fugees

The morning began in an irksome way, when I once again found the shower to be occupied by Mma Dioka, one of our flatmates. I didn’t have enough time to wait for her to finish her routine, so that meant another day of frizzy ponytails and that strange feeling of clean dirtiness. I know this sounds small, but a quick rinse can wash the brain as well.

The slightly worn and dusty feeling is accentuated by the fact that someone at UB decided to shut down the laundry facilities. According to Flora (think Speed Queen), the University is no longer purchasing the “tokens” that the machines take, because no on is on campus. Excuse me, excuse me, I think you’ve made a mistake. I AM ON CAMPUS. WE are on campus. The entire graduate population that houses here over winter break is on campus. Blatant disregard for a human presence is not something I take kindly to.

When I called Gill, a supervisor, about the problem, I was greeted with a rather curt redirection, which amounted to a dead end. When we tried to solve the laundry situation on our own, by contacting med students living at the Penn flats, we were again reprimanded by Gill for subverting the hierarchy and acting independently. Hand wash/hang dry is an option (although I’m afraid to leave my clothes on the line due to all the warnings about theft) but that was once again rendered impossible since our water was shut off this afternoon. There is apparently a laundromat about 20 minutes away, but I dread the haul and the long wait for peach scented, tumble dry product. We leave for our trip to Chobe and Victoria Falls on Friday, so I’ll have to work something out by then.

Despite this dry start, the day shaped up to be kind of interesting. I called Emeldah (the social worker) at 7:50 am, and she informed me that she was missing a ton of paperwork for Kamogelo’s application (teacher’s certificates, medical forms, land lease, inspection reports, etc.) I spoke to Sister Margaret about the worrisome state of affairs, and she immediately began to click her tongue at the ineffectual mode of communication and transportation here. Apparently, the chain of submissions is as follows: the social worker at Kamogelo submits the papers to a representative from the local office of social services. The representative then reviews the application, makes inspections, writes their own report, and sends it to the main office for committee review (this is where Emeldah comes in.) Sister Margaret insisted that all the paperwork had been completed and submitted to the local office, and so I requested contact information for the person she handed it to.

Instead of scribbling a phone number, she told me to get in the day care’s combi, and go there directly. Thus, at 10:30 am, I hopped in the car with a few other staff members, and we meandered our way down dusty roads.

The usual combi-window sight
a close up of a typical house - cinderblocks and corrugated metal roofing. lots of people sitting outside (for how long? an hour? a day? the stretches of stillness seem endless)

It is funny, but that short drive made me realize how little of Gabs and the surrounding villages I’ve seen. I take the same combi route to Mogoditshane every day, so I guess I’ve kind of adjusted to tuning out the normal sights. A few fresh roads and passerby had my eyes freshly scanning the tall brown bush and squat grey cinderblock houses.
The Social Services center was surprisingly colorful, and crowded with women and men milling about doorways and leaning against walls. I felt kind of uncomfortable since I was obviously out of place and the focus of many persistent, if friendly, stares. However, the wait was relatively short, and I was soon ushered into a cool, dark, open room to speak to someone in the “know.” I was feeling pretty excited about the adventure of forward momentum, but this quickly screeched to a halt as frustration rolled in. The woman I spoke to kept telling me that the case worker, Portia, was busy, and she refused to tell me if I could retrieve the papers and deliver them myself. The Kamogelo social worker who came with me, also seemed to get frustrated with my attempts to clarify my knowledge of the situation, and I felt a bit of an authority struggle edging onto the scene. I kept asking for contact numbers so that I could locate the forms, but it was only at the very end of the discussion (when I attempted to pet egos by sympathizing with how busy they were) that they agreed to let me help a bit. I ended up calling Portia later in the day, and she strangely informed me that she had already given Emeldah the papers. A long long time ago. She also assured me that she would get in touch with Emeldah to figure things out. I wanted to place faith in her intentions, but an hour later I called Emeldah to see if she’d received any word. Nope. Tomorrow, I will continue with the Sherlock Holmes hunt for the missing application. The good news at least, is that Sister Margaret thinks she has copies of all the documents, so the day can be saved if necessary.

one of the social services office. it is always surprising to me how much of life here is conducted outdoors.

I don’t want to underestimate the social worker’s abilities to get things done, but I’m also afraid to place too much trust in their assurances. It’s a tenuous situation when a deadline is present.

A few more highlights from the day (highs and light, both things that cheer):

Yesterday, while I was handing out the children’s letter tracing books, the mischevious Bofelo (of an ever gleaming eye) started singing the popular Timbaland/One Republic song “Apologize.” As he soulfully crooned “it’s toooo laaaaaate,” a few more kids joined in with words and humming. I was tickled by this American pop culture apparition, and added my voice to the mix – something which startled Bofelo into fits of giggles.

Pleased by his pleasure, I downloaded the song last evening and carried it in today on my ipod. We sang a few Raffi songs in the morning (“Brush Your Teeth” has become an ever-requested hit) and then I asked Bofelo to leave the rug and to stand next to me at the front of the room. I gave him an encouraging pat on the back, and then pressed the play button, motioning for him to do his thing. Blushing, beaming, and carefully awaiting the advent of each repetition of the chorus, he proudly performed for his laughing classmates. The best thing about that moment, and about many moments today, is that I’ve begun to feel a really personal connection with the kids as individuals. I no longer to rely so much on observation to know who is making whom cry on the rug, or who is most likely to sit by himself on the playground. I also have gotten a lot more comfortable in joking with the children, as funny faces are only perfected with trial and error reaction notation. A few kids, like Chris, Mogomotsi, Amogelang, and Sethunya, really seem to get the system of positive reinforcement I’m attempting to work in, and they are always eager to show me that they’re following directions. Finally, the babies no longer cry so much when I try to help them (a lot were frightened by me) and instead greet me with thumbs up and cries of “teachaaaa!” Of course, my class still frustrates me with devilish inattention and rowdy behavior, but those are five year olds for you.

Finally- I slept for two blank hours when I got back from the day care, and awoke too late in the day to feel comfortable walking alone to get groceries. Thus, I called a cab and spent a few minutes purchasing some eggs, chicken, broccoli, and brussel sprouts at Pic n’ Pay. I then hailed a cab man for the return trip, which turned out to be a bit of a gem.

The sun was setting as we pulled out of the parking lot, and the Fugees’s “Killing Me Softly” was drifting around the interior of the beat up car. Nestled in the back seat with my groceries and evening thoughts, I began to drift into the infinite space of imagination, when the cab driver muttered under his breath. “My plans,” he said. “My plans are not working out.” I was going to leave him to his own soliloquy, not quite sure what he meant, but I was feeling a little lonely and decided to break the conversation seal. “What plans?” I asked. It turns out that Mark, a twenty three year old Zimbabwean, has his eyes on Australia, where he hears he can make some quick money. He’s been in Botswana for a while, but finds the unemployment rate and general financial situation to be really frustrating. He works as a translator for the local courts during the day, and uses his car as a cab as night, a grueling schedule. He gave me his number for future use (a common cab thing here) and thanked me for the conversation. Despite the fact that I’ve talked with plenty of other cabbies, my brief conversation with Mark had me a bit reflective. Perhaps it was the fact that he’s only two years older than I am, or that he’s so obviously filled with dreams, plans, and aspirations, or just that he seemed to want nothing but a little connection. Regardless of precise cause (sometimes it’s better to leave it without), I’m thankful for the tiny journey.