This has gone on long enough.
The time has come for me to come clean. The time has come to tell you all the truth:
I am not, in fact, a zebra.
Instead, I am a human being.
I wont call what I have been living up until this moment a “masquerade.” If I did that, I would be unfair to myself. I never actively tried to deceive anyone into believing that I was a zebra … I just never bothered to clarify.
It’s true, yes, I played on peoples’ fantasies, and allowed them to believe that I was something that I wasn’t- but can you honestly tell me that you have never done that, yourself?
I’m sorry if I hurt anyone by allowing them to buy into the zebra façade. I’m sorry that I didn’t come outright and declare my humanity. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
If it makes anyone that I’ve harmed feel any better- I, too, suffer for this deceit.
It appears as though my village has bought into web of lies that I didn’t actually spin, but that I was fully aware of and took no efforts to stop.
So here I am. A zebra, living in a house, working at their schools, speaking their language, eating their food … would you just look at that ridiculous zebra walking down the street carrying grocery bags!
Yes, yes, I brought this upon myself.
I’m in too deep now. There’s no way out of this mess. Their impression of me as a zebra is now so deeply entrenched that if I exposed myself now, it would only bring devastation. How could anyone trust me again? No … I must play my part as the village‘s, domesticated zebra for the next two years.
On the bright side- my zebra status does present me with a certain kind of freedom. Unlike all the other humans in the village- if I want to act like a zebra, I can damn well act like a zebra. Because really, how could they fault a zebra for acting like a zebra? They can’t. They just can’t.
A few here that are close to me, I think they may know. Or they at least have a subconscious idea. Maybe one day I will reveal to them the truth. But the timing must be just right.
After all, recognizing another creature as a human being is no light matter.
Especially after believing that they were otherwise for so long.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Saturday, December 1, 2007
South African Bubbles
Sometimes after a good rain, we get flying insects. These flying insects are a similar build, but smaller size than the bird-like insects that soar into my window with loud thuds every night. They have clear wings, the shape of an elongated tear drop. If the wind has blown just right a day or so after the swarms of these insects have died, you’ll see little clusters of their wings- hundreds of wings- huddled in a corner, or caught on the edge of the grass patches. Puddles of wings. An eerie reminder of the creatures that take over for a day, and then disappear until the next rainfall when the next generation attempts to avenge their fathers’ and ancestors’ untimely downfall. Of course, only to suffer the same fate. Mother nature has a wicked sense of humor.
They crawl out of holes, one by one, in a rhythmic fashion. Little flying-incest-soldiers, marching off to battle. First their bodies emerge, then their wings pop out, they take a few steps, and then off they go. From far away the swarms look like a fog over the village. When you see it close up, it looks just how it is: like hundreds and hundreds of flying insects.
It’s not so bad, though. They’re generally pretty considerate. They very rarely fly into your face if you’re walking through them, they more or less stick to their designated area (outside,) and they don’t really do much but fly around and look slightly menacing. It’s hard to know just what their purpose is. But then again, it seems a bit hypocritical to berate them for embodying such a fundamental attribute to life itself: purposelessness.
On the other hand, they do serve a function. It is probably not the function that was intended for them when nature molded these organisms into what they’ve become- but who is really to know that anyway? They turn into the little South African version of an American child’s bubbles. Blown specifically for them to chase and pop. A fun game for children to play.
Directions: Stand outside the flying-insect holes and frantically run around. Chase and clap the creatures in between your hands. Giggle with glee when you get one. No need to wipe your hands until you‘re done. Not to worry, there’s an endless supply.
The cost: a small battalion of flickers of life that would have died within the coming hours anyway.
Maybe. Just maybe …
Maybe Mother Earth knew all along what she was doing. From the very instant that fate began to weave its intricate pattern of the flying insects’ evolution- specifically choosing an adaptive pressure here, a mating selection pattern there; Mother Earth knew all along that they were to become the South African child’s bubbles.
After all, it’s a universal fact that children need bubbles.
They crawl out of holes, one by one, in a rhythmic fashion. Little flying-incest-soldiers, marching off to battle. First their bodies emerge, then their wings pop out, they take a few steps, and then off they go. From far away the swarms look like a fog over the village. When you see it close up, it looks just how it is: like hundreds and hundreds of flying insects.
It’s not so bad, though. They’re generally pretty considerate. They very rarely fly into your face if you’re walking through them, they more or less stick to their designated area (outside,) and they don’t really do much but fly around and look slightly menacing. It’s hard to know just what their purpose is. But then again, it seems a bit hypocritical to berate them for embodying such a fundamental attribute to life itself: purposelessness.
On the other hand, they do serve a function. It is probably not the function that was intended for them when nature molded these organisms into what they’ve become- but who is really to know that anyway? They turn into the little South African version of an American child’s bubbles. Blown specifically for them to chase and pop. A fun game for children to play.
Directions: Stand outside the flying-insect holes and frantically run around. Chase and clap the creatures in between your hands. Giggle with glee when you get one. No need to wipe your hands until you‘re done. Not to worry, there’s an endless supply.
The cost: a small battalion of flickers of life that would have died within the coming hours anyway.
Maybe. Just maybe …
Maybe Mother Earth knew all along what she was doing. From the very instant that fate began to weave its intricate pattern of the flying insects’ evolution- specifically choosing an adaptive pressure here, a mating selection pattern there; Mother Earth knew all along that they were to become the South African child’s bubbles.
After all, it’s a universal fact that children need bubbles.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Setlagole's Sky has Fallen
A couple of weeks ago, our backyard was swarming with chickens. One night a mother hen of about 8 chicks disappeared. Just earlier that day, she had been conducting her life as she had for so long. At times, clucking around in search of food, other times resting with all of her babies huddled up beneath her belly. Life was business as usual.
By nightfall, that would all change. It was storming, which means that any noise in our yard is obliterated by the rainfall on our tins roofs. There could be an entire orchestra playing just outside of our windows, and there could be no way for us to know. So whether or not this mother hen made a fuss, it would not have mattered.
My host mother believes that someone came into our yard and stole her. I don’t doubt her, not one bit. There were no feathers, or any real sign of struggle that would indicate a predator coming in to kill and eat her. But sometimes I wonder if, during that stormy night, she had a little too much time to think. With 8 sleeping babies wearing her down each day, demanding every ounce of her attention, maybe it got to be too much. Perhaps she realized that the storm outside was a direct reflection of the storm inside of her, and she had to get out. With the pressure mounting, she broke. She flew the coup.
Whatever the reason for the disappearance, it had a devastating impact on the community. With the mother hen gone, 8 little chickadees dwindled down to 7, then to 5, to 4, then to 3 ... I knew they wouldn’t survive, but I didn’t realize just how they would stop surviving. I saw their numbers fall, but not how they were falling. Then one day, I noticed that the 2 remaining chicks tried to join another group of chicks that still had their mother. The mother became mad, and attacked one of the chicks, killing it. At that moment, in my mind, chickens had lost their innocence. I understand that perhaps they never truly had innocence; innocence is probably all just an illusion anyway.
A couple of days later, I saw the remaining chick hanging around one of the three almost grown-up chickens. It was trying to slip under the older chicken when it was resting, and I noticed that the chicken didn’t care. I didn’t understand- why did this one tolerate it? From what I learned of chickens within the last few days, they didn’t strike me as the altruistic type. This almost grown-up chicken was not letting the chick stick around out of the goodness of its heart. Then my host mother told me that the three almost grown-up chickens were sick. That explained why it was letting the little chick climb all over it. The next day, all three of those chickens died. With the only friend it had left dying, and killer hen roaming around- the last chick had very little reason to stick around, and even more reason to leave. But a lone chick is hardly equipped to deal with this harsh world.
Through the course of events, there was only one grown hen remaining with her 5 chicks to look after. She was the killer hen. About a week ago, she and her family disappeared also. It is another mystery to me where they went. Perhaps, guilt ridden, and paranoid of being found out, she planned an escape. Exactly who she was afraid of being found out by is but another obscurity to this human peering in on a chicken’s world.
I can’t imagine her plan panned out very well. After all, it is a rough world for a chicken- especially a single mother chicken of 5. I doubt she reached whatever destination she aimed for. With all these dogs and cars around, the odds are grim. I have a dour feeling that she may also have been captured, and her chicks sold into chick slavery. It is a cruel world, but who is to say whether any one of those players would have done anything different if the roles were exchanged.
Within three weeks, the chicken population of my backyard went from approximately 18 chicks and chickens, to 0. I was completely unaware that the lives of chickens were so complex and dramatic- filled with mystery, mayhem and murder. I can’t say that it surprises me, as life is life and life is hard- regardless of the level you happen to be playing on.
By nightfall, that would all change. It was storming, which means that any noise in our yard is obliterated by the rainfall on our tins roofs. There could be an entire orchestra playing just outside of our windows, and there could be no way for us to know. So whether or not this mother hen made a fuss, it would not have mattered.
My host mother believes that someone came into our yard and stole her. I don’t doubt her, not one bit. There were no feathers, or any real sign of struggle that would indicate a predator coming in to kill and eat her. But sometimes I wonder if, during that stormy night, she had a little too much time to think. With 8 sleeping babies wearing her down each day, demanding every ounce of her attention, maybe it got to be too much. Perhaps she realized that the storm outside was a direct reflection of the storm inside of her, and she had to get out. With the pressure mounting, she broke. She flew the coup.
Whatever the reason for the disappearance, it had a devastating impact on the community. With the mother hen gone, 8 little chickadees dwindled down to 7, then to 5, to 4, then to 3 ... I knew they wouldn’t survive, but I didn’t realize just how they would stop surviving. I saw their numbers fall, but not how they were falling. Then one day, I noticed that the 2 remaining chicks tried to join another group of chicks that still had their mother. The mother became mad, and attacked one of the chicks, killing it. At that moment, in my mind, chickens had lost their innocence. I understand that perhaps they never truly had innocence; innocence is probably all just an illusion anyway.
A couple of days later, I saw the remaining chick hanging around one of the three almost grown-up chickens. It was trying to slip under the older chicken when it was resting, and I noticed that the chicken didn’t care. I didn’t understand- why did this one tolerate it? From what I learned of chickens within the last few days, they didn’t strike me as the altruistic type. This almost grown-up chicken was not letting the chick stick around out of the goodness of its heart. Then my host mother told me that the three almost grown-up chickens were sick. That explained why it was letting the little chick climb all over it. The next day, all three of those chickens died. With the only friend it had left dying, and killer hen roaming around- the last chick had very little reason to stick around, and even more reason to leave. But a lone chick is hardly equipped to deal with this harsh world.
Through the course of events, there was only one grown hen remaining with her 5 chicks to look after. She was the killer hen. About a week ago, she and her family disappeared also. It is another mystery to me where they went. Perhaps, guilt ridden, and paranoid of being found out, she planned an escape. Exactly who she was afraid of being found out by is but another obscurity to this human peering in on a chicken’s world.
I can’t imagine her plan panned out very well. After all, it is a rough world for a chicken- especially a single mother chicken of 5. I doubt she reached whatever destination she aimed for. With all these dogs and cars around, the odds are grim. I have a dour feeling that she may also have been captured, and her chicks sold into chick slavery. It is a cruel world, but who is to say whether any one of those players would have done anything different if the roles were exchanged.
Within three weeks, the chicken population of my backyard went from approximately 18 chicks and chickens, to 0. I was completely unaware that the lives of chickens were so complex and dramatic- filled with mystery, mayhem and murder. I can’t say that it surprises me, as life is life and life is hard- regardless of the level you happen to be playing on.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Banyana Banyana
So last week, I had my first practice with my new girls soccer team at my primary school.
Here they are:
They are going to be KILLER!!!!!
Who they'll destroy ... I have no idea. There probably isn't another girls team around for miles and miles. But perhaps I will start one up at my other school, too. Then no matter who wins, I win!
As a result of never ever playing organized soccer and probably only touching the ball a few times, they're a bit lacking in skill. What they lack in skill, however, they make up for in BRUTALITY!!!!!! (I mean that in a good way, of course.)
These girls. I have never seen little girls go into tackles like these ones. It's really exciting.
At the first practice, we had a pretty large audience of students from the school. There were over a hundred kids out there watching the practice- cheering them on from the sidelines. I was smiling the entire practice.
There was a slightly smaller crowd this time, but it was still pretty substantial. About the equivalent of some of my college games ... I haven't really decided how I feel about that.
Anyway. They have a lot of potential, and it is obvious that they want to be there and work hard. I was late to practice this week and the girls were already out there warming up. It was only the second practice and they're already on top of it!
On a totally unrelated note, there are probably 20+ flies flying around my room right now. It's driving my a little bit crazy. I'm thinking it's time to break out the DOOM Super (the slightly faster killing, slightly more humane line of DOOM.)
I guess I'll close this up with an action shot from this week:
Oh and as a final thought- if anyone reading this happens to have any extra soccer balls, pennies, cones, etc. that they're willing to part with, I think my girls and I would be more than happy to take them off of your hands ...
Here they are:
They are going to be KILLER!!!!!
Who they'll destroy ... I have no idea. There probably isn't another girls team around for miles and miles. But perhaps I will start one up at my other school, too. Then no matter who wins, I win!
As a result of never ever playing organized soccer and probably only touching the ball a few times, they're a bit lacking in skill. What they lack in skill, however, they make up for in BRUTALITY!!!!!! (I mean that in a good way, of course.)
These girls. I have never seen little girls go into tackles like these ones. It's really exciting.
At the first practice, we had a pretty large audience of students from the school. There were over a hundred kids out there watching the practice- cheering them on from the sidelines. I was smiling the entire practice.
There was a slightly smaller crowd this time, but it was still pretty substantial. About the equivalent of some of my college games ... I haven't really decided how I feel about that.
Anyway. They have a lot of potential, and it is obvious that they want to be there and work hard. I was late to practice this week and the girls were already out there warming up. It was only the second practice and they're already on top of it!
On a totally unrelated note, there are probably 20+ flies flying around my room right now. It's driving my a little bit crazy. I'm thinking it's time to break out the DOOM Super (the slightly faster killing, slightly more humane line of DOOM.)
I guess I'll close this up with an action shot from this week:
Oh and as a final thought- if anyone reading this happens to have any extra soccer balls, pennies, cones, etc. that they're willing to part with, I think my girls and I would be more than happy to take them off of your hands ...
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Some pictures for my father
So, my dad has asked me to post some pictures. Well, fine. I'll do it. I hope you feel special, dad.
I suppose it is appropriate to start off with this picture of me looking awkward. It is appropriate because I more or less operate in a perpetual state of awkward. It's not so bad anymore- I've come to terms with it, and being awkward is just kinda normal now.
Anyway:
This picture was taken at my principal's brother's funeral, while I was being introduced to 200+ funeral attendees. I don't even need to tell you about how uncomfortable I felt up there while they talked about me for 20 minutes (did I mention I was at a funeral?) because you can see it pretty clearly on my face. I believe that at this point in the speech my principal is warning the men not to ask me to be their girlfriend.
While I was on my site visit seeing my permanent site for the first time, my principal's older brother died. So for my first weekend there, I attended a funeral. This was not the first funeral that I've been to here, and I know that this wont be the last one that I attend during my service. Death is so common around here, and funerals are a time for the community to come together. As with every event here, there was much beautiful singing. Again, as with every event here, there was much preaching.
For the funeral, they slaughtered a cow. Here are the men cutting her up! I'll link it, just because it is not 100% pleasant:
Men cutting up cow
I don't want to talk about funerals anymore. I hate them. Moving on.
Now we come to a picture of me with my best friend here, Erin aka Refilwe:
As you can maybe see in this picture, Erin is more or less 100% Irish Catholic. Over here, however, she's considered "coloured."
We decided she earned this classification because of her textured hair.
If you're not familiar with South Africa and the race classifications, here's a break down:
There are four races- white, black, Indian and coloured. Oh, and then there is "China," but I think they fit under coloured? I haven't quite figured it out. It's a bit of a catch-all category? Ultimately, it seems to be pretty arbitrary.
It was especially screwed up under the Apartheid when people were separated into groups according to race. If you so much looked like you had any mixed ancestry, you'd often be removed from your family and relocated to a coloured section.
Listening to some of the stories are mind-blowing. I might be a bit fuzzy on the details, but apparently they had some tests to determine whether or not you were considered coloured. One of those tests was if they stuck a pencil in your hair and it stayed, you were considered black; if it fell out, you were coloured. I can hardly imagine the idea of your entire life being determined by whether or not a pencil stayed in your hair ... completely absurd.
Anyway, onto a more pleasant subject- the children!
Children are pretty amazing, regardless of which continent you're on. With that being said, I will just post some pictures of children!
Starting with my host brother from my training site. Here he is as an 'old man.' He took some feathers from a duster for his beard.
He's a silly dude, constantly entertaining- singing, dancing, acting. I have some really great footage of him doing his old man dance, but alas, it takes too long to upload.
Then we come to the children at school. Here they are, all lined up for morning assembly. They sing and pray in the morning, and it's really quite beautiful. Of course, there's still a level of discomfort for me when it comes to the praying at school, but what're you gonna do.
Here are some children from my second schools, after they surrounded me. They do that sometimes. Flock to me.
And now for some pictures of some children around my hood.
We have a group of girls that come over to our yard a few times a week to pick mulberries from our mulberry tree.
Okay, I think that'll do.
Hope you're happy now!
I suppose it is appropriate to start off with this picture of me looking awkward. It is appropriate because I more or less operate in a perpetual state of awkward. It's not so bad anymore- I've come to terms with it, and being awkward is just kinda normal now.
Anyway:
This picture was taken at my principal's brother's funeral, while I was being introduced to 200+ funeral attendees. I don't even need to tell you about how uncomfortable I felt up there while they talked about me for 20 minutes (did I mention I was at a funeral?) because you can see it pretty clearly on my face. I believe that at this point in the speech my principal is warning the men not to ask me to be their girlfriend.
While I was on my site visit seeing my permanent site for the first time, my principal's older brother died. So for my first weekend there, I attended a funeral. This was not the first funeral that I've been to here, and I know that this wont be the last one that I attend during my service. Death is so common around here, and funerals are a time for the community to come together. As with every event here, there was much beautiful singing. Again, as with every event here, there was much preaching.
For the funeral, they slaughtered a cow. Here are the men cutting her up! I'll link it, just because it is not 100% pleasant:
Men cutting up cow
I don't want to talk about funerals anymore. I hate them. Moving on.
Now we come to a picture of me with my best friend here, Erin aka Refilwe:
As you can maybe see in this picture, Erin is more or less 100% Irish Catholic. Over here, however, she's considered "coloured."
We decided she earned this classification because of her textured hair.
If you're not familiar with South Africa and the race classifications, here's a break down:
There are four races- white, black, Indian and coloured. Oh, and then there is "China," but I think they fit under coloured? I haven't quite figured it out. It's a bit of a catch-all category? Ultimately, it seems to be pretty arbitrary.
It was especially screwed up under the Apartheid when people were separated into groups according to race. If you so much looked like you had any mixed ancestry, you'd often be removed from your family and relocated to a coloured section.
Listening to some of the stories are mind-blowing. I might be a bit fuzzy on the details, but apparently they had some tests to determine whether or not you were considered coloured. One of those tests was if they stuck a pencil in your hair and it stayed, you were considered black; if it fell out, you were coloured. I can hardly imagine the idea of your entire life being determined by whether or not a pencil stayed in your hair ... completely absurd.
Anyway, onto a more pleasant subject- the children!
Children are pretty amazing, regardless of which continent you're on. With that being said, I will just post some pictures of children!
Starting with my host brother from my training site. Here he is as an 'old man.' He took some feathers from a duster for his beard.
He's a silly dude, constantly entertaining- singing, dancing, acting. I have some really great footage of him doing his old man dance, but alas, it takes too long to upload.
Then we come to the children at school. Here they are, all lined up for morning assembly. They sing and pray in the morning, and it's really quite beautiful. Of course, there's still a level of discomfort for me when it comes to the praying at school, but what're you gonna do.
Here are some children from my second schools, after they surrounded me. They do that sometimes. Flock to me.
And now for some pictures of some children around my hood.
We have a group of girls that come over to our yard a few times a week to pick mulberries from our mulberry tree.
Okay, I think that'll do.
Hope you're happy now!
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Brace yourself, this is going to be a long one.
So long in fact, that I am going to give an overview here of the things I will cover:
- The amazing stew I made, and the implications of said stew
- The cow that I saw give birth
- The soccer that I played yesterday
- A long overdue job description
So without further adieu, I will start with my amazing stew. Hah.
I have a new recipe. It's unbelievable. I wont bore you with the details about how good it tasted and how it was basically a spiritual experience eating it. No, no, I wont do that.
I only bring it up because I felt I had to tell someone. I can't tell anyone here in my village. I can't tell them, because it will only make them want me to marry them/their brother/their son even more! No! If they knew what I was capable of in the kitchen ... it would just break their hearts to know what my future holds- to know that I am going to live alone for the rest of my life (that's if you don't count the 14 cats.)
I tell you what, though- had they known, they may very well have changed my name again- I wonder what the Setswana word for "culinary genius" is?
Moving on, I saw a cow give birth. She's outside eating the placenta right now, and the calf is all wobbly. The whole scene is pretty charming, minus the slime. The slime's kinda gross. What do you say to that, Uncle Allen? Does it bring you back to the farm?
OKAY. NOW. SOCCER. I finally played in my new village.
Let me tell you about why I think that it was divine intervention that brought me here to Setlagole.
I have a soccer field here in my village.
Not only a field, but a stadium. I have a stadium.
The field has grass on it.
The goals have nets.
Just let that sink in for a couple of seconds.
Has it sunk in yet?
Maybe that doesn't really strike you as unusual, but let me give you a description of a typical rural South African field:
A large open patch of dirt, rocks and cow/goat/dog droppings. Sometimes there are goals, but there are NEVER nets. And there is never grass, but instead there are bushes with thorns on it that are about 2 inches long.
Of course, not all the fields are unkempt. Many fields are nice, decently level dirt with few rocks. Regardless, they are no where near the quality that I have here! I feel so privileged.
Anyway, I played yesterday for the first time. I showed up and learned that it was the teachers of the local high school playing the police station of Delereyville, a nearby town. There are games every Wednesday. Of course, the players are all men. Women rarely play soccer here- they play netball, which is a kind of variation on basketball. So when I asked them if I could play, they were highly amused.
"You play soccer, eh? Heh heh heh. You're going to play on our team, eh? Heh heh heh ..."
I ended up playing outside half, my very worst position, and the one I hate the most! The game was paused at one point, due to the heavy rain and then eventual hail- but resumed with hilarious results. The puddles made the game absolutely unpredictable.
I didn't show extremely well, but I could hang. They were pleasantly surprised and even invited me back. Hopefully, by the time that the novelty of this white chick playing soccer with them wears off, I'll be in shape and have my touch back so that I will be a welcome addition anyway!
I just decided that I don't want to type up my job description right now. It's too long and Generations is about to come on.
For those of you who don't know what Generations is, it is the best/worst soap opera you will ever watch. It is very popular and extremely addicting.
I have to keep my priorities, you know.
- The amazing stew I made, and the implications of said stew
- The cow that I saw give birth
- The soccer that I played yesterday
- A long overdue job description
So without further adieu, I will start with my amazing stew. Hah.
I have a new recipe. It's unbelievable. I wont bore you with the details about how good it tasted and how it was basically a spiritual experience eating it. No, no, I wont do that.
I only bring it up because I felt I had to tell someone. I can't tell anyone here in my village. I can't tell them, because it will only make them want me to marry them/their brother/their son even more! No! If they knew what I was capable of in the kitchen ... it would just break their hearts to know what my future holds- to know that I am going to live alone for the rest of my life (that's if you don't count the 14 cats.)
I tell you what, though- had they known, they may very well have changed my name again- I wonder what the Setswana word for "culinary genius" is?
Moving on, I saw a cow give birth. She's outside eating the placenta right now, and the calf is all wobbly. The whole scene is pretty charming, minus the slime. The slime's kinda gross. What do you say to that, Uncle Allen? Does it bring you back to the farm?
OKAY. NOW. SOCCER. I finally played in my new village.
Let me tell you about why I think that it was divine intervention that brought me here to Setlagole.
I have a soccer field here in my village.
Not only a field, but a stadium. I have a stadium.
The field has grass on it.
The goals have nets.
Just let that sink in for a couple of seconds.
Has it sunk in yet?
Maybe that doesn't really strike you as unusual, but let me give you a description of a typical rural South African field:
A large open patch of dirt, rocks and cow/goat/dog droppings. Sometimes there are goals, but there are NEVER nets. And there is never grass, but instead there are bushes with thorns on it that are about 2 inches long.
Of course, not all the fields are unkempt. Many fields are nice, decently level dirt with few rocks. Regardless, they are no where near the quality that I have here! I feel so privileged.
Anyway, I played yesterday for the first time. I showed up and learned that it was the teachers of the local high school playing the police station of Delereyville, a nearby town. There are games every Wednesday. Of course, the players are all men. Women rarely play soccer here- they play netball, which is a kind of variation on basketball. So when I asked them if I could play, they were highly amused.
"You play soccer, eh? Heh heh heh. You're going to play on our team, eh? Heh heh heh ..."
I ended up playing outside half, my very worst position, and the one I hate the most! The game was paused at one point, due to the heavy rain and then eventual hail- but resumed with hilarious results. The puddles made the game absolutely unpredictable.
I didn't show extremely well, but I could hang. They were pleasantly surprised and even invited me back. Hopefully, by the time that the novelty of this white chick playing soccer with them wears off, I'll be in shape and have my touch back so that I will be a welcome addition anyway!
I just decided that I don't want to type up my job description right now. It's too long and Generations is about to come on.
For those of you who don't know what Generations is, it is the best/worst soap opera you will ever watch. It is very popular and extremely addicting.
I have to keep my priorities, you know.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Children's Games
Let me teach you a game that the children play here. It's really easy, but I am not entirely sure how much fun it actually is.
Okay. The name of the game is "Watch Megan Work."
All you have to do is sit down (or stand up) in relative proximity to me. Make sure that I am deep in the middle of a project, or trying to clean/organize my living space.
Next: watch.
While you watch, you can giggle and talk to your friends, but that is entirely optional. There is no actual point, it's all about style.
This game can be played with 1 to 15 people. Actually, I'm sure it can be more (and I am sure I will find out soon,) but 15 was the maximum number of players I had playing today. The average game lasts about 15 - 20 minutes. Although, I had a record breaker today with one child watching me for at least an hour.
So here, they watch me. But when you play at home the ideal situation would be to find someone that sticks out like a sore thumb, and then wait for them to start working. Once they start working, find your spot and just watch. That's all you have to do!
Okay. The name of the game is "Watch Megan Work."
All you have to do is sit down (or stand up) in relative proximity to me. Make sure that I am deep in the middle of a project, or trying to clean/organize my living space.
Next: watch.
While you watch, you can giggle and talk to your friends, but that is entirely optional. There is no actual point, it's all about style.
This game can be played with 1 to 15 people. Actually, I'm sure it can be more (and I am sure I will find out soon,) but 15 was the maximum number of players I had playing today. The average game lasts about 15 - 20 minutes. Although, I had a record breaker today with one child watching me for at least an hour.
So here, they watch me. But when you play at home the ideal situation would be to find someone that sticks out like a sore thumb, and then wait for them to start working. Once they start working, find your spot and just watch. That's all you have to do!
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