Second installment.
It has come to my attention that it may be unclear as to what exactly I am doing here in Malawi. Welcome to the club. As far as I understand: I am working with an organization called H.E.L.P. Malawi which stands for Hope, Education, Love, Protect (feel free to pull over a trashcan and vomit at any point) which is working to build a model of a "sustainable" primary school (i.e. a school that can financially sustain itself through projects such as subsistence agriculture, marketing projects, and volun-tourism). They also recruit international "teachers" ("" is to say that I am not exactly qualified) to come and teach regular school and also supplemental classes which the organization deems necessary such as HIV/AIDS education, women's life skills and, alarmingly, sewing class.
My day begins foggily at around 4:30AM with roosters crying and children squawking. I lay in bed for half an hour, wrestle with my mosquito net for approx. 15min and then am up at 5:30 at which point I attempt to start the fire for breakfast. Due to bad charcoal (and incompetence, I'm afraid) it can take up to 6 tries to get the coals hot enough to cook the oats.
6:30AM Students clean the school. Sweeping the grounds, washing the bathrooms, mopping the floors, cleaning chalkboards. Imagine this in the U.S.
7:00AM Morning Assembly. The day begins with a rousing (read: absolutely pathetic) rendition of the Malawian national anthem made especially paltry by the fact that the students use the sun to tell them when to start heading to school and since its the rainy season the skies are sometimes overcast so students will show up basically whenever during the day.
7:30AM Class Begins. Usually. Sort of around this time. If the teachers haven't decided on an impromptu meeting or coffee break or who really knows what.
I am teaching Standard 7 which is likened to 7th grade though really it means nothing as I have 70 students with ages ranging from 10 to 21. The classroom is quite a different atmosphere than I am accustomed to or, really, comfortable with. When students answer a question they do it ONLY AFTER they have been called upon and stand next to their desk until I tell them they may be seated again. We have only 4 books for the entire class so we split into groups and everyone huddles around or any exercise or story to be read must be written on the chalkboard for everyone to read. If a student wishes to approach me for any reason (a question or a request to leave the classroom) they must do so on their knees. Its quite disconcerting to have 6 or 10 sixteen year olds crawling towards you on their knees thrusting papers into your hands to correct their grammar.
9:15-9:30AM First Break. During which time teachers disappear and students commence their favorite game called Beating on Each other.
After school hours are filled with domestic chores such as stomping on clothes in water (washing them), drawing water (trying to balance what feels like the liquid weight of the world on your head amidst a gaggle of giggling children demanding money), killing scorpions and/or snakes, and making peanutbutter.
This post, I'm afraid, is less than entertaining, but I'm feeling that it may be time to lower the standard. I am learning quite a lot about that - the term just ended and I am proud to announce that out of 70 students, 9 have passed their exams.
In other news the rainy season has begun which means the roads are nearly impassable so there is a great shortage of food and we have to resort to okra (warmed snot), dried okra (like eating chalk), and rice. And for others it is much worse. The Hunger Season.
Dec 12, 2010
Africa for Beginners
Hello and Welcome to Hannah's Traveling Blog.
Some of you have already tuned in for Sagas 1 and 2 (Hannah Tries to Avoid Eating Tomatoes in Spain and Hannah Eats Sheep Fat and Vomits A lot in Mongolia, respectively), but for those of you who are new here's the scoop: Each and every one of you has been hand selected to be regaled with tales of my adventures. Congratulations on making it this far. If you cease to be entertained and wish to opt out of enlightenment just simply send an email back requesting to be removed from the list. Or for those of you using Gmail there is always the option to "register as spam." But see if I ever offer you 50% off of anything ever again. Responding to requests about forwarding the emails to others: Go ahead. By all means spread the gospel.
Ahem. "With a lake nearly the size of the country itself drawing backpackers from all nations and the friendly, warm smiles of the people, Malawi is an excellent starting point. Africa for beginners, if you will." - Lonely Planet (more or less).
Along with his schoolbooks, one of my students carries his intestines to school in a plastic bag. If this is Africa for Beginners, I am not interested in becoming an expert.
I live in a small village in the south of Malawi called Nanthomba which is a 3 hour drive from anywhere. The town of Ulongwe (a trading post of sorts) where we go on Saturdays to buy produce for the week is a one hour bicycle ride away. Not bad right? Wrong. Any time you hear one hour here you should multiply by five to get the "feels like" time - taking into account relentless heat, verbal harassment by villagers, and the fact that the roads (and bicycles) are so bad its like trying to hug a jackhammer.
The thing you should know about Africa is that all the stereotypes are true. People are hungry and tired and unfailingly kind and generous. Everyone greets everyone and the children (bellies big from malnutrition and all) swarm around pulling on clothes and grabbing fingers saying "mazungu mazungu" (white person). Many times - especially in Ulongwe - "mazungu" is phrased more as a question and I wonder if they are asking for something or simply waiting for me to confirm that I am, indeed, a white person. Or, actually, a red person because I have 7 cabbages in my backpack and your country is like living in a furnace.
But I don't want you all to think that its no fun and games over here. I live with two other white people (one American girl and one Austrian) and on some afternoons for a special treat we close all the doors, windows, and curtains in our house and *gasp* put on shorts!
Here's hoping all is well in the western world. Enjoy your Malaria free world you spoiled brats.
Some of you have already tuned in for Sagas 1 and 2 (Hannah Tries to Avoid Eating Tomatoes in Spain and Hannah Eats Sheep Fat and Vomits A lot in Mongolia, respectively), but for those of you who are new here's the scoop: Each and every one of you has been hand selected to be regaled with tales of my adventures. Congratulations on making it this far. If you cease to be entertained and wish to opt out of enlightenment just simply send an email back requesting to be removed from the list. Or for those of you using Gmail there is always the option to "register as spam." But see if I ever offer you 50% off of anything ever again. Responding to requests about forwarding the emails to others: Go ahead. By all means spread the gospel.
Ahem. "With a lake nearly the size of the country itself drawing backpackers from all nations and the friendly, warm smiles of the people, Malawi is an excellent starting point. Africa for beginners, if you will." - Lonely Planet (more or less).
Along with his schoolbooks, one of my students carries his intestines to school in a plastic bag. If this is Africa for Beginners, I am not interested in becoming an expert.
I live in a small village in the south of Malawi called Nanthomba which is a 3 hour drive from anywhere. The town of Ulongwe (a trading post of sorts) where we go on Saturdays to buy produce for the week is a one hour bicycle ride away. Not bad right? Wrong. Any time you hear one hour here you should multiply by five to get the "feels like" time - taking into account relentless heat, verbal harassment by villagers, and the fact that the roads (and bicycles) are so bad its like trying to hug a jackhammer.
The thing you should know about Africa is that all the stereotypes are true. People are hungry and tired and unfailingly kind and generous. Everyone greets everyone and the children (bellies big from malnutrition and all) swarm around pulling on clothes and grabbing fingers saying "mazungu mazungu" (white person). Many times - especially in Ulongwe - "mazungu" is phrased more as a question and I wonder if they are asking for something or simply waiting for me to confirm that I am, indeed, a white person. Or, actually, a red person because I have 7 cabbages in my backpack and your country is like living in a furnace.
But I don't want you all to think that its no fun and games over here. I live with two other white people (one American girl and one Austrian) and on some afternoons for a special treat we close all the doors, windows, and curtains in our house and *gasp* put on shorts!
Here's hoping all is well in the western world. Enjoy your Malaria free world you spoiled brats.
May 5, 2010
How it Began.
"If you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there." - Lewis Carroll
Channeling this quote, after moving to the great unknown of New York City (and finding myself spending way too much time wearing a path between my apartment and the Barnes and Noble cafe I call "the office"), I decided to use the most reputable and reliable source I knew to find a job: Google search. Using my college research skills, I typed in "volunteer opportunities New York City." The second result was for a place called The Door. After harassing them via voicemail, I was told to come in for an orientation session.
The Door is located in downtown Manhattan on the fringes of Chinatown off of (ironically enough) 6th Avenue aka Avenue of the Americas. When I walk in it is immediately clear to me that I have never been somewhere like this before. Metal detectors and door guards are the first sign that we're not in Safetyville (i.e. Sitka, Alaska) though I was pleased to see that I would have no trouble abiding by the Rules of Conduct as I wouldn't recognize a gang sign if it bit me. As I loitered by the desk waiting to be escorted to my meeting, a group of absolutely gigantic boys who - let me say looked as though they could do quite a bit of damage - came in and started at me until one of them asked perhaps a pretty legitimate question: "What the hell are you doing here?" In fact everyone I encountered seemed to have a similar reaction though less blatant. The man who gave the orientation session seemed genuinely concerned that I had somehow mistaken The Door for my weekly book club meeting and was waiting for hors d'oeuvres to be served. Actually, I was the only person at the orientation session who had any experience working with kids, but how were they supposed to know that? No one who works at The Door quite looks like me.
Channeling this quote, after moving to the great unknown of New York City (and finding myself spending way too much time wearing a path between my apartment and the Barnes and Noble cafe I call "the office"), I decided to use the most reputable and reliable source I knew to find a job: Google search. Using my college research skills, I typed in "volunteer opportunities New York City." The second result was for a place called The Door. After harassing them via voicemail, I was told to come in for an orientation session.
The Door is located in downtown Manhattan on the fringes of Chinatown off of (ironically enough) 6th Avenue aka Avenue of the Americas. When I walk in it is immediately clear to me that I have never been somewhere like this before. Metal detectors and door guards are the first sign that we're not in Safetyville (i.e. Sitka, Alaska) though I was pleased to see that I would have no trouble abiding by the Rules of Conduct as I wouldn't recognize a gang sign if it bit me. As I loitered by the desk waiting to be escorted to my meeting, a group of absolutely gigantic boys who - let me say looked as though they could do quite a bit of damage - came in and started at me until one of them asked perhaps a pretty legitimate question: "What the hell are you doing here?" In fact everyone I encountered seemed to have a similar reaction though less blatant. The man who gave the orientation session seemed genuinely concerned that I had somehow mistaken The Door for my weekly book club meeting and was waiting for hors d'oeuvres to be served. Actually, I was the only person at the orientation session who had any experience working with kids, but how were they supposed to know that? No one who works at The Door quite looks like me.
May 4, 2010
The First.
Just as I wrote emails while abroad, I've found that my experiences with life as it continues (albeit within the United States thus far) are also bizarre enough to warrant writing about them. I've chosen the format of a blog instead of forced emails because when it comes to reading about other people's lives I'm pro-choice.
First to address the title of the blog: "Inasmuch as Which"
Inasmuch (conjunction):
1. in the degree that
2. in view of the fact that (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/inasmuch)
Though actually the significance for me comes from the following Winnie the Pooh quote:
Which is, essentially, what I feel I have been doing as my time in the "real world" toils on. Though perhaps without the depressing undertones.
Secondly, to address the content: For the past few weeks I have been keeping journal entries of my experience (read: fumbling attempt at) teaching English as a Second Language to immigrant/refugee youth in New York City, but I find that my writing is unarguably better when writing for an audience (however imaginary it may be) and so, the blog. Also my parents' insistence to "write it down!" can no longer be ignored without severe consequences. Although it is true I am beginning the internet publishing of these entries rather late, the posts will follow the chronological order of how I fell head-first and sans-cushion into this "job" and what happened thereafter.
First to address the title of the blog: "Inasmuch as Which"
Inasmuch (conjunction):
1. in the degree that
2. in view of the fact that (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/inasmuch)
Though actually the significance for me comes from the following Winnie the Pooh quote:
"The old grey donkey, Eeyore stood by himself in a thistly corner of the Forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things: Sometimes he thought sadly to himself "Why?" and sometimes he thought "Whererfore?" and sometimes he thought "Inasmuch as Which?" and sometimes he didn't quite know what he was thinking about."
Which is, essentially, what I feel I have been doing as my time in the "real world" toils on. Though perhaps without the depressing undertones.
Secondly, to address the content: For the past few weeks I have been keeping journal entries of my experience (read: fumbling attempt at) teaching English as a Second Language to immigrant/refugee youth in New York City, but I find that my writing is unarguably better when writing for an audience (however imaginary it may be) and so, the blog. Also my parents' insistence to "write it down!" can no longer be ignored without severe consequences. Although it is true I am beginning the internet publishing of these entries rather late, the posts will follow the chronological order of how I fell head-first and sans-cushion into this "job" and what happened thereafter.
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