Where My Choir Directing Career Begins...

...and ends.

Today in Grade 5 Arts, we learned how to sing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” otherwise known as “Low, Low, Low Yo Baht.” And we did it…dun dun duuuun…as a round.

Well kind of.

I use the term learned loosely. Our round was a jumbled mess of “lowing Murray down tha stream.”

Here, wait. You need the full lyrics.

Grade 5 Version of “Row Your Boat”

Low, low, low yo baht

Genly dow tha stream

Murray, Murray, Murray, Murray

Live is buhhh dream

You low that baht, Murray. You low.

After learning the song together in the previous class, I separated the students into 3 groups and had them practice the song within their groups. I showed them what a round should sound like. We practiced the round together, just them and me. Oh, the fun we had.

Then, I thought we would do the round in 3 groups. All together. As a class.

How naïve and unachievable that idea was.

I really should have gotten it on video. I don’t know what I was thinking.

Twenty-six 10 to 13 year-olds, stared delightedly at me as they butcher both the tune and pronunciation of a favorite childhood melody. Emphatically singing the wrong thing at varying speeds with unabashed vigor. They were having such a glorious time, that I didn’t even care that my eardrums were about to fall out of my skull and that I was probably pissing off the teacher in the classroom next to me.

By the end of class, though, a few willing learners were able to carry the tune, with a slightly panicked look on their face, as I sung over them.

 So, that’s a small accomplishment.

In the future, though, I think I’ll leave choir practice to the other teachers and stick with colored pencils and printer paper for Art class. (And also some other fun crafty things, thanks to a few packages from the fam. Thanks, guys.)

And here I am, hours later. Being serenaded by a small boy singing (shouting) at Murray to get down that stream as he lovingly tosses (pelts) rocks at a passing goat, unaware of the fact that I’m being a Peeping Tom about 3 meters away.

That sounds creepier than it was. I don’t know why I made it sound so creepy.

Anyway, although he will not become Andre Bocelli anytime soon, I’m enjoying his singing. It’s refreshing to be reminded that once and a while my students actually absorb the things I teach them.

Even if they don’t make sense and are totally pointless in life.

In other news, the kitchen construction is going at Africa speed. The bricks have been built, but we are waiting for Mr. Builder to drive out to our bush school. I am still aiming to have the kitchen finished by the end of November. Even if it kills me.

Happy days, everyone.

More Blog Nonsense and Holiday Happenings

After a short holiday of only 10 days, I am back at school, ready for term 3 to take off. It’s not so much a take off as it is like the equivalent of a chicken trying to launch itself off the ground with a 10 pound weight attached to it’s bottom.

Mull that over.

I expect all of the learners will not be back at school until next week. Until then, my job is to find something constructive to do with the 5 kids that are in each of my classes.

But let’s back up the train here.

August Holiday: n. 1. a time period in which as soon as you realize you are in fact on holiday it is time to return to your un-holiday filled life for the next 3 months. 2. A period in which you get out of Opuwo and eat any food item that you cannot find in Opuwo, regardless of whether you like it or not. But hopefully you do like it. Because otherwise that would be ridiculous. Which I never am.

For my August holiday, some friends and I returned to Swakopmund and Hentie’s Bay. The coast of Namibia.

Here, look at this map.

(Hentie's Bay is very close to Swakopmund and Walvis Bay)

What did we do on the coast?

No skydiving this time. But equally as liberating.

I enjoyed good company for a whole 10 days. I ate (sushi, nachos, pizza, burgers, seafood, fake African-like bagels, real coffee, pasta, cake, the list goes on…that’s actually pretty horrifying.). I shopped for things I can’t find in Opuwo. I behaved like a human for once. We went to the beach (even though it was freezing). We watched TV (crazy talk). We attached a piece of conveyor belt to the back of a bakkie and towed people around in the sand (I had sand in my hair for 2 days). And I learned to speak fluent Afrikaans.

I’m lying to you.

I did not learn Afrikaans. 

(I did, however, learn how to say “twee sebras,” which means “two zebras.” Which I learned from an interactive children’s pop-up book.)

But learning Afrikaans is on my to-do list. Along with “shower more,” “start running daily,” and “stay relatively sane for the duration of term 3.”

In other thrilling news:

I just ate a slice of cheddar-flavored, low-fat processed cheese. Individually wrapped. And I enjoyed it.

It wasn’t even cheddar. It was flavored to trick people into thinking it’s cheddar.

My family would be horrified.

I am horrified.

Why am I telling you about cheese?

(And why do I keep asking questions when it is, in my opinion, a horrible rhetorical device?)

Well, it caused me to wonder…if I were to go back to the states now, exactly as is, what would people think of me?

Let me paint you a picture of my current state.

My hair is grimy, and my feet, legs, and hands are covered in dirt. This is usual. I’ve put on a bit of weight (especially after eating my way around Swakopmund for 10 days). I’m wearing my glasses because it’s too dusty for contacts. My shirt has 2 holes in it. I say weird things like “I’ll make a turn that side” and “now now,” and I no longer bother to show up for things at their starting time. Things that should bother me don’t, and things that shouldn’t bother me do. I wake up between 4:30 and 6:00 during the week and go to sleep at 9. I’ve grown accustomed to instant coffee, and I no longer check to see if my milk has gone sour before I pour it in my cup of joe. Also, I just ate an unidentifiably aged piece of cereal that I found in my bed covers.

Actually that last one is normal. 

I’m sure I’ll bounce back to living like a presentable human when need be, but I’ll tell you something for free. I’m a bit concerned about my present state of being. Let’s just say if you were to videotape my daily life, I’m not sure if it would be a comedy or a tragedy.

It would, however, be damn interesting. And I think that is what we should take away from this valuable sharing session.  

As usual, if you would like to contribute to my kitchen project (see this post), there is a donate button at the bottom of my blog. Thanks!

Water of Love

We use it to drink. To bath. To cook. To clean. To swim in. To make energy. To hydrate our plants and animals. To pour down the pants of unsuspecting people. The list goes on.

It is made of two glorious elements. Hydrogen and oxygen.

It is not made of “salt” and “desk”, as was written by one of my learners on his science exam.

It is water. And it is a great thing.

Now.

Namibia is a dry country. Many regions are composed of flat dry plains, savannahs, and deserts. Sand dunes up the wahzoo.

Namibia is also in a drought. The worst drought since what I have been told to be the 40s. Whether that information is credible, I do not know. That could be made up. I am not a journalist. But it is the worst in a very long time.

What does this mean exactly? Well, it’s dusty and dry. And everything is a lot more beige now.

What it also means is that there is a lack of water in the taps and food on the table. Many people in Namibia make their living from subsistence farming. They have their land. They grow their food. They eat their food. They keep goats, sheep, and cattle to eat and to sell. These animals wander all over the place to graze during the day. In random fields, across the road, on school grounds, in the bathroom.

No, really. I found a cow in the toilets the other day.

So, there is very little water. The plants are dead. The rivers are dry. This means crops aren’t growing well, and the livestock are dying. It’s common to see dead donkeys, goats, and cows in the streets of Opuwo. They weren’t hit by cars. They died of starvation and thrist.

I know. I’m a buzz kill. But it’s the truth.

So, little food and little profit for livestock owners. Now, Namibia imports a lot of food anyway. Especially fruits and vegetables. But they are now importing foods that normally grow with ease in this country, such as maize.

As I was driving back to school for the first day of term, my Vice Principal mentioned that the government had not yet provided the subsidized maize meal bags for many schools, ours included. While I was wondering why the hell we were opening a hostel school when we couldn’t feed the children living there, I asked why the government was taking so long to give out the food. His answer was that they had to import maize meal from South Africa because Namibia could not produce enough, and the bags had not come through yet.

Never fear. Since then, the school has purchased enough food to get us through until the government food arrives. And I donated some rice and granola to the cause before the emergency stash was purchased.

But I’m wandering off here.

The point is that experiencing a shortage of water reveals itself in a drastic way here. It’s a strain on everyone. Especially those who don’t live in town. Like the nomadic Himba, who travel around to get their water from boreholes, rivers, and whatnot. Some of those boreholes are no longer functioning. All dried up.

Water is life, people. Water is life. (For the record, I am not smoking any illegal substances.)

Anyway, moral is don’t take your water for granted.

The only upside is that I have an excuse for looking like a dirtball.

I’m saving the environment, buddy. Back off.

Rain season should start within the next few months. Let’s hope it puts an end to this drought. This dryness is turning me into a raisin. Or rather a sultana. Because I’m white.

Is that not PC? Alright, unbunch your panties. I like raisins and sultanas equally, people.

But I’m seriously hoping for a good rainstorm soon. For Namibia’s benefit and my own.

I miss a good downpour. 

News Alert!

If you live in the Cape May County area, the Court House library will be hosting a bake sale to fundraise for my school, Orotjitombo Primary School, on August 26^th. 

The funds will go towards a kitchen project I have been trying to get in order before I leave. Currently, the school does not have a kitchen, and is instead cooking maize meal porridge outside on a fire two times a day. It’s windy during this time of year, which makes building a fire difficult and the resulting porridge to be full of dirt, grit, and bits of foliage.

Cooking the porridge

The maize meal porridge that makes up their diet

Lining up for lunch

Serving the porridge

Mealtime isn't the healthiest it can be for the students, and thus we would like to construct a kitchen, complete with stove and refrigerator, allowing for more meal options and cleaner food. The kitchen will be an enclosed 7.5 x 5 m structure with a storage room included. 

Time is running out before I leave, and so far, the other teachers and I have not been able to find many willing donors.

The library staff has been kind enough to agree to bake some delicious treats for you Cape May County residents and visitors (and believe me, they are excellent bakers) in exchange for a few coins from your change purse. A dollar goes a long way in Namibia, and my learners and I would so appreciate if you break your diet for the day and drop by the library on August 26^th.

If you don't live in the Cape May area, you can help too! Click the donate button at the bottom of this blog to make a contribution via PayPal. Or you can click this link to donate through the WorldTeach organization. WorldTeach is a non-profit organization; thus, you can claim your donation as a charitable deduction on your income tax if you donate through them. Just click the link, and choose  "contribution to volunteer fee/in-country project" from the drop-down box labeled "Donation Specified For:" and type "Mailin Plagge" in the box that pops up.

Many thanks, guys! Hoping for the best. 

A Beginner’s Guide on How To Take an Exam

Disclaimer: All of these answers are copied word for word from the English exams of my 6^th and 7^th graders. I would take pictures, but they would never upload. So, honor system. These answers actually exist. And although I appear to be making fun of some of the answers I received on this term’s final exams, I am in fact very proud of my learners. Many of them improved monumentally from last term. That said…

Welcome to Ms. May’s Tips for Test Taking! Follow these rules and you will be right as rain.

Be sure to begin by asking the proctor if you should indeed write your name on the name line.

Also, write a random phrase on the line for your grade, such as dangerous or cool boy. Numbers are for losers.

Now, let’s get going.

Read those instructions! But when you don’t know the answer, you can do several things.

1. Talk complete bollocks. For example:

Question: What is Rabies?

Answers:  -are small animal which lives in the bush eats trees

-is a something have lot of rain like Rabbit. Raining money time.

     -Is the small animal live in will but have big eyes.

                 -Rabies is the topic of the world.

2. Or, choose a random and irrelevant fact from science class to reiterate.

Question: Define what pets are and give an example of a pet.

Answer: Pets is insect like mosquitor

3. Another strategy is to start making up words.

Question: How many bread rolls did Tuli buy?

Answer: Gooby 11

Question: What is she holding in her hand?

Answer:  -is book and ekend

   -she holding a feedle

   -on dope the hand is ekori

If you still don’t know the answer, at least be sure to amuse your teacher.

Question: Change this sentence to a question: The medicine will make you better.

Answers:  -No.

     -Make better the medicine you will. (Thank you, little African Yoda.)

Finally, be sure to praise yourself. Really give yourself a pat on the back. You can even write something in the blank space on the last page if you want to. Like this:

-Good Boy!

-is excellence plz and plz!!

But don’t write this.

Miss I cano a speaking englsh (I can’t speak English.)

And if you can’t praise yourself, praise Jesus.

Good luck Jesus for me!!!!!!!!!!! Jesus!! Jesus!! Luck!!!

Got to admire the enthusiasm.

One Day I’ll Camp in a Tent: Take 27

Today I was force-fed a piece of cake the size of my head.

This might not sound like a problem to most people, but the taste was not worth the calories, and at the moment I could easily author a best-selling memoir called Fat in Africa.

It was a co-worker’s birthday bash today, so we had a rager in the empty Grade 7 classroom. Closest thing to a nightclub you will find in the bush. This boisterous party included some bumpin’ Namibian jams, an obscene amount of picture-taking, and a pink cake the size of the suitcase I brought to this country.

Anyway, for some reason I was not allowed to leave the party until my cake was finished.

In a culture where being fat is attractive, the word “diet” does not translate. Which is disheartening, since I had actually lost a pound or two after last weekend when I went on a quadbike trip with two Afrikaaners who require only the occasional brotchen every 3 to 4 days to survive. However, because I’m a normal person that actually consumes more than beer everyday, they made sure I didn’t starve to death. Considerate.

The trip started in Opuwo, went up to somewhere on the Kunene River, followed the river to Epupa Falls, and then came back down to Opuwo. Past that, I have no idea where we were at any point. A common theme of this year.

And by this year I mean my life.

As is usual when hanging with these two, the trip was full of bumps, hiccups, mishaps, scrapes, a pretty solid bruise on my hip (that one was my fault), and sleeping outside in the sand, sans tent.

And also lots of trance music.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4shwJBnYEM

But while they are debatably certifiable, Mr. Trance and Mr. Dance are entertaining as all get out. Dull moments are few and far between.

The so-called road we took was a bit rough, to say the least. And although I drove the bike once (with supervision), I was glad to be passenger for the majority of the time.

The scenery was definitely up to standard, and nothing cheers me up quite like hauling ass around the mountains of Kunene. 

So much ass-hauling happened that by Saturday the bike had had enough of life, crapped out completely, and was relegated to the trailer attached to the back of the bakkie that made the trip with us. At some point between this happening, almost dying of heat stroke, losing the bike off the back of the trailer, finding the bike yet again, startling several Himbas, and arriving in Epupa, the Great Chutney Spill of 2013 happened.

Massive explosion of chutney.

Spare tires, clothes, bags, coolers, and a decent portion of the truck bed were covered in pinkish brown goo. While my appreciation for chutney has never been that of your typical South African, it was even less so after seeing the condiment version of nuclear fallout.

However, there were no real causalities. The mess was cleaned up (with a repetitive “chutneyyyy…chutneyyyy…” coming from the mouth of the Afrikaans Peanut Gallery), and we drove back to Opuwo.

Ironically, Opuwo means the end in Otjiherero, so that is a fitting place to end one’s journey. Although the end of what I’m not sure. Tar roads? Grocery stores? Your sanity?

So, while I stress about the mountain of cake that is now in my stomach and sing that “It’s the end of the world as we know it” song in my head, here are a few photos to help you visualize the trip.

The bike

View from the bike #1

#2

#3

Riverbed where we randomly stopped to make a fire...

And then got stuck when leaving said riverbed

The boys, Saturday morning.

Bakkie riding through palms

Driving through the Zebra Mountains

Mr. Trance and Mr. Dance discuss...things

Yes. I could live here. 

Insult Each Other in English, Please

“Kammijande, what class is this?”

“English.”

“Oh! So it is. Was that English you were just speaking?”

“…haha...”

“Was it?”

“No, Miss.”

“Ah ha. Please speak English in English class. We need to practice, practice, practice.”

“OK, Miss.”

This dialog has been repeated so many times since January that I now only have to say, “What class is this?” to receive a resounding “Ohhh, OK, OK, Miss,” from the rest of class. Does it inspire them to speak English? Not for very long.

All day, every day I hear chitter chatter in Otjiherero. Students answer my questions in Otjiherero while staring at me like I’m a tap-dancing dinosaur. I ask them to repeat it in English. They repeat it in Otjiherero.

So, when I overhear students talking to each other in or outside of class in English, I practically pee my pants with joy. Even if it’s just an accusatory “Where is my book?” accompanied by a smack over the head with a pencil case.

Now, that being said, I try to keep a firm grip on my classroom.

You and your friend are being disruptive? You get split up.

Throwing pens? Go pick that up, and sit up front with Teacher.

You are shouting offensive comments at one another? Oh, hell nah.

Shout rude things in English, though, and I will secretly be doing a mental Irish jig of celebration (while halfheartedly telling you to knock it off).

For instance, today in class I once again had a learner answer my question in Otjiherero, rather than English. Immediately, another learner, Grace (also known as The Peanut Gallery), pipes up, “Speak in English, you idiot! Why you not speaking in English when Miss May only speaks English? You are just making noise! You cannot be like that in speaking Otjiherero. You must speak the official language. You are just wasting time. Time is money.” I’m sure she would still be on her tirade had I not asked her to close the mouth, please and thank you. She’s like that, that one. But the whole time I was thinking Yeahhh…get it, girl. Look at you telling people off with almost correct grammar.

I almost teared up.

Perhaps this makes me a bad disciplinarian. Or perhaps this means I’d rather see my students finally get a grip on English before I leave this year, whether or not that grip is deemed socially appropriate by refined company.

At this point, if you can call me a fat, self-righteous pig using correct pronunciation and grammar, I will applaud you.

Not that that has ever happened.

But one can dream.

In completely other news, I got to celebrate this 4^th of July weekend with my fellow American volunteers (before getting ill and having to return to Opuwo) with burgers, booze, and a playlist of classic American anthems. I was in charge of making the freedom fries in Jamie’s toaster oven. They turned out pretty good, but put me in a room full of friends with a whisky in my hand, and the whole food-cooking thing tends to get away from me. Luckily, Ashley was on toaster oven guard duty, and I was able to cram the burned pieces in my mouth before anyone noticed my inadequate culinary skills. Then I started dying a horrible stomach death for the 100^th time this year, and my night became less than star-spangled-awesome.

As I’ve previously mentioned, my brain may love Namibia, but my body hates it.

Hoping for a week full of English insults and no more medical problems.

And to get you through the week, here's a picture of the weirdness that comes barging through my door 15 times a day. 

Happy Tuesday.