Look how happy my next door neighbor is for me!
That's Relebohile Mpopo and her daddy, Tumelo. He's another Maths/Science teacher at my school. She was born the week after I moved into my house. Many Basotho toddlers reach a stage where they cry when they see a lekhooa (white person). I pride myself on helping to raise Relebohile with a familiarity with makhooa, such that this might never happen to her.
But I digress. Point is, a couple friends and I are heading up to Rustenberg, a small city outside Johannesburg, on Friday, to go to this game, and I really can't wait.
I actually was able to visit Bloemfontein to see the Greece-Nigeria match last week, as well. It was an awesome experience, though surely not nearly as exciting as the next one will be. We all supported Nigeria (Africa pride, I guess). Validating our pro-Nigeria sentiments, the Nigerians we met were joyful, friendly, and really pleasant to be around. They added a lot to the experience. The Greeks, on the other hand... well, I don't want to say anything. It's best not to make any rash judgments based on a first impression, right? Or on a second, or a third, or a fourth impression, right? In any case, the game was really something to remember (sadly, Nigeria lost 2-1).
In other World Cup related news, World Cup fever in Lesotho is raging strong. The official slogan, which you hear on TV/radio commercials as well as on sports shows, is "Feel it. It is here." But it's said with a really thick accent, and it's REALLY drawn out for effect, so it sounds more like "Feeeel EEEET! Eet ees HEEYEHHHHHH!" It's become such a household phrase that I frequently see one person say "Feel eet," and everyone else in the room will gleefully yell, "Eet ees heyehhhhh!" I love it. Once, a PCV friend and I were watching a game, but evidently weren't enthusiastic enough. Our Mosotho friend told us, "It is here, but you are not feeling it." A good laugh was had.
Also, let me just put it on the record, vuvuzelas at the World Cup are awful. I hate them. People in my village blow them regularly, at times waking me up in the morning, and they drown out all other sound both on TV and at the games live. Made of materials that range from plastic to cheap flimsy plastic, they play a single, highly grating tone. And to those who say its a meaningful part of the culture, that's a pretty big stretch. Animal horns by the same name were once used in village life, but we're dealing with neither animal horns nor village life. Not to mention, it demeans the richness of the culture that South Africa doesn't find something less abrasive to trumpet (no pun intended) as a cultural icon, like, I don't know, singing. Or face painting.
So, what else? I haven't posted much recently, because, frankly, not too much has been going on. We finished up classes for the semester. My class of 118 Form A's is on pace to have 10 students pass to Form B (and if it were based on Maths/Science alone, that number would be 5). I am on break until late July, at which point, our new buildings will be complete. Then, my class of 118 will turn into 2 classes of 59. I can't wait for that.
With all that said, here are two anecdotes, one sad, one comical.
- There's a really nice kid in my Form A named Paseka. He's 13, I think, but looks like he's 9. He lives alone with his younger brother, up a mountain about 40 minutes walking from school. He tries harder than almost everyone in the class, and though he isn't passing yet, I'm optimistic he will pass when finals come around in November. But he's got it pretty rough. One day I found him cutting school, walking home by himself. I was shocked, because he's such a well mannered kid. I asked him what he was doing, and he explained that he was too hungry to stay in school, and he was going home to eat. My heart broke a little bit. Surely I couldn't punish him. I told him I'll keep it a secret, but he can't do it again.
The point of the story is, last night he knocks on my door after dark (again, very out of character). He tells me he has no light in his house, and he is asking for a candle. Now, I make it very clear to everyone that I have a firm policy of not giving money, food, or anything else to students, regardless of their story. I've never broken this policy. But somehow, I know how sincere Paseka is, and when I picture him and his little brother in the dark, in the freezing cold, I can't help myself. I can't send him back outside with nothing. So I give him the candle and tell him I can't do this again.
It was an awkward, sad situation, one that I only hope doesn't come up again.
- Everyday, I bring a Nalgene to school, full of filtered water. There's a tap where everyone else gets water, but us makhooa are better off with filtered (think Montezuma's revenge). But there's this one teacher who, for some reason, frequently asks to drink some of my water. I begrudgingly agree every time, hoping she won't take too much. Well, the other day, we're standing outside when this happens. She takes a hefty swig. Then she stops, and deliberately pours about half the water onto the ground. I stare at her in confusion. She looks back at the bottle, and pours nearly all of the remaining water on the ground, handing me back about an inch of water. I ask her, as politely as possible, "Why did you dump it?" To which she casually responds, "I like dumping." Then she turns and walks away. We're still friends though.
OK that's all for now. By the way, I love reading your comments, so keep em coming!
