The Dzoole medicals have made it to the village league semi-finals!
The price of Tobacco is double that of last year. Malawi is so happy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
All is well? Actually, no. The team captain says that no one is coming to practice because of Fodya (tobacco, which must be struck in leaves of 4 onto blades of grass and hung on shaded poles, taken down, carried in bundles on bikes to be graded, and sold... ) My good friend who teaches in the primary school says that school attendance has halved since prices went up... the children stay at home to work on tobacco.
While I have no idea how to stop the child labor going on in Dzoole, I do feel it is in my power to get the guys to show up to practice. The thing is, they all WANT to practice, but only for a quick tobacco work break; they simply don't have time for the typical 2 hours of waiting around before anything starts. They are becoming very American when, despite their lack of English, they clap their hands twice above their heads and say, "Program guys, program. TIME IS MONEY guys!" Practice begins at "2:00" Malawian time, which means people show up sometime in the afternoon between 3 and 5, and practice starts when there are enough guys to get a game going. They come, see no one is there, leave, and come back an hour later. In this two hour period, all the team might show up, but never form a group of more than 4 or 5, and so practice never starts.
One morning, I made my friends Kondwani and Holli (who we call program) saw me after a run, before their quarter final that day, and I made them do yoga with me. In short, they loved it. Every day last week, we did yoga while we waited for the guys, so that when they showed up, they started yoga, and by 4, the whole team was there to practice.
I felt bad I had to leave (or chose to leave) for Easter. But, Martha texted me on Friday to say that when she showed up at 3:30, they were already half way through a yoga routine!
3.24.2008
Days of our Dzoole Lives
have officially finished my first term of teaching.... although not my first term of grading :(
My highest grade so far is a 63 percent, but, to their credit, I have only graded 15 (of over 220 exams in English and History... all of which involve LONG essays... yikes)
Every time I come to town, people come and ask me for updates of "Days of Dzoole Lives" because my village is officially a soap opera... it's rediculous.
I proctored (invigilated as they say) my first exam, and was shocked at how open they are about cheating, and how angry, shocked, and flustered they get when you stop it. It really pissed me off though, because I came off as a total bitch invigilating the Math exam, but saw the teachers in charge of my English and History exams leaving the class, taking tea, and not giving a damn that the students were openly discussing answers and leafing through their notes.
One student in my math exam tried to go to the toilet with the test, his note book, and a calculator. 23 students were marked for talking, obviously looking at other papers, and taking other peoples tests to copy. Yes, I mean they literally stood up, walked over, and picked up the test and started copying. I said anyone talking would be marked, yet they continued to talk, over and over and over. As surprised as I was that they were cheating, they were more shocked that I cared.
Last Saturday, there was a field trip to Misisi (about 1.5 hours away) for sports. The truck showed up 4.5 hours late, and the driver was visibly drunk and smelled liek beer. The teacher laughed at this, greeted him, gave him money, and hten hearded 80 students onto the back of the wall-less flat bed truck (a dangerous thing without it being standing room only crowded and on the dirt roads, not to mention with a wastey faced driver. Half way thorugh, I was so stressed I got sick and ended up hitch hiking home. All the teachers could talk about on Monday was the horror of that they were only given one mineral each (soda) and that the snisma they were given was mgaiwa (teh equivalent of brown bread)... they didn't care about the fact that the school's sports master never showed up or that the driver again left us in the market while the kids were getting their lunch (when I decided to leave) to go to a bar.
I also had it confirmed from my favorite student, Justice, that every single male teacher at the school (except for the now departed head master) has had sex with a student. The older teaher Kapalamula suddenly stopped teaching form 2, and there was much fast Chichewa chatter on the subject, that always stopped when I come in the staff room. I asked Justice to clear it up, and he told me that the sophomore girl he was sleeping with stopped, and everyone was makign fun of him, so he slapped EVERY SINGLE person in the class. That night, they stoned his house. They target sophomores, who take junior exams between soph and jr years, and lie and say that if they have sex with them, they will pull strings so that they will pass (of course, there are no such strings, at least none that these teachers can or will pull)
It was nice, as always, to have a break in Lilongwe. On my way in, I got a great hitch from a very attractive Malawian man who just returned from working in the UK and a masters degree in Peace and Conflict resolution from the University of Copenhagen. In fact, I went on a date with him last night! Although I ducked out to meet with an American I had met 2 weeks ago playing softball, to watch a movie that expats use an LCD projector and sound system to project movies on their wall (talk about feeling like you ain't in Malawi anymore). The movie was an Argentinian film called "9 Queen" and I highly recomment it. It was pretty fun. Not sure if the second was a date, but both events were fun, and both have invited me out tonight... the Malawian for dinner and the American for dancing... talk about when it rains it pours :)
Till then, I am really busy researching options for the school lunch program. I am trying to figure ways to get donations for the food and labor... not big costs, but it adds up for 280 students. They can't afford school fees as is, so I dont want to charge them the huge fee my dep head (as I privately refer to as dick head) is pushing for. I have researched plans for a garden that would supplement ndiwo (relish) costs, but that still leaves cooking oil, maize and protein. I am also toying with the idea of trying to find a partnership school in the US or a church or something that could make it a permanent project with annual contributions. Hmm. If anyone has suggestions or knowledge, please let me know or refer me to someone who does!
My highest grade so far is a 63 percent, but, to their credit, I have only graded 15 (of over 220 exams in English and History... all of which involve LONG essays... yikes)
Every time I come to town, people come and ask me for updates of "Days of Dzoole Lives" because my village is officially a soap opera... it's rediculous.
I proctored (invigilated as they say) my first exam, and was shocked at how open they are about cheating, and how angry, shocked, and flustered they get when you stop it. It really pissed me off though, because I came off as a total bitch invigilating the Math exam, but saw the teachers in charge of my English and History exams leaving the class, taking tea, and not giving a damn that the students were openly discussing answers and leafing through their notes.
One student in my math exam tried to go to the toilet with the test, his note book, and a calculator. 23 students were marked for talking, obviously looking at other papers, and taking other peoples tests to copy. Yes, I mean they literally stood up, walked over, and picked up the test and started copying. I said anyone talking would be marked, yet they continued to talk, over and over and over. As surprised as I was that they were cheating, they were more shocked that I cared.
Last Saturday, there was a field trip to Misisi (about 1.5 hours away) for sports. The truck showed up 4.5 hours late, and the driver was visibly drunk and smelled liek beer. The teacher laughed at this, greeted him, gave him money, and hten hearded 80 students onto the back of the wall-less flat bed truck (a dangerous thing without it being standing room only crowded and on the dirt roads, not to mention with a wastey faced driver. Half way thorugh, I was so stressed I got sick and ended up hitch hiking home. All the teachers could talk about on Monday was the horror of that they were only given one mineral each (soda) and that the snisma they were given was mgaiwa (teh equivalent of brown bread)... they didn't care about the fact that the school's sports master never showed up or that the driver again left us in the market while the kids were getting their lunch (when I decided to leave) to go to a bar.
I also had it confirmed from my favorite student, Justice, that every single male teacher at the school (except for the now departed head master) has had sex with a student. The older teaher Kapalamula suddenly stopped teaching form 2, and there was much fast Chichewa chatter on the subject, that always stopped when I come in the staff room. I asked Justice to clear it up, and he told me that the sophomore girl he was sleeping with stopped, and everyone was makign fun of him, so he slapped EVERY SINGLE person in the class. That night, they stoned his house. They target sophomores, who take junior exams between soph and jr years, and lie and say that if they have sex with them, they will pull strings so that they will pass (of course, there are no such strings, at least none that these teachers can or will pull)
It was nice, as always, to have a break in Lilongwe. On my way in, I got a great hitch from a very attractive Malawian man who just returned from working in the UK and a masters degree in Peace and Conflict resolution from the University of Copenhagen. In fact, I went on a date with him last night! Although I ducked out to meet with an American I had met 2 weeks ago playing softball, to watch a movie that expats use an LCD projector and sound system to project movies on their wall (talk about feeling like you ain't in Malawi anymore). The movie was an Argentinian film called "9 Queen" and I highly recomment it. It was pretty fun. Not sure if the second was a date, but both events were fun, and both have invited me out tonight... the Malawian for dinner and the American for dancing... talk about when it rains it pours :)
Till then, I am really busy researching options for the school lunch program. I am trying to figure ways to get donations for the food and labor... not big costs, but it adds up for 280 students. They can't afford school fees as is, so I dont want to charge them the huge fee my dep head (as I privately refer to as dick head) is pushing for. I have researched plans for a garden that would supplement ndiwo (relish) costs, but that still leaves cooking oil, maize and protein. I am also toying with the idea of trying to find a partnership school in the US or a church or something that could make it a permanent project with annual contributions. Hmm. If anyone has suggestions or knowledge, please let me know or refer me to someone who does!
Down Down Devil
I like to play a little game at school. I like to count how many times a day my school would be sued if it was in America. One mark for each student hoeing, drawing water, or mopping the floor. One mark when I see a teacher dragging a child by the arm. Another for each prayer said before assemblies, staff meetings, and classes. Ditto for the required Bible Knowledge exam. One more for each teacher sleeping with a student.
Last week, school had a field trip and I lost count. 23 student sardined into the back of a Ford pickup truck, too tightly packed to even sit.
“Tipemphere,” Madame Mosingolo, the leader of SCOM (School Christians of Malawi), said. “Let us pray.”
As we pulled out of school, a good two hours late, the students broke into thunderous gospel music, their praises uninterrupted by bumps in the road or the collapsed bridge with caused us to take the other back road. They would have continued strait for the 2 hour ride the Chawale if only the truck did not run out of gas a mile from our half way point, where there was also a BP station. We sent a student off with a few water bottles and a handful of Kwatcha bills. I sat in the shade of the maize that lined the road and watched the students as they huddled in groups, rehearsing their sermons and putting the final touches on their scripture themed dramas. An hour later, the student returned with diesel and we hit the road again, briefly stopping only to pay a small bribe for a permit fee at the police station (during which time we left the students completely unattended at the busy market).
After arrival in Chawale and the usual half hour of greetings, I ran off to eat lunch with Mary Beth, a Peace Corps Volunteer from my training lass. During lunch, no less than 15 students, teachers, and neighbors stopped by to “greet” us. In Malawi, greeting entails walking in, shaking hands, asking how someone is, and then sitting silently with them for 5 awkward minutes. Each one made a passive aggressive comment on the fact that the students were eating lunch next door, and the teachers kept asking where I was. We steadfastly continued with our lunch, stretching our rice and eggs into a three hour production. With a full belly, I showed up to the prayer meeting an hour before scheduled departure, which I figured would limit my time there to maybe two hours.
On the way over, Mrs. Ziyaya, the wife of my now transferred headmaster (ironically transferred to Chawale) who I had grown quite close to during site visit and my first few weeks in Dzoole, looked at my feet and pulled me to her house to bathe.
After inspecting me, she deemed the rest of me clean, which puzzled her. How could someone have bathed, yet have feet that remained stained with dirt, permanent flip flop stains on my feet’s tops, a cracked brown layer on the soles, and toenails lined in black. The symbolism slapped me in the face as Mrs. Z grabbed the soap from my hands, commanded me to sit on the bench she pulled into the batha, and scrubbed my feet with soap, a stone, and a loofa. We walked hand-in-hand to the prayer meeting.
I entered the classroom to thunderous applause that was, for my first time in Malawi, not meant for me. It was meant for Jesus.
“Up, up Jesus!” the student preacher screamed.
“Up, up Jesus!” the students screamed with delight, in perfect unison.
Down, down Devil.
Hallelujah! Amen.
HALLELUJAH!?!??!?!?!??! AAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNN.
People spoke in tongues… at least I thought so; it may have just been very quick Chichewa. Students did chaotic dramas in which Chamba (pot) smokers, whores, and truant students were reborn when they found Jesus. Hallelujah! AMEN.
“I’m - a - born - again. IMA IMA BORN AGAIN!” went one gospel tune.
At 6:30, three and a half hours of preaching, singing, stomping, and Hallelujah-ing after our scheduled departure, I wanted to knock myself unconscious with one of their bibles. The teachers each made their closing sermons, and the teacher from Chawale turned to me and thanked me profusely for being there. “I hope you learned something,” he said smugly; he had clearly heard that I have not been attending church regularly in Dzoole. “Even if your friend was missing,” he added, as if he had forgotten Mary Beth’s name. The last 20 minute seemed longer than the first four hours.
As we said our good byes for another half hour, he asked me three more times where my friend had been and shook his hands, clicking their tongues to their teeth disapprovingly. They did not seem to mention that not only did none of the other Chawale teachers attend the meetings, but three of them had biked to town during the meeting to get sloppy drunk, as they did every Sunday.
I sat in silence the entire ride home, looking at the star streaked sky. I reached my house at eight, 13 hours after I met the students outside the school that morning, and felt blessed to be home.
Last week, school had a field trip and I lost count. 23 student sardined into the back of a Ford pickup truck, too tightly packed to even sit.
“Tipemphere,” Madame Mosingolo, the leader of SCOM (School Christians of Malawi), said. “Let us pray.”
As we pulled out of school, a good two hours late, the students broke into thunderous gospel music, their praises uninterrupted by bumps in the road or the collapsed bridge with caused us to take the other back road. They would have continued strait for the 2 hour ride the Chawale if only the truck did not run out of gas a mile from our half way point, where there was also a BP station. We sent a student off with a few water bottles and a handful of Kwatcha bills. I sat in the shade of the maize that lined the road and watched the students as they huddled in groups, rehearsing their sermons and putting the final touches on their scripture themed dramas. An hour later, the student returned with diesel and we hit the road again, briefly stopping only to pay a small bribe for a permit fee at the police station (during which time we left the students completely unattended at the busy market).
After arrival in Chawale and the usual half hour of greetings, I ran off to eat lunch with Mary Beth, a Peace Corps Volunteer from my training lass. During lunch, no less than 15 students, teachers, and neighbors stopped by to “greet” us. In Malawi, greeting entails walking in, shaking hands, asking how someone is, and then sitting silently with them for 5 awkward minutes. Each one made a passive aggressive comment on the fact that the students were eating lunch next door, and the teachers kept asking where I was. We steadfastly continued with our lunch, stretching our rice and eggs into a three hour production. With a full belly, I showed up to the prayer meeting an hour before scheduled departure, which I figured would limit my time there to maybe two hours.
On the way over, Mrs. Ziyaya, the wife of my now transferred headmaster (ironically transferred to Chawale) who I had grown quite close to during site visit and my first few weeks in Dzoole, looked at my feet and pulled me to her house to bathe.
After inspecting me, she deemed the rest of me clean, which puzzled her. How could someone have bathed, yet have feet that remained stained with dirt, permanent flip flop stains on my feet’s tops, a cracked brown layer on the soles, and toenails lined in black. The symbolism slapped me in the face as Mrs. Z grabbed the soap from my hands, commanded me to sit on the bench she pulled into the batha, and scrubbed my feet with soap, a stone, and a loofa. We walked hand-in-hand to the prayer meeting.
I entered the classroom to thunderous applause that was, for my first time in Malawi, not meant for me. It was meant for Jesus.
“Up, up Jesus!” the student preacher screamed.
“Up, up Jesus!” the students screamed with delight, in perfect unison.
Down, down Devil.
Hallelujah! Amen.
HALLELUJAH!?!??!?!?!??! AAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNN.
People spoke in tongues… at least I thought so; it may have just been very quick Chichewa. Students did chaotic dramas in which Chamba (pot) smokers, whores, and truant students were reborn when they found Jesus. Hallelujah! AMEN.
“I’m - a - born - again. IMA IMA BORN AGAIN!” went one gospel tune.
At 6:30, three and a half hours of preaching, singing, stomping, and Hallelujah-ing after our scheduled departure, I wanted to knock myself unconscious with one of their bibles. The teachers each made their closing sermons, and the teacher from Chawale turned to me and thanked me profusely for being there. “I hope you learned something,” he said smugly; he had clearly heard that I have not been attending church regularly in Dzoole. “Even if your friend was missing,” he added, as if he had forgotten Mary Beth’s name. The last 20 minute seemed longer than the first four hours.
As we said our good byes for another half hour, he asked me three more times where my friend had been and shook his hands, clicking their tongues to their teeth disapprovingly. They did not seem to mention that not only did none of the other Chawale teachers attend the meetings, but three of them had biked to town during the meeting to get sloppy drunk, as they did every Sunday.
I sat in silence the entire ride home, looking at the star streaked sky. I reached my house at eight, 13 hours after I met the students outside the school that morning, and felt blessed to be home.
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