man of such stature.  Yet the response from the Prince of Peace was:

“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” Matthew 19:14 (NIV)

Based on my experiences here in South Africa, I think the big guy was on to something.

I bring all of this up because I recently had one of those experiences that makes you think that maybe there IS hope for this world amidst all of its problems and pain.  Upon collecting my mail from the school last week, I noticed a small envelope, addressed in somewhat haphazard writing (though still better than my own) from a little girl in my hometown of Huntsville, Texas.  Upon opening it, and reading the enclosed letter, I could not help but break out in a smile from ear to ear and offer thanks for the innocence and simplicity of a child that we sometimes lose in our adult lives.  I have included the unedited letter in its entirety below.  I hope that Sarah does not mind:

Dear Josh,

First let me tell you that I am left handed, so that is why my writing (and spelling!) is so bad.  Any way, I am 10 and I live in Huntsville Texas.  Shannon Louvin (from what she said) your cousin, emailed me and told or asked me to write you a letter.  So I am writing this letter.  She told me that you teach in South Africa.  She also said that you are a very smart and athletic kid.  I was wondering if you could be my pen pal.  If you had time, energy, and if you wanted to.  I have never had a pen pal before and I thought it would be fun.  But just saying, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.  I am not tryin to force you.  You would be my first pen pal, and you know that kids always remeber their first everything.  There fist teacher, first real best friend, and first pet.  I would remember you as my first pen pal.

(P.S. Lessie is my dog.  I Love, Love her very much. (Less-e).)

Woof!

Sarah & Lessie

 

How you can possibly be down on the world after receiving something like that?  To top it all off, on the back of the letter, Sarah had drawn a picture of Lessie so I could know what she looks like.  Like I said above, it is moments like these, that make it possible to endure all of the hardships and misfortunes that I necessarily encounter in the line of work I am in.

Well, let me just say, Sarah, I would be happy to be your pen pal, as, truth be told, I also have never had a pen pal.  And even though I am no longer really a kid, I will still remember YOU as my first pen pal.

And Sarah, even if you do not read this, do not worry.  You will be receiving a handwritten letter of your own from me shortly.

Your pen pal,

Josh

South African English Word of the Day

branding – advertising, promotional signs

Josh, could you help us put up the branding at the field on Saturday morning?

No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problem

Alright, so it has been a REALLY long time since I last posted to the point where I’m sure that many have simply just stopped reading the blog.  For this I apologize.  The last month and a half has been full of some quite stressful events including studying and sitting for my level 2 CFA Exam, being threatened by my drunk ex-principal, almost having to leave Warrenton and start all over in a new site, as well as moving into a new house.  I will probably give more details regarding these events eventually; however, I would prefer not to dwell on them in this post and rather keep things a bit lighter as I move back into my writing.

No, for today, I would like to make an observation that was totally unexpected when I arrived to South Africa and that is that Afrikaner children DO NOT WEAR SHOES.  EVER.  That’s right, if you come upon a young Afrikaner boy or girl, they are more likely than not to be shoeless, regardless of whether a parent is present or not.  Now, I do not mean to be racist, but I think most Americans have been bombarded by Save the Children and National Geographic images showing Black African children going about their business with exposed feet.  I think it’s fair to say that most people associate shoelessness with poverty, and since Africa is one of the poorest places in the world, and you associate Africa with Black Africans, you naturally kind of expect bare toes on Black African children.

With White children on the other hand, the only images I can think of relating to fair-skinned youngsters romping around without the help of a foot-covering would probably be Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn.  Shoeless White kids seem to be associated with a more rural, poorer past as well as possibly modern-day country bumpkins.  Just about every media and actual perception I’ve ever known has been of White kids wearing shoes or if they were not, parents scolding them for being dirty and telling them they better put on their shoes or else.

Now that I think of it, though, I suppose it is probably more of a developed country vs. developing country distinction as you never really think of kids in developed countries, regardless of color, as rolling around with bare feet.  I would say the stereotype in America for Black children is just the opposite of bare feet as they’re usually associated with expensive sneakers like Air Jordans.  The developed characteristic is probably also why White children without shoes would be considered odd, because White people most times tend to be associated with developed societies in which poverty is not as great, and thus shoelessness would not be as prevalent.

Whatever the case, the fact of the matter is that Afrikaner children defy the stereotype as they are White yet avoid shoes like the plague.  I was recently told by one of my good Afrikaner friends that in the Afrikaans-speaking school in my town, children are not required to wear shoes to school until Grade 4 I think it is.  Apparently, this man’s young son was threatening to drop out as the boy absolutely did NOT think he should be forced to start putting something on his feet simply because he got promoted from Grade 3.

The truly hilarious part of it all is how normal Afrikaners find it and how strange they think I am for considering something to be amiss.  Whenever I mention it, their response is always something akin to “What’s the big deal?” (By the way, just in case someone is supposing that this is just something coming from a White Texan, think again.  When I recently visited a Black American Peace Corps Volunteer who has not been in the country as long as I have, one of the comments she made as we were discussing South Africa was “And what is it with the not wearing shoes, man!?”)

Neither does such casualness regarding bare feet extend only to the schools.  Afrikaner children regularly stroll shoeless into my local supermarket, straight from having walked on the dusty, rubbish-littered, beer-stained sidewalk and street, and begin cruising through the aisles and produce sections with nary a stern look or turned head.  One day while enjoying a cup of coffee with the supermarket managers in their office, I explained to them the “No shoes, no shirt, no service” policy in effect for most American businesses.  They pointed to one of the shoeless children in the store and said, “So you’re telling me that back home, someone would chuck them out?”.  When I nodded, I could tell that they were both amused and confused by these crazy people called Americans.

Oh well, in a land still as divided by race as South Africa is, I suppose it’s refreshing to find examples of how White and Black people are not always that different.  I can’t say that I will ever get used to bare feet staring back at me in public places, but I suppose if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.  Perhaps one day, I, myself, should roll in without the strictures of footwear, and see what people will say… that is, of course, if they say anything at all.

Another normal day at the supermarket

South African English Word of the Day

pitch – to show up; to attend

Does anyone know where Josh is?  He said he was going to be at the meeting today, but he didn’t pitch.

I Can’t Get No Dissatisfaction

Well, another positive day at Mogomotsi High School and working in the Ikhutseng township.  By now, though, my standards have changed such that positive means nothing too serious went wrong.  As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, a place like South Africa requires you to adjust your expectations; otherwise, you truly will go insane.  I had to confiscate two hats and two cell phones from learners (they are against school policy), but such negative events were far outweighed by an experience I had after school working with my learners who I am helping to start a newsletter. 

After working for about 45 minutes, most of the students mentioned that they needed to leave for the day.  In response, the boy who is acting as editor told them, “Well, you can go.  I am going to stay and work.  I don’t mind working alone.  But this stuff needs to get done.”  And stay he did, for another 45 minutes or so.  In the area where I work, and unfortunately across much of South Africa as well, work ethic, or rather a lack of it, is one of the major hindrances to development.  I don’t enjoy pointing out that part of the continuing poverty can be attributed to laziness and bad attitudes, but it is a regrettable reality.  For that reason, to see this young boy proudly tell his friends that he was going to stay and work, despite the opposite examples set for him by adults around him (including a majority of the teachers) was music to my ears.  It is little moments like these, that keep you going through all the other difficulties you have to put up with, and make you think that maybe, just maybe, you’re making a difference.

Before I go any further, let me just please forewarn the reader that in this post, and many times in my blog in general, I deal with sensitive racial topics, and my, what I consider to be honest, treatment of it is bound to offend someone.  Please refer to the note at the bottom of this post for my reasoning and approach to the use of such racial language and what may seem like to many, categorization.

The prevailing work ethic in South Africa ties in with the topic for today’s post, which is the failings of so many basic services, and people’s toleration for such bad performance.  The township where I work was without water today, and this has been the case for the past 5 days.  That means that there is no water at the school for toilets to be flushed, and water has to be carted in in jugs just so that food can be cooked for the students’ lunches.  As I left the school today, the streets were filled with people lugging cartons of water in wheelbarrows from other places in the area because none is to be found in the immediate surroundings.  This lack of water is not a new problem as it has occurred I think 10 times since I arrived in September.  Upon asking people living in the township, it apparently has actually been a problem for over 15 years.  All of this when we are located on the largest tributary of the largest river in South Africa.

The thing that actually amazes me about all this, though, is the quiet acceptance of this state of things.  The people I saw with the wheelbarrows and water jugs did not look unhappy or upset that they were having to engage in such an activity.  They were not angry at the government who was failing to provide such a basic service as running water.  There was not a group of angry citizens at the municipality building demanding to see the municipal manager and mayor.  No, there was none of that.  Water was not available in the township, and that was simply a fact – no need to get stressed about it.*

*Note: As services have continued to deteriorate, and expectations have begun to rise, even if slowly, citizens throughout South Africa have at times begun voicing their discontent.  This unfortunately usually takes the form of violence, destruction of property, the burning of tires, and the blocking of major roadways.  Peaceful protests and petitions do not have much of a tradition here, probably because they have not been that effective in the past.

The don’t-worry-be-happy attitude is probably one of Black South Africans’ biggest virtues and largest vices all at the same time.  It is also something not unique to South Africa as I have witnessed it in other developing countries I have traveled to.  One of the biggest differences between a first-world and non-first-world nation, in my opinion, is the way that people respond to problems.  In most industrialized countries, to varying degrees, when there is a problem, people are dissatisfied with the problem and so work to find a solution.  Such dissatisfaction and subsequent mental as well as physical effort to resolve the issue necessarily result in an increase of stress levels.  In developing countries, on the other hand, when there is a problem, people’s response seems to be to stay relaxed and simply get used to the problem.  In America, if there is a pot hole, people complain to the government until it gets fixed.  If it still does not get fixed, community residents will probably arrange some concrete and fix it themselves.  In South Africa, if there is a pothole, you simply drive your car more slowly so as to avoid the depression.  You may not be able to get to your destination as fast because of your reduced speed, but your blood pressure is not going to be raised one iota.  It seems that a type of fatalistic hedonism prevails that life is what it is, and all one can do is accept it.  For that reason, one might as well eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow, we die.

This is why I say that the laid-back attitude is simultaneously South Africa’s greatest virtue and vice.  It may be apocryphal, but I have heard it attributed by people here many times that Black South Africans have a rate of heart attacks many times less than that of White South Africans.  The supposed reason is that they simply do not stress about things like their White counterparts.  Someone’s late? No problem.  What’s the rush?  Somebody doesn’t do what they were supposed to do?  It can wait until tomorrow.

And to be honest, this type of approach has something to be said for it.  The amount of medication consumed and psychological counseling received by Americans to deal with stress and worry is really quite ridiculous.  We really would be better off if we would take a step back and learn not to sweat the small stuff.  The problem is that it seems Black South Africans have taken a thousand steps back and don’t sweat anything.  Always working without schedules, deadlines, and accountability will admittedly result in lower stress levels.  But it also has the concomitant effect that nothing gets done, and when it does, it happens very slowly.  That leisurely pace inevitably effects progress, development, and economic growth as a whole.  So you might be at ease, but your services such as medical, sanitation, water, electricity, police, transportation, etc. either function badly or are non-existent.

This inevitably leads to some teleological questions as to what the purpose of life really is.  Is not the ultimate goal for us to be happy?  While material wealth and development do provide increased levels of happiness, it is subject to diminishing returns such that the improvement becomes less and less the wealthier you get.  A $100 increase to a subsistence farmer means a lot more than to a billionaire.  For many, the happiness actually goes down because of the increased stress and complexity of life.  It has been shown that people in many developing countries are actually far happier than their counterparts in developed nations.  If that is the case, then is development really a good thing?  What good is development if it doesn’t provide happiness?  These questions perplex me, considering that one of the reasons we are here is to PROMOTE “development”.  Is it not possible that our promotion of development is really a chauvinist statement that our way of life is superior to theirs?  Meanwhile, they might actually be happier?

I can’t say that I have all the answers to these questions, but I have arrived at at least a few responses that I think are adequate.  One, development leads to better healthcare, which leads to longer life expectancy.  I think everyone can agree that they prefer being alive to being dead.  Longer life expectancy allows you the opportunity to experience happiness for a longer time, thereby increasing the end total happiness in your life.  Secondly, while people in developing areas, such as the ones in the township where I work, may still be happy, they also experience their fair share of intense sorrow and pain as a result of their circumstances.   The idealized accounts of poor but happy populations always seem to ignore the emotional trauma caused by having your loved ones die of preventable or treatable medical issues.  Neither do they mention the fear that occurs because of beliefs in witchcraft or ancestors that can hurt and kill you.  I could go on, but I think the point is made.  Finally, I am not so sure that happiness should be pursued at any cost.  Developed societies usually have better conceptions of and protections of rights, especially of minorities.  Even if the general happiness could be raised by the mistreatment of a minority, I don’t think that means it should happen.

I suppose, in the end, what I am trying to say is that, in development, as in life, we must find a balance.  Material wealth is worth little if we have be continually stressed and unhappy to obtain it.  Accepting life as it is, though, and remaining in poverty is no cakewalk either.  We must work to find a middle road that lets us achieve the scientific and technological progress that makes life easier and longer while not forcing us to abandon the things like community which we know are the most important determinants in a happy life.

[Notice: In this blog, my language and comments regarding race are many times much more casual and politically incorrect than I would use in polite conversation in the States.  The reasons being are:

1. South Africans mention race much more casually and comfortably than we do in America. 
2. Because so many of my post topics either directly or indirectly deal with race, always inserting qualifiers so as to avoid offense and the appearance of stereotyping becomes cumbersome such that focus is taken away from the points I am trying to make
3. The realities of South Africa are many times harsh and uncomfortable, but the purpose of this blog is to inform readers of the true state of things not some sugar-coated version of what we wish they were.  While obviously, positive and negative characteristics are present in all races here, the fact of the matter is that, from my experiences so far, Black South Africans exhibit certain characteristics in far greater percentages than White South Africans and vice versa.  Thus, it is never my suggestion that a racial difference is a difference of kind, simply of degree, which is based on my own personal observations.]

South African English Word of the Day

shebeen (also called a tavern) – a place of drinking somewhat similar to a bar, but frequented almost exclusively by Blacks.  The original term comes from the apartheid era when severe restrictions were placed on alcohol consumption for Blacks.  A shebeen, in those days, was an illegal, underground pub similar to a speakeasy during American prohibition.  With the demise of apartheid, the term came to refer to almost any Black drinking establishment.

Origin - late 18th century: from Anglo-Irish síbín, from séibe ‘mugful’

Do NOT Sting ‘em, Hornets

It is now April 16, which means that it has been more than a month since my last blog post.  That is easily my worst bout of laziness since I arrived in South Africa in July, and for that, I once again offer my apologies.  I don’t want to say that the interregnum has been totally unworthy of the blog, but at the same time, you should be relieved to know that you haven’t been missing THAT much.  During that period, I finished off the first term of the South African school year and then enjoyed what I think was a well-deserved two weeks vacation. 

That fortnight allowed me the chance to travel to Mpumalanga, one of South Africa’s eastern provinces, which is a beautiful area with rolling hills, mountains, forests, and overall green upon green landscape.  The region is actually known for its timber industry (“green gold” as they call it there), with ample verdant forests, such that were it not for the large changes in elevation, there were times I could have imagined I was back in the Piney Woods of Texas.  I got the chance to go caving for the first time in my life, which, those of you who have seen the pictures can attest, had the side effect of also making me look like a miner, with my jumpsuit, light, and resultant dirty face.  As part of the experience, I received the added benefit of being stung by a hornet, who had decided to take up residence in the boots that were given to me.  It made me seriously regret all those times during Huntsville High School pep rallies that at the urging of our bee mascot, I shouted “Sting ‘em, Hornets”.  I guess I neglected during such rallies to inform the fighting hornets that such aggressive action should not include myself.

Miner/Caver

The pain from the sting was not so intense, though, that it prevented me from taking in a spectacular set of waterfalls also found in my holiday town of Sabie.  Despite the hike required to reach them, the effort exerted was well worth it once I finally felt the spray and got an up close glimpse of the shimmering cascades coming off the cliff.

Bridal Veil Falls

Oh, and then there is that thing about me running the 56 kilometer ultra-marathon.

Pause for a second.  Now read that last line again.  Yep.  That’s right.  For the first time in my life, I ran a marathon.  And not just any marathon – a 56 kilometer (34.8 miles) ultra-marathon for which the first 37 kilometers were going up a mountain.  Needless to say, it was a very stupid idea as not only had I not had the time or will to train for the preceding two months, but let’s be honest, running 56 kilometers is just stupid in general.  Despite the consequential pain, I suppose I had enough idiotic youth left in me to grind it out.  So 7 hours and 16 minutes after starting, I crossed the finish line, received my finisher’s medal, and then proceeded to be paralyzed for the better part of the next week.

If ever decide to run 56 kilometers again, just shoot me

The interesting thing is that everything that I’ve written about in this post, could just have easily happened in America as South Africa.  People back home go on vacation to hilly wooded areas like the Pacific Northwest, they go caving, they see waterfalls, they get stung by hornets, and amazingly, some also engage in the masochistic practice of running distances God never intended.  It just continues to boggle my mind that I can have such “American-like” experiences, meanwhile there is always a township or rural village not too far away, where the people might as well inhabit an alternate universe.The facts of the proximity of such different cultures and environments, just further reinforces what an enigma this country is, in which a first-world society totters precariously on an overwhelmingly third-world population (and just for the record, that first-world society is not exclusively White).  For any of you who have ever been to El Paso, Texas, you have witnessed the shocking disparity between the American and Mexican sides in that one area.  On one side is poverty, and on the other, wealth.  Now imagine that they were the same country.  That is South Africa.

Long Walk to Freedom

Apologies once again for the long time in between posts.  I recently returned from a 6-day working vacation to Cape Town, during which I had little to no time to sequester myself with my computer.  Hopefully, the time I spent experiencing the city rather than writing will add some richness to the blog posts that follow.

For my readers who are unaware, Cape Town (Kaapstaad in Afrikaans) is a city on the western coast of South Africa, whose metropolitan area includes around 2.5 million people.  Founded in 1652 by Jan van Riebeeck, it is nicknamed “The Mother City” because it was the first European establishment in South Africa.  Mr. van Riebeeck was an employee of a trading outfit called the Dutch East India Company, and he originally only meant for it to be a refreshment station for Dutch ships on their way to Indonesia.  History has a funny way of turning out not quite as we expected.

From that tiny trading outpost, Cape Town has morphed into a thriving, cosmopolitan city in which a walk through the main Green Market Square will expose your ears to alternating strains of English, Afrikaans, German, Turkish, Japanese, and a host of languages from all over Africa.  The city sits at the foot of a majestic peak called Table Mountain that has recently been named one of the new 7 wonders of the world.  On the outskirts of the city is the Stellenbosch region, which boasts countless finely landscaped vineyards that produce much of the South African wine, so widely admired around the world.  From my experience so far, Cape Town is the most beautiful city in South Africa, far outpacing Pretoria, Johannesburg, and Durban.  It also has a very relaxed feel about it, with outdoor cafes speckling the streets, in stark contrast to the full-throttle way of life in Johannesburg.  Cruising through its different areas, one could be forgiven for thinking he was in a European metropolis instead of Africa.

I don’t want to spend too much time waxing lyrical about Cape Town, but suffice it to say that the place is amazing, and somewhere I would not mind living.  During my stay, I managed to attend the world’s largest individually timed cycle race (Lance Armstrong has competed in the past), be given a special tour and winetasting at a breathtaking winery, climb to the top of Table Mountain, and attend a local derby rugby match between the two main universities.  To top it all off, I even managed to get some Peace Corps work done when I stopped by Grassroot Soccer, which is headquartered in Cape Town.  This organization was started by Ethan Zohn, the winner of the third season of Survivor, with some of his winnings from the show.  The group uses soccer to promote HIV/AIDS education, healthy lifestyles, and good life choices in general.  With any luck, we will have them expanding to my area within the year.

Out of all my experiences during my whirlwind tour, however, I think the most lasting memory was that of my trip to Robben Island.  Robben Island is a body of land about 7 kilometers off the coast of Cape Town, that became infamous as a prison that hosted political prisoners during the apartheid regime.  One of these prisoners was Nelson Mandela. 

View from Robben Island looking back toward the mainland

The trip was made all the more intriguing by the fact that I was accompanied by my Afrikaner friend in Warrenton (who was the one who made the entire Cape Town trip possible) and his Afrikaner girlfriend, who lives in the suburbs of Cape Town.  Just to provide some background, there are two main populations of Whites in South Africa.  One is English-speaking and descends from the British settlers who arrived after South Africa came under British control in the 18th century.  The other, called Afrikaners, speak a distinct language called Afrikaans, and are descended from the original Dutch settlers with Jan van Ribeeck, mentioned at the beginning of this post.  The Afrikaners controlled things politically up until 1994, when Blacks were given the vote, and for this reason, Afrikaners are the ones usually associated with apartheid. 

The Afrikaners, especially younger ones like my friend, will acknowledge the great injustice that was apartheid without reservations and that the system needed to be abolished.  They feel now, however, that they have been collectively demonized by the current South African government and the world in general as a result of that unjust system.  The Afrikaners assert that in the process of trying to make the evil of apartheid fully known, facts are distorted and a biased and actually untrue account is given.  My friend, only half-jokingly, said that he would let us know the “true” story of Robben Island, and would step in if our guide mis-presented any information.  (In the past, I have had a bit of trouble explaining to him that most people in America do not know that much about South Africa other than Nelson Mandela, such that they don’t even have enough information to demonize anyone.  When he asked what Americans think of South Africa, I replied that Americans just don’t think of South Africa).

As we all waited in line to board the boat that would take us to the island, I thought I could sense a bit of nervousness and tension from my Afrikaner friend and his girlfriend as they knew they were about to be confronted with a dark part of their South African history.  I remember seeing a similar emotion when I was accompanied by my German friend to a concentration camp, or when I, myself, as a White American descendant of slave-owners, traverse plantations or historical sites of discrimination.  Even though a person may not have committed the atrocities themselves, they acutely understand and feel that they are nonetheless connected to such events.

After a 30 minute boat ride, we descended onto the rocky shores of Robben Island and began our tour (with a huge group of Americans from Rutgers University; I guess we naturally attract each other).  The first part of the tour was a bus ride around the island.  On this ride, we saw the rock quarry where Mandela and other prisoners were forced to work every day, but who nonetheless managed to use such time to educate and train the younger men in history, economics, law, and politics.  It was in fact so influential that the cave in the quarry where the men were allowed to have lunch was nicknamed “the university” because of the discussions and learning that took place there.  We then continued on to the actual prison where we walked the prison courtyard and saw the cell where Nelson Mandela spent 18 years of his life.  I am a self-admitted history nerd, and I absolutely love reading up on events and then visiting the actual places.  Robben Island is one of those places where the stones seem to talk, and one can just feel the history coming up out of the ground all around oneself.  It is a simultaneously sobering and exhilarating experience.

Courtyard of B Section, where Nelson Mandela was kept

Our guide through the courtyard and Mandela’s cell was, like most of the guides on Robben Island, a former inmate.  He recounted to us what life was like as a political prisoner, and how they used tactics like hunger strikes to gradually gain better treatment such as hot water in the showers and actual beds to replace the thin blankets on concrete.  He showed us the food schedule for prisoners used in the ‘60s and ‘70s that actually prescribed amounts based on the race of the prisoners.  Asians and Coloureds (i.e. mixed-race) were given more and better food than Blacks.  The guide went through the names of prominent freedom fighters and detailed the struggle that was fought by many South Africans against apartheid.

Mandela’s cell, all of which is contained in this photo

Throughout all of this, I wondered if my Afrikaner counterparts would ever interject or comment, but they never did.  They remained as silent and reflective as myself throughout the entire tour.  As we boarded the boat to take us back to the mainland, I asked my friend what he thought of the history and treatment of apartheid that had been provided by the guide.  My friend replied that he thought it had been accurate and fairly presented and had no major complaints.  It was his next comment, however, that surprised me.  He said, “You know, Josh.  What I really liked about that guy, was that he recognized that there were many White people fighting against apartheid, too.  So many times, it seems like everyone thinks that every White in South Africa was for apartheid, but it’s not true.  It wasn’t just Blacks working to end the system.”

It was, I think, a very important observation, despite the fact that some might criticize it as self-serving.  There WERE Whites who recognized the injustice of apartheid despite the color of their skin, in the same way that WERE a number of Germans who resisted the Nazis, and there WERE a population of White Americans who fought continuously against slavery.  This doesn’t mean that we need to overstate their role, but the fact that there was a presence there – even if it was a minority – needs to be acknowledged.  In the same way that stereotyping all Blacks as criminals is untrue and emotionally pains those many Blacks who are responsible citizens, stereotyping all Whites in the past or the present as discriminatory is also untrue and hurtful.  History and people are much more nuanced than we many times would like to believe.  This complexity is admittedly uncomfortable because it makes the world a less simple place and keeps us from easy explanation and categorization of people and events.   The fact of the matter, however, is that things, and especially people, ARE complex.  I think Nelson Mandela, who developed a lifelong friendship with his former jailer, would agree.

What is a Texan doing in South Africa?

When making a call to a printer company today regarding service for one of my school’s machines, before having given any information about myself or my background, the receptionist on the other line stopped me and asked, “What is a Texan doing in South Africa?”  I was shocked and pleased all at the same time that an Afrikaner woman had been able to detect my Texan origins simply from a few seconds of my speaking on the telephone.  Anyone who has heard me speak will tell you that I do not have much of a Texas accent (as much as I wish I did), and a common disappointment I hear from foreigners whenever I am abroad is that I do not speak with the distinctive drawl that Hollywood and George W. have made so famous (or notorious).  I’m not sure whether it was my use of “y’all” or that this lady was just uber-discerning, but whatever the case, it was enough for her to immediately recognize a son of the Lone Star state.  Come to find out, the lady had never been to Texas, but apparently many Texas evangelists HAVE been to South Africa.  So much so that several had made trips to this lady’s church, which is why she was quite familiar with that particular lilt.

Now, to be quite honest, there are many times I ask myself the same question, namely, what the hell I am doing thousands of miles from home working for free while my friends are drinking Shiner Bock beer at the BBQ Cookoff in the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo.  Such inquiries can naturally lead to quite ponderous reflections, but given my last post was something of that sort, I’ll delay the existential response for a later entry.  No, for today, suffice it for the title to serve as a segue for me to tell you, literally, what I am doing.  Some of the most interesting moments from a day in the Life of Peace Corps Volunteer Josh “Lesego” Spencer:

Monday, February 27, 2012

5:00 – Alarm clock sounds.  Turn it off and drowsily try to regain enough consciousness to get out of bed, while reminding myself that I am indeed in Africa.

5:30 – Open mosquito net, get up, and begin ironing clothes.

5:45 – Take cold shower, confirming that I am not dreaming and am in fact in Africa.  Right now, this doesn’t quite send me over the edge of hypothermia, but as winter approaches, I will have to begin heating water and switch to taking bucket baths.

6:15 – Eat breakfast, usually consisting of boiled eggs and cereal

6:30 – Drink a cup of instant coffee (not too many coffee pots here) while writing down reflections on what I can learn from the previous school day as well as ideas for what can be done to improve overall school operations.  One thing you realize in Africa, is that NOTHING moves quickly.  You have to focus on making incremental changes every day that will eventually add up to something big.  If you expect things to happen efficiently and according to plan, you are going to get frustrated and get burnt out pretty fast.

6:50 – Get bicycle and cycle to school making sure to greet every man, woman, child, and goat.  Black South Africans take greeting very seriously, and if you do not greet them, they many times become quite offended.

7:00 – Arrive at school, set book bag down, and take up position at the school gate to make sure the students are in uniform.  That means shirts are tucked in, collars are not popped, boys are not wearing earrings, etc.  This has become such a motif of mine, that the learners get great fun out of saying “Tuck in!” in their best American accent.

7:30 – School bell rings.  That means the official bell ringer actually walks around the entire school ringing a handbell.  I begin yelling at students still walking to school to hurry up since they are already late.  My students do not seem to grasp the concept that when you are late, you need to speed up.  Barking like a drill sergeant seems to help, though.

7:40 – Close gate and begin documenting students who are tardy.  Once students have accumulated three latenesses, they receive after-school detention.  One learner I have come to know, racks up his thirteenth lateness even though school has only been in session 6 weeks!  Like it or not, “African time” is the norm here.

8:30 – Principal asks me to join him for a meeting in his office with one of the teachers.  One of my projects this year has been working to set up a structured disciplinary system at the school such that whenever there is something related to discipline in the school, I am usually consulted.  That morning several students apparently came and complained to the principal about this teacher’s use of corporal punishment i.e. hitting of the children for bad behavior.  We tell the teacher we understand his frustration with the students, many of who have serious attitude problems, but remind him that corporal punishment is illegal and could get him and the school in serious trouble.  Despite the fact that corporal punishment was outlawed in South Africa in 1996, it continues to be widely, and violently, used to the point that there are students that are hospitalized every year as a result of teacher beatings.  I ask this teacher to send the troublesome students to me if he continues to have problems.

9:00 – Principal asks me to document that the maintenance men cannot be found, meaning that again they have left the school during working hours without permission.  He also requests that I note that the deputy principal showed up to school drunk, again, and then left to go home without informing or asking permission from the principal.  You read that right.  The deputy principal was drunk at school.  Unfortunately, because people are very hesitant to criticize each other and because the teacher’s union makes dismissing someone almost impossible, such behavior is not at all uncommon in South Africa.  Lack of professionalism is one of the biggest problems in the educational system here.

10:10 – Feast on lunch prepared by one of the cleaning ladies of rice and lung – yes, lung.  It is delicious, though perhaps a bit chewy.  Perhaps the animal was a smoker.

2:00 – Demonstrate correct typing technique to a 12th grader who has never touched a computer keyboard before and then issue her a machine that works on her typing.  My mom actually found the machine, called a “Type-Right”, on EBay and then shipped them to me here.  They are like a computer keyboard, but with a small gray screen at the top that helps teach typing.  They stopped being produced in the 90’s with the advent of computers, but work great here in South Africa because students can practice anywhere, since it’s highly portable, and one doesn’t need to have access to a computer (which few do).

2:20 – Meet with students that I am helping to establish a school newspaper.  They too have little to no experience with computers, so I show them how to open Microsoft Word and those who have been practicing using the Type-Rights, begin typing the articles they have already written by hand.

2:30 – Attend a committee meeting to discuss the development of youth sports programs in my township.  Currently there are almost no activities for young people after school, which means many of them spend their time smoking marijuana, drinking, and having unprotected sex.  We discuss starting after-school soccer, basketball, netball^*, and volleyball programs that will give the students something more positive to be involved in.

*Netball is a variation of basketball played mostly by girls, where there are hoops without backboards at opposite ends of the court.  Dribbling is not allowed and the ball must be passed in order to move towards your basket.

4:00 – Take a look at a computer center that has been opened in town.  The setup is fantastic with brand new computers, and the founders have a great idea of trying to offer computer access to the community.  Unfortunately, they have little business knowledge and experience.  They have been open two months already, yet no one knows about them because they have done almost no advertising.  They have not yet created any business structure such as a partnership to determine what percentage of the business is owned by each of the 7 founders.  The building and computers are uninsured, and they have no plan for how the business is going to make money (they used funds from a government program to start the operation).  Without trying to take over, a local business owner, another humanitarian worker, and myself, offer some ideas for things that should be done to make the business profitable and thus, make the service sustainable.

6:30 – Have dinner at my Afrikaner friend’s house with his family while watching “The Apprentice: Celebrity Edition”, “Friends”, and “Survivor”.  They really love American TV programs over here.  As you can probably tell, the economic realities for most Whites in South Africa are far different from those for most Blacks.  Despite the fact that apartheid ended 18 years ago, this country continues to suffer some of the largest inequality in the world.

8:00 – Return to my house and prepare myself another cup of instant  coffee.  I then peruse “Texas Monthly” or “The Economist”, all the while, wondering why the mosquito family which seems to have taken up residence in my area, finds my flesh so appealing.

9:00 – Begin work on blog post.  Contrary to some opinions, the business of a blog post, at least for me, is actually somewhat time-consuming.  It’s not something that I just pop out in 15 or 20 minutes.  While I don’t do outlines or anything like that, I do do a considerable amount of thinking beforehand, then re-reading and re-writing afterwards, before actually uploading to the internet.  Hopefully this results in some somewhat decent writing and a not altogether somniferous experience for the reader.

11:00 – Go to sleep to the strains of country music coming from my I-Pod.  I’ve found that “Texas” by George Strait never fails to put a smile on my face as thoughts become dreams of that land I will never cease to call my home.

And that, ladies and gentleman, aside from killing 12 mosquitoes during the course of writing this post, is what a Texas is doing in South Africa.

South African English Word of the Day

lapa – a courtyard or similar enclosure, especially the first of two courtyards in a traditional Sotho homestead.

Oxford English Dictionary

Why don’t we take our tea out in the lapa?

Boulevard of Broken Teens

I have had a few requests recently for information on my daily life in the school and what specific work I am doing.  I fully plan on gratifying such petitions in future posts, possibly beginning with the one after today’s.  For right now, though, recent events have made me feel compelled to offer some background on the lives and situations that many of my students come from. 

Since the beginning of this school year, which began in the middle of January, I have been embarking on a program to increase the discipline of the high school I work at.  Reason being that results from last year showed that only 34.9% of our students passed their matriculation exams.  That basically means that 2 out of every 3 of our 12th graders failed and did not receive the South African equivalent of a high school diploma.  Not a good outcome, obviously.

For this reason, I sat down with the management of the school, and we agreed that one of the key reasons for such poor performance was a general lack of discipline.  I have, thus, been determinedly implementing new procedures to increase things such as student punctuality, adherence to dress code, loitering outside the classroom, etc. – things that I’m sure seem trivial to many, not least the students, but which I know have and already are having a positive impact on the school.

A side effect of such disciplinary procedures is that I have really started to get to know about the students I deal with since documenting and dealing with bad behavior requires one to interact with the offending child, sometimes on a very personal level.  Not only have I become increasingly adept at remembering and pronouncing African names, but I have also begun to learn just exactly what types of environments each one of them are leaving in the mornings and going home to in the afternoons.  Such knowledge is vital, since discipline is not a one-size-fits-all scheme, but rather something that has to be tailored to each student based on what is going to achieve the desired effect.  The way I speak with and deal with a young man with an attitude problem is going to be entirely different from the way I treat a young girl who constantly shows up late.  If I, also, then find that that young man was abandoned by his father at a young age, and he has never had a strong male role model in his life, I have to alter my approach accordingly.

Just to give my readers a general idea of things, I would estimate that only 10% of my students, if not less, live in a household in which their mother and father are both present and still married to each other.  The majority of the children have had either one or both of their parents pass away – largely as a result of AIDS.  Many of those whose parents are still alive, the parents have either abandoned them or work in another city and only return every so often.  For this reason, most of my learners live with a grandmother or aunt.  A significant amount don’t live with anyone, and are literally on their own – all at the ripe old age of 16 and 17.  In short, I work with a group of children who have been forced to grow up too fast and deal with things a child should never have to face at their age.

This was brought home to me last Friday when I had a chat with a student in our school, a grade 9, who is the sweetest little girl that you will ever encounter in your life.  She is always respectful to me and the other educators, and we never encounter any problems with her while at school.  Unfortunately, this same precious girl is a serial late-comer.  Since school began on January 11, she has been late no less than 10 times. 

Those of you who have read my previous posts, know how I feel about “African time” and that I regard it as inimical to development, especially in an educational context.  If you are late to class, you are missing out on information you need, not to mention that you disrupt the lesson, teacher, and the rest of the class by coming in at a later time than the one scheduled.  For that reason, punctuality has been the disciplinary point I have stressed most since the beginning of the year.  (Given my acknowledged lack of punctuality throughout my life, I know that this will come as a great shock and laugh-inducing irony to those who know me.  Peace Corps has a funny way of putting things in perspective.)

Because of this young girl’s perpetual tardiness, I originally thought that I needed to take a hard-line with her to correct the behavior.  As I mentioned before, though, I have slowly been coming to the realization, that the best kind of punishment is the one that works, which means it has to be based on on understanding of what is causing the behavior.  Consequently, whenever this angelic girl came late this last Friday, I sat with her in the principal’s office and asked her (delicately) if there was a situation at home that was causing her to be tardy so often.  She sat silently with her head down for about 30 seconds, before telling me, almost in tears, that she and her mother did not have a good relationship because of the mother’s addiction to alcohol.

Two years ago, the mother embarked on a period of continual drunkenness such that the woman no longer takes any interest in her daughter’s life.  The mother is drunk whenever the girl leaves in the morning and is still drunk whenever the girl comes home in the afternoon.  The girl wakes up in the mornings at 5:30 and then has to proceed to not only prepare herself and cook her own breakfast, she then has to do the same for her younger sister because the mother is passed out.  The reason why this young girl is late everyday is because she has to take her younger sister all the way to the other side of the township to drop the toddler off at what amounts to a pre-school and then walk all the way back to the high school. 

As this sweet young girl was relating this to me (with great difficulty as I’m sure you can imagine), I almost began tearing up myself, because the pain in her eyes was evident.  I soon realized that harsh talking-tos and detention would have no effect on this girl’s punctuality.  Instead, I am now trying to speak with a social worker to see if something can be done to relieve this girl of responsibilities that should not be hers, so that she can focus on being a 15 year old high school student and not a mother and substance abuse care worker.

Such stark awareness of the difficulties my students face was further reinforced this past Monday as I was attempting to get the students to hurry up as they were already late for school.  One young man, despite being told 3 times to begin rushing, continued walking.  Whenever I went up to him and ordered him to begin jogging, he refused, and told me, quite defiantly, that he would not jog because he was tired.  I immediately marched him to the principal, and we sent him home for the day with a letter requesting a meeting with his guardian.  The boy arrived the next day with a man, who identified himself as the boy’s neighbor.  After speaking with the neighbor, I discovered that both the boy’s parents are dead, and that his current guardian works in a town 300 kilometers away, which only allows the guardian to return perhaps twice a month.

With this knowledge, I spoke with the boy, telling him that I am sorry for the situation that has been forced upon him, but that I also know that making excuses is going to do nothing to improve that situation.  I told him that the reason I go so hard on my students is because I expect the best out of them.  I told him that I have high standards for him, and that I know that he is strong enough to overcome adversity and be successful regardless.  One of the ways that he can do that is by being on time to school despite the lack of parental support.  I told him I do not think he is a bad kid (which he really is not), and said that all I am asking of him is to leave the house earlier so that he doesn’t miss out on any of the lesson.  I asked him if he could do this, and he replied “Yes”.  He was quite early to school both yesterday and today, so we will see if such positive behavior continues.

One of my reference points during my time here in South Africa is a movie called “Lean On Me”, starring Morgan Freeman, about a principal who comes in and turns around a failing school with primarily black students, largely through the imposition of high standards and strict discipline.  If you have not seen it, I would highly recommend it.  One of the continual refrains from Morgan Freeman’s character is that people will perform based on what you expect of them, such that making excuses for someone because they are black, from the ghetto, without a Dad, etc. does them a disservice because then underachievement becomes acceptable due to such difficult circumstances.  His theory is that only by holding people to the same standards, will they learn to perform well regardless, and by doing so, make sure that they are able to change those circumstances in their own life.

When you work in an environment like mine, you are constantly torn between wanting to make exceptions for people because of difficult circumstances and recognizing that always allowing people to perform below expectations is not doing them any favors.  I usually tend toward the side of Morgan Freeman’s character; however, as you can see, I took very different tacks with the boy and the girl based on how I thought each would respond.  Based on my experience so far, it seems that many times girls need understanding, whereas boys, especially when the father is not present, need and even crave authority, despite what they might project on the exterior.  Even that, though, does not always apply and every case has its own nuances.  It is a judgment call that I hope I will continue to get better at, the more that I work with and learn about my students.

Whatever the case, what I know for sure is that I have never been more appreciative that I DID grow up in a loving, stable home in which both my mom and dad were around and married.  While I do take great pride in my achievements, I also recognize that I owe a lot of it to the incredible support I received in all areas from my parents.  Had I not had such positive influences, I cannot honestly say I would be where I am today.  Like I mentioned above, that does not mean that excuses  should always be made for those who do not benefit from such a healthy household environment.  It should, however, moderate our hubris when we congratulate ourselves on our achieved station in life, while simultaneously tempering our judgment of the behavior of those who we consider to be less than successful.  It is only with such perspective that we can adequately tackle the ills society is facing and break the cycle, so that the children of today do not become the irresponsible, hurtful parents of tomorrow.

South African English Word of the Day

pitch – to show up, to come

The clothes are not washed because the maid didn’t pitch today.

The times, they are a-changin’

I am currently putting in 11 and 12 hour days as we continue to make progress slowly but surely at my high school.  Unfortunately, this leaves me with little energy to do detailed blog posts at night.  I will work to rectify this situation in the future, if by no other means than by consuming massive amounts of the Starbucks instant coffee that was sent to me by my Dad (By the way, thanks, Dad).  For tonight, though, I just wanted to post an excerpt from a book I have recently been reading called “The Mind of South Africa: The Story of the Rise and Fall of Apartheid” by Allister Sparks.  It is a fascinating tale of just how the battle played out in South Africa. 

The book was published in 1990 before Nelson Mandela had been released and before the transition when Blacks first received the vote.  This makes some of the comments a bit dated, but also fantastically interesting as one can compare Spark’s thoughts and predictions against what actually happened in the succeeding years.  The most poignant example of this was a passage describing Robert Mugabe, the prime minister and then president of neighboring Zimbabwe.  For those not familiar, Mugabe is now an oppressive dictator that has brutalized his people, destroyed his nation’s once prosperous economy, brought about the second-highest inflation in history, caused famine, intimidated his political opponents with merciless violence, and declared what basically amounts to open war against all Whites, just to mention a few of his accolades.

It was not always so, however.  Mugabe was actually originally the leader of the liberation movement in Zimbabwe and immediately afterwards served as prime minister, speaking in Mandela-esque fashion of the need for reconciliation with Whites and the need to come together as one nation.  He was widely lauded both at home and abroad for his job in sensibly governing the new Zimbabwe.  All of this is reflected in Sparks’ description of Mugabe and Zimbabwe:

Zimbabwe, of course, has been the most remarkable of all.  A terrible war was fought, great suffering endured, to stave off this fate worse than death in what was Rhodesia.  And when finally in 1980 it was over and the unthinkable happened and that extremist Robert Mugabe, the worst of them all, took over, he offered – reconciliation!  Thirty-five thousand people died in the Zimbabwean war, black Africa’s ugliest, with fearful atrocities committed on both sides, yet today, a handful of years later, black and white live together harmoniously and with no sign of vengeance or retribution.  The tables have not been turned.  The former prime minister, Ian Smith, who imprisoned Mugabe for ten years and refused even to let him attend his only child’s funeral when the boy died tragically during that time, who inflamed the white resistance with his horror stories of what black rule would mean, lives unmolested in retirement on his farm and until recently had a seat in Parliament.  Other white farmers, who were Smith’s most ardent supporters, who financed his party, supported his repressive policies, and fought in his war are prospering today and thanking God that that good chap Mugabe is there to stabilize the country and keep the extremists in check.

Fast forward to today, where the Whites, if they have not been murdered, have all but been chased out of the country and the Zimbabwean people are flocking to South Africa by the thousands (we have a Zimbabwean teacher in my school) as they try to escape suffering that far exceeds anything experienced under White rule.  Many times, I think there is a complacency that sets in in which it is believed that progress is inevitable and that the natural course of things is towards improvement.  The example of Zimbabwe proves this notion to be hopelessly in error.  It is for this reason that in Zimbabwe, South Africa, or any other country, we must be constantly aware that the creation of a better life is not a magical process that occurs inexorably but rather something borne of good management and the continual labor of men and women focused on a better tomorrow.  Let us hope that the early promise of reconciliation preached in South Africa by Mandela and the ANC never turns into a similar nightmare as the one Mugabe is currently wreaking on his country.

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire - but no fire department

First off, I apologize for the long hiatus from posting.  I have been battling a chest cold for what seems to have been a week and half, not to mention I have of course been taking care of my ever present responsibilities at school.  The illness appears to have been vanquished now, though, so J. Spence should be back and better than ever.

The topic of my Comeback Post has to do with a quite harrowing experience I underwent two nights ago that should also give my developed-world readers an idea of exactly what I deal with sometimes here.  One of my goals since the beginning of 2012, if not a fully fledged resolution, is to begin branching out in culinary consumption.  In typical guy fashion, I found myself surviving on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and other fast meals that did not require much time, effort, or provident thinking.  Quick and easy was the order of the day.

I realized, though, that even though I am in the Peace Corps, I might as well build my cooking connoisseurship while here in Africa, so as to spice things up a bit (hope you enjoyed that one Mom) and make things a bit more interesting.  Plus, I can’t honestly carry the moniker Cosmopolitan, if my diet resembles that of a hobo.

It was with that ethos that I have been venturing out recently, creating concoctions such as huevos rancheros, guacamole, homemade tortillas, tacos, and Chinese rice - all with quite reasonable success if I do say so myself.  Having confined my cooking mostly to the Tex-Mex I know and love, however, I figured it was high time that I make a culinary ode to that Southern influence that also informs Texas culture.  That’s right, I committed to taking on Colonel Sanders himself by making up a batch of fried chicken.

It all began well enough, with the mixing of ingredients and dredging of the various chicken parts.  I also found a deep pot, filled it about 1/3 of the way with sunflower oil, and turned the burner on high so as to heat the oil.  Now the recipe said nothing about what temperature to bring the oil to, and having never heated such large quantities of oil before, I figured I should leave it on for a good while before throwing my now de-feathered friends in.  Now, I’m not a complete ignoramus, so I stayed close by just to keep any eye on things.  Very quickly, the oil began popping such that globs of it were leaping up into the air, but given this was so early, I figured that surely it was not yet time to begin cooking.  Sure enough, the eruptions subsided after about 3 minutes and the oil continued to heat in peace.

I made a point of waving my hand over the pot every so often to try to get a rough estimate of the temperature, but again, I really had no idea what that temperature was supposed to be.  I guess I figured that when the oil got to a good boil would be go-time.  Unfortunately, that moment never arrived.  All of a sudden, as I was standing next to the stove, the oil burst into flames, as if someone had just opened a cigarette lighter next to an open gas line.  The result was a quite significant flame. 

My immediate reaction was to turn off the stove, which I realized later was quite superfluous, given that the breaker switch flipped as soon as the fire started.  I had hoped that simply turning off the stove would be enough for the flame to die down, but it instead continued to grow and reach higher and higher.   At that point, my thought was to get the fire extinguisher – which would have been all well and good, had we actually had one.  I was then rudely jolted back into the reality that I am in South Africa where fire extinguishers are not standard components of every household. 

Having no professional means of putting out the fire myself, I started to go over alternatives.  I knew from having it beaten into my head in primary school, that pouring water on grease fires only makes it worse, so luckily I never even considered that option.  I did however realize that despite the stove being off, the burner was still quite hot and would be for some time, which would fuel the fire for a good while.  By this time, the flames were bordering on inferno-status, so I just barely, with pot holders, managed to move the pot to one of the other burners to reduce the heat being supplied.  It was this act that probably prevented the rest of the house from eventually catching on fire.

Like I said before, despite my best efforts, the flames continued to rise until the flames were licking the ceiling.  The heat was so intense that the glass on the wall clock above the stove actually broke apart and fell down.  Now, normally in the case of a fire, one of the things they tell you is to try to smother it so as to prevent air from feeding it.  Because the fire was so big, though, I was unable to just place the top of the pot over it to extinguish the flames.  The best I could do was gingerly toss the cover on to the pot, making sure that I didn’t knock over the pot and spread the fire wherever the oil spilled.  As it happened, the top came to rest upside down on the pot, not completely sealing the oil off, but at least serving to limit the fire’s oxygen supply somewhat. 

It was at this point that I realized that I was having trouble breathing because of smoke, so I managed to get a rag, dampen it with water, and put it over my mouth to guard from the fumes.  I also kept low to the ground, remembering that that’s where the oxygen is since smoke rises.  I can’t tell you how appreciative I was and am for the basic fire education that is an integral component of any American schoolchild’s upbringing.  Had I not had that, things probably would have turned out a whole lot differently.

At around this time, I was beginning to think that the house really was going to burn, so I got outside and did the only thing I knew in the situation – dial 9-1-1.  I remembered that during our training they told us that emergency numbers were different in South Africa, but I had no idea what those numbers were at this moment, and I was not about to go rummaging through my room to try to find them.  Miraculously, when I dialed 9-1-1 on my BlackBerry, the call was immediately listed on the screen as “Emergency Call”.  When I related the whole ordeal later on to some local friends, they were also shocked that 9-1-1 had worked as they had no idea there was that functionality here. (Apparently, the new cell phone networks have adopted international standards.  Had I used a landline, I wouldn’t have had the same success).

Unfortunately, the small comfort I was hoping to gain from getting in touch with some emergency professionals was not to be.  After dialing 9-1-1, it took a good 30 seconds of ringing before an operator picked up.  I told the young woman on the line what was going on, and her response was “Umm, so what is happening again?”  I repeated myself, doing the best I could to remain calm, as I saw the light from the fire streaming through my kitchen windows.  Upon retelling the crisis, the operator said that she would contact the fire brigade for me. 

I was then put on hold for a good 3 minutes.  Let me tell you right now, Kenny G is not that soothing when his saxophone attempts to make harmony with the crackle of burning oil.   Finally, the elevator music stopped, only for the operator to come back on the line and tell me that the fire brigade in Warrenton wasn’t picking up, nor was the one in the other town closest to me.

To my South African readers, this might seem par for the course, but as many of my non-jaded followers can imagine, I was in disbelief.  I knew that South African services left something to be desired, but I could not believe that the fire department just couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone.  It was at this moment, that I began contemplating how I was going to break the news to the lady I was living with (who was out of town by the way) that I had burned down her house in pursuit of fried chicken. 

Snap back to the operator, who informed me that in the absence of the fire brigade, she would send a police car.  I’m sure she thought she was being very diligent by at least sending some emergency personnel.  I, however, was not as impressed, thinking, “Great.  Maybe they can handcuff the fire into submission.”  Giving myself over to an unpleasant fatalism, I went far enough back into the house to take one last look at the fire, and to my relief, it seemed that the flames were finally starting to die down a bit.  Not completely out of the woods, though, I waited painfully for the police to arrive, hoping that maybe just maybe, they could offer some other advice on how to prevent the house from becoming an ash heap.

After 10 minutes, the police had still not arrived, so I dialed 9-1-1 again to see just what the hell was going on.  When the operator answered, and I angrily told her the police had still not arrived, her response was “Sir, it is a busy time of the year and there are other people with emergencies, too.  Please be patient.”  To which, I responded, “Ma’am, my house is on fire.  Please do not tell me to be patient!”  Again, I could not believe that an emergency operator, would actually tell someone to be patient while their house burned.  I can just imagine the dialogue when someone calls to report their house is being broken into:

OPERATOR (picking the phone up on the 20th ring after taking time to finish her tea): “Hello, what is your emergency?”

CALLER: “A burglar just broke through my window and is now in my house!”

OPERATOR: “Oh, shame, but no need to be hysterical, ma’am.  There’s a lot of crime in South Africa, you know.  But, I’ll tell you what. I’ll see if I can’t get someone to stop by in about 30 minutes.  Of course, that’s if the police are not on break.  If they are, you might just want to politely ask the burglar to leave.  I’m sure he’ll be reasonable.”

Anyways, the police finally arrived and Constable Groenwald came in to take a look at things.  By that time, thank God, the fire had gone out.  In its wake it had left a burned pot, a broken clock, a scorched wall, and several rooms blackened with soot as a result of the smoke (which is going to take me days to clean).  The constable understood my concern at the services, or rather lack thereof, but said there was not really much more he could do except say he was glad that it didn’t turn out worse.  He confirmed that many times when a house catches on fire, the people just have to watch it burn to the ground.

In conclusion, while I many times jokingly display a Texas and American chauvinism, I really do enjoy and appreciate other countries (I mean, I AM in the Peace Corps).  But that being said, this issue of safety services is one area where I can honestly say that America is just plain better.  Even in Texas, which is not a state known for its vast array of government services, it would be unthinkable for a town the size of Warrenton to have no fire support, and certainly not a fire brigade that just chooses not to pick up the phone.  Even in the most podunk of areas, there is a volunteer fire department, organized by concerned citizens, that at least offers some assistance.  It is difficult to describe the fear and frustration I felt watching the fire, knowing that there was no one to help and that I was completely on my own.  It also saddens me to think of the people here in South Africa that are hurt and killed, and the property that is destroyed, because of this lack of what we in America consider to be basic services.  TIA, I guess.

So the next time you dial 9-1-1 from your landline and the operator comes on immediately, then instantaneously sends a fire truck, police car, and ambulance, all of which arrive within 5 minutes, meanwhile the trained operator is calming you and telling you what to do in the situation, just please sing a Te Deum that you live in a country where someone is looking out for you.  (If you are a United States citizen, you are free to play Lee Greenwood’s “I’m Proud to Be an American”.)

South African Word of the Day

spoor – the track of a wagon or motor vehicle

There’s no spoor in the dirt road, so it’s obvious that the fire brigade has not been here to put out the fire.