Tuesday, February 3, 2009

ROLF awards

"Jessica" explains the rules as follows:-


"To award someone a ROFL Award:

1. Pick a post from the current month that made you laugh.
[Please only choose original material written or developed by a blogger - i.e., not a YouTube video, cartoon, or joke circling the Net.]

2. E-mail me a link to the post that you are nominating AND a link to your blog by the deadline.
[I will send you the award button so you can share it with the blogger you've nominated.]

3. I will send you the award button code a day or so before the awards are to be posted.

4. Send the person you are awarding the award button code and let them know when the ROFL Awards will be posted for the month.

5. On the first Friday of the month, write a post on your blog about the post you nominated.
[Please link back to this blog (Oh, The Joys) and to Tania at Chicky Chicky Baby so that people can see the full list of award winning funny posts.]

6. Read all the funny posts for the month and enjoy!

Feel free to e-mail me with questions.

I look forward to laughing with you!"

Not sure about the 'first Friday' versus the deadline, but here is my offering in any case:-

"David" at "Authorblog" specifically his post called "Knit the nine o'clock news," I have no idea how he finds these gems?

Sunday, January 25, 2009

January Jaunty Jest

Sticky post - please scroll down


Have you read something during this month of January that made you laugh out loud? Was it something that might make other people have the same reaction? If so you may wish to leave a link to that post in the comments section here, or e-mail me or write a little note to "Jessica" over at "Oh the Joys" and her jolly good pal "Tania" at "Chicky Chicky Baby" for their "ROLF" award for January.

Maybe I could invite you to play along too?

As they say:-

'If you are willing, we'd love help spreading the word. Feel free to share the deadlines with your followers and friends on Twitter and / or Facebook .

Thanks so much!

Jessica & Tania'

I'd attempt the Twitter / Facebook option but sadly, technically challenged persons, such as myself are incapable of such feats.

What I'd really like to know is whether I can submit four suggestions or recommendations? I maintain four blogs, I read lots of other blogs. Some are quite hilarious, others draw me for different reasons. Surely I could provide four nominations, although I suspect that would constitute cheating?

Cheers dears

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Should I be worried about a mamba?

Just like every other night, I walked through the moon-shadows of coconut palms from my house to the school to wrestle my laptop away from the students. People can usually pick out my ghostlike figure from the darkness to wish me a good night's rest, but on this particular occasion the kids were frantic with excitement. "Tams! A snake!"

As luck would have it, I keep a tiny LCD light on my keychain for emergency lockouts, or in this case, late-night snake identification. The oil stain on the road transformed into a slithering red knot when I shined my light on it, and the kids jumped back several meters. When I praised their observation skills and tried to thank them for saving me from an accident, they thought that I wanted to step on the creature.

"Do you know how to kill it?" They asked next, which I unfortunately don't. Instead I asked the same sensible question to the guards, who rose from the bench with inflated macho chests and strode over to the oil stain with heroic confidence. Their confidence deflated as soon as I shone my light on the squirming knot of venom and they realized that it's actually time to kill the viper. They retreated to find a stick, when a tiny old man appeared with a thick wooden pole and pounded the snake into a pulp. "Strange to see a snake in the cold weather," he comments as he flicked the carcass into the long grass. "This mamba can do some damage, your whole body swells up." Fascinated, I asked him if he knew how to cure snakebites, and he confirmed that he knew how to remove the teeth from the skin and how to make a poultice. He repeated the saying, "snakes are snakes," which means that they all deserve to die.

My colleagues always wondered how I could stumble around in the pitch dark, and my response was always that "I don't believe that anything will bite me." Ignorance is bliss, but from now on, I'm going to scour the ground rather than the stars when I walk at night.

Oh, and as a sidenote, the school is going through a huge upheaval. This is the six-month mark for me, and so my teammate (and jokester buddy) Johnny left. The specialization period began. Eighty new students started the school and are sleeping in the classrooms. Last Saturday two new teachers and two new foreigners arrived with their child and all moved in to the same large house, which the Mozambican family kindly evacuated by cramming into a three-room apartment. (Two people sleep in the kitchen, which is not essential when people cook on a fire outside.) Professor Profilio made me switch rooms so that he wasn't surrounded by women (although I'm sure he would have adored the opportunity). The headmaster is suspended indefinitely, blamed for complications with admitting students that didn't pass entrance exams. And two of my teammates will visit this week. We will also hold another open Saturday event before we've settled into the new routine.

Keep me posted "mum." Yes, I really am the big sister to this band of "ragamuffins."

Friday, June 8, 2007

So What is it That You're Doing...and Are You Helping?

In short, I'm a glorified English teacher, sent in as reinforcement. Without me, English and Global Studies would be bland, bland, bland. When students describe Mozambique in English, both the subjects of community development and language skills are applied. Moreover, the conversation becomes more interesting for me. As an English teacher, I must demonstrate quality classes (and everyone,s a critic), and this experience influences my approach for teaching far more than English. Teachable moments occur everywhere. However, since the cold season just settled in, I caught some illness and didn't do much this week. Fortunately due to the magnitude of final exams, nobody noticed. This demonstrates how my presence is therefore not essential, which is reassuring news for my replacement. I merely play a part in a large school. Short of sabotage, a person would have difficulty not helping. Most consider a school a helpful sort of place.

On a good day this walking, talking bundle of fun (that's me) interacts with at least a hundred people, the first foreigner for many. I'm more approachable than the average tourist. Whether I like it or not, I'm demonstrating my culture and attitudes every waking moment. (Although some people comment that I'm becoming more Mozambican – success!) English is an important business language, and I'm fulfilling the role of an English teacher, for lack of anything more useful to impart, such as a PhD in water purification and conservation. If only. In truth, I technically lack the qualifications to teach, but I'm gaining my training here at the teacher training college as I go. Handing responsibility to amateurs can easily set a person up for disaster, or allow a person to do a shoddy job that another needs to fix, but most people can prove themselves once given a chance. I'm glad that I have the opportunity. This school often lets people try to learn tasks for the first time, such as constructing the wood+saving stove. Still, it's good that certified building contractors are constructing the buildings. There's a limit to allowing people to develop themselves without experienced guidance.

My position as a "development instructor" is a misleading term because I'm actually still a student. Anyone thinking of volunteering here needs to be prepared for trial and error. I'm learning how to teach by failing to keep my classes simple. I'm learning how to work with others after creating my English curriculum alone. I'm learning how to follow the school plan by losing myself in the numerous changes. As I adapt to the plans, I conclude that the school indeed functions and only needs time for fine-tuning. People need time to cooperate with each other´s quirkinesses. For example, the schedule must allot sufficient time to allow each teacher's plans to materialize. What a feat to coordinate each teacher, who keeps busy with his/her own subjects and areas of responsibility. Although meetings are the mainstay of organization, this extra pair of hands does her best work in informal situations and small groups.

Each morning the students bombard me with "Bom dia professora Tams." Enough sweepers have scolded me to remind me to instinctively kick the sand off my shoes before I step up to the concrete walkway that hugs the classrooms. The teacher's room echoes with the sounds of pop music, the scraping of wooden chairs and various discussions between pleading students and insistent teachers. As I sit down and open my calendar, I'm actually observing the organization of the school. In the foreground, the director leads by force when he´s present, which gives me the chance to skip around and clap people on the back when I notice successes. "That's brilliant, do it again!" I encourage those performers that especially impress me with captivating theatres and lyrical songs, which invoke far more attention than a lecture. When given the opportunity, people are surprisingly talented. Personally, I am not doing anything extraordinary, merely joining in the momentum of other people's projects. My informal role here has no power, and I'm fully aware that I can organize little by myself here.

It's easy to criticize the institution (both the school and the non+profit) for being disorganized or unprofessional, but here on the ground it is difficult to see how any organization can avoid the variety of human faults such as lack of motivation, competency or communication? Yet the people here gather together to buoy up this entire school. For example, large teams of students swarm a tree to collect firewood. In contrast the surrounding neighbors do not cooperate to such an extent. Indeed, perhaps the school demands too much from its students and teachers to live in such close proximity to one another. Sunday is the only free day.

The result is that this institution provides an opportunity to learn and teach, with an emphasis on the individual's responsibility to improve themselves. Everybody´s watching. The education is therefore far more personal and practical than anything I experienced in university, strengthening more than the brain alone. There may be a shortage of materials but the interactions and tasks are confidence-building experiences. Model students are joys to teach because their curiosity is contagious. While individual tutoring is fun, it is far less challenging than managing large groups. In frustration, many (including myself) grow callous. To focus on the more enjoyable aspects of the classroom, the students simulate situations to offer each other advice. We are all gaining experiences which give us a basis to apply the curriculum and teaching methods. Next week each student will have an oral test to explain precisely this relationship between theory and practice. Unfortunately I will be listening to the English oral exams.

English, English, English. Although a volunteer could probably please many people by speaking English constantly at school, Portuguese is essential for understanding many situations and people. Without Portuguese, I could only interact adequately with roughly two dozen people. A language barrier is a sad form of isolation. To include as many people as possible, people speak remarkably slowly and clearly in both Portuguese and English. This helps me do the same. I´m trying to bring the language to life for interest´s sake. Jumping in the deep end to make each class conversational, interactive and lively, I ended up working on the English curriculum alone from scratch. I expected too much from my students and got mixed results, but am now in a better position to talk to the English teachers about reasonable expectations of students. I can now support the English teachers Dino and Guente during the next period, (where the 2006 class focus deeply on their special disciplines and the new 2007 students begin studying all the disciplines). Speaking with excellent control of the language, Prof. Dino knows the pedagogy of teaching (how to teach), and knows the essential elements of the curriculum because he learned it himself two years ago. The pressure is on him to train those students that will specialize in becoming English teachers, but I can relieve some pressure by priming the new class and helping Dino plan the specialization classes. I really wish I brought some English language tapes for people to listen and read, so starved they are of listening opportunities.

I take comfort in the confidence that the school is a viable organ to shape stronger people. Other development projects that I might have joined rely on coordinating volunteers, which involves an entirely different type of motivation. The people here are primary self-interested in finding employment. It's important to understand the lives around me, such as the agriculture, the trade and the energy. For some reason, a Mozambican is simply never sufficiently entrepreneurial or handy enough to compete with all the others. This leaves me wondering about how badly I would flounder without my teaching contract which ends in January, a position given to foreign volunteers from all walks of life. Many Mozambicans are struggling financially to finish the level of education sufficient to achieve the same position. With the exception of education, there is a shortage of jobs. Back in the college town of Santa Cruz, California, I encountered a similar vacuum of job opportunities. Consequently, I traveled to Mozambique to find work. I still don't know how to make the most of all the lucky advantages I was accidentally born with, and could offer little advice to Janette, the school's secretary, who needs to find another job once her contract ends this month.

I'm often told that the Mozambicans fear rich, white people. Given the history, I'm not surprised, but am led to believe otherwise by the warm welcomes I continue to receive. However, many strangers have the gall to ask me for money as soon as I say hello, thinking I'll take pity on them. Clearly nobody's here to give out handouts, but I admit that I've been trapped into lending money to friends who are unlikely to pay me back. One way to help these people, I hear, is to open up a factory to employ a bunch of people to increase the value of the products that grow in abundance here. If Mozambique could only move its own produce from one corner to the next, its internal, trading economy would surely blossom. I'm no economist, and can offer no solutions to the imbalanced global economy. The tight school economy is enough to cause me headaches. Without generous donations from the Netherlands, this school couldn't function. The organization Humana People to People is supported by profits raised from selling second-hand clothes. And my head swims trying to understand this enormously unfair world and what, if anything, anyone can do to improve it. I've bitten off more than I can chew with "development," but I intend to ask more questions to my friend Tennis, a director of the agricultural bureau. An unusual friend, given that in the states nobody would take the time to answer my call, but this guy just loves to explain the relationship between the tourist industry and the community interests at the beach. "What luck, tell me more." Such serendipitous accidents and the calm tenacity of the surrounding Inhambanians allows me to take a deep breath and realize that it's the little things in life that are important.

Friday, April 20, 2007

Brief update

I haven't used the internet for over a month now. Since the news here is local, I might have missed some newsworthy occurrence. If so, please email me the clipping.


In Brief: So much to say, so many better things to do than sit down and type…
Work, work, work. It's one of those activities that I watch more than I do. The long hours expected of all teachers and students surely breaks some basic human rights. After an initial repugnance to restarting a school schedule that I swore to myself that I would never again submit to, I found a way to work smarter not harder. It's a bit like swimming, why thrash against the water when there's a way to glide? So long as I communicate with people and make myself available at certain scheduled times, I'm at liberty to have "flexi-time." While I can struggle to read and write and translate documents, instead I can simply ask many other people for their opinions on, say, the fundraising situation at the beach. These conversations not only inform me about the details but also remind other people about the situation. It seems as if these types of reminders organize people far better than any wall calendar. Meanwhile the maid is stuck at home cooking and doing the laundry, and while I envy the tranquility I relish my freedom.

Meeting, meetings, meeting. On Saturdays the teachers gather to make plans, and I try my best to stay awake when they're reading lists and repeating themselves. The productivity of a meeting is inversely proportional to its endlessness. Some activities don't need a cultural translation. On a more positive note, the sensation of captivity helped me notice the reason for the sluggishness of my English students and led me to liven things up. This justifies fun.

Can I have your computer, can I have your computer, can I have your computer? It's the first time to use a computer for many. With all the exciting photos and music, the act of playing with media disguises the improvised lessons. Many ask seriously if they can have my computer, my hat, my pencil forever. How many times must I repeat myself? Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I have a well of patience which I dip into occasionally.

Energy, energy, energy, or lack thereof. My addiction to caffeine harms nobody but actually wastes energy, since a whole new fire must be lit to boil the water for this luxury. Now it's my guilty pleasure and I must summon different reserves of energy. Incidentally, one method of curing the boredom induced by long meetings is hacking at a coconut with a machete.

The people, the people, the people. You never know who you're going to meet or where they're going to invite you or what new food they'll present. Each week varies with opportunities. Although the only people crazy enough to accompany me on my walks to the nearest beach are children, who giggle and squawk and skip. We whistle the Mozambican national anthem on the way back after a swim. The adults are just as friendly, but more complicated. The politics of power at the school are more difficult to overcome. The organization has many levels of importance of which I am entirely oblivious, which makes me the perfect person to throw into the situation to ask questions. My Portuguese may be poor, but still I talk enough to cause a stir.

In sum, I am encountering moments of both extreme frustration and joy. I'm looking forward to more. What luck that I ended up at THIS project!

Bye for now,

Friday, March 23, 2007

How do you say…

Words now have a greater value in my day, and I listen with eagerness. My teammate, Johnny, speaks fluent Spanish and just strode up to the Chief of Chamane to ask him to help gather the local craftsmen together for an Art Festival. By the end of the year I hope to have similar interactions, able to work and plan with people. Meanwhile, my job leaves me with the paperwork side of organizing events and soliciting contributions.

While I would love to laugh at people's jokes, it is also essential to avoid pranks. Not only do people take advantage of stupid tourists, but my American translator Johnny is wholly unreliable for a serious answer. For example, I felt rather pleased with myself after the first meeting with the director, conducted in Portuguese, until Johnny decided to translate. All my previous correspondence and planning allowed me to recognize the director's requests: English classes, evening programs, Saturday events, fundraising partnerships. No surprises there, except for my surprise at my own comprehension. This changed when a little later, Johnny jeered, "so how are you going to manage Maria's Pedagogy classes?" as another one of his frequent teases. Of course I laughed at this absurd situation, but he persisted enough to leave me with a nagging doubt that I unwittingly nodded in agreement to a huge task. Forced to confront the very busy director, I slowly cobbled together some rambling sentences to explain my possible confusion. The director nodded in agreement that Johnny pulled a good prank. I revenged myself on my translator by shoving his face in the dirt. Sometimes actions speak louder than words.

Many people understand English, but their lack of practice makes them hesitant to speak. Instead it is often preferable to communicate in my awful Portuguese because I'm bold enough to butcher the language. Often I'm relieved by English teachers or students. However the translation process is slow, for a Mozambican is easily interrupted mid-sentence by whoever happens to show up. Professor Guente tends to break our conversations with a winning grin and ask questions while walking away. I try not to consider it rude that I can't finish my single sentence due to the ringing of his phone and the shuffling of documents and so on. I'm probably the third interruption from his initial work, and my presence here is one giant interruption. The relative tranquility of working from home without being asked for pens tempts me, but there I can't communicate with anybody, which creates a whole new set of problems. When I emerge, people ask me "where were you?" and proceed to give me last-minute notice of a meeting or activity which needs my immediate participation.

Sometimes I'm led to believe that my Portuguese is improving with leaps and bounds. I've met some very patient people who describe their lives and then listen to my descriptions, watch my hand gestures and wait for me to thumb through my dictionary. We somehow manage political discussions which raise many questions. I marvel at the practical knowledge of these self-sufficient farmers. On the other hand, I'm reminded of my weaknesses by the impatient people. They give me a pained expression when I say something with the wrong emphasis, the wrong pronunciation, the wrong tense or the wrong gender. A good way of ensuring some respect is to know the numbers, which reoccur when talking about time with the twenty-four hour clock and the currency which comes in millions. The numbers "dois" and "doze" sound similar at the best of times, but really confuse matters after a long list of other numbers.

With a vocabulary of only a few hundred words, the subtleties of the language still confound me. When friends say "we are together" as they depart, it sounds remarkably positive. Too bad the cellphone company uses this slogan on every billboard. Still, it reminds me to savor people's company, just as I'm reminded to count my blessings when people greet me with a "thank heavens for health." More visual reminders are the many graveyards and ruined buildings, but I don't share the Mozambican memory of struggle. Consequently, I don't miss people in the same way, for here it translates as "to have deep sentimental longings for." I also don't "love" anybody I've just met. Best of all, the word "cool" isn't popular here. Unfortunately the word "nice" became included. Words offer interesting clues about perceiving the world, but many cultural lessons are taught through demonstration, such as how to tie a capilana skirt and the correct etiquette for eating other people's cashew fruits (by leaving the nut on the ground). At the end of my second month, I re-learned all sorts of day-to-day doings.

Wednesday, March 7, 2007

Back To School

The many forks along the trail to the nearest primary school now confuse me less. After lunch, I follow the teachers-in-training as they rush over to give their lessons. I nestle into the sand and prop my back against a post in the back of the reed-walled classroom. As the funny pink one, I am adored by the kids. I'm a real novelty. After two weeks of sneaking stares, they now feel comfortable enough to swarm around me to show off. My job is to evaluate, but through watching I learn more about speaking Portuguese, life in Mozambique, techniques of teaching and group dynamics. Previously, I underestimated the quality of the education and just how fascinating this task would become. The education is designed for the children of Mozambique, which is reflected in the government-produced books that manage to boil down life's lessons into a few illustrated pages. Stimulated with little more than a blackboard, one of those textbooks and a story-teller teacher, the eager students remain seated and engaged. Let's go to class!

Unfamiliar with kindly, respectful children, I look for signs of trouble. They stand up to answer questions to the whole class and calmly sit back down for hours. The difficulty is learning. Showing patience, most of the teachers-in-training developed a good rapport with the students, but some still struggle to encourage the students to speak up in class. This avoidance of public speaking still appears in the teacher-training college since there is nothing to feel embarrassed about in comparison to some of the adults outside the school who read poorly. I watched intently as the teacher rewrote the text in cursive on the board in a Portuguese class. Their little raised faces and little bodies disguise the student's true age, but still their difficulty with reading surprised me. After repeating the story several times with a chorus, the teacher gently prompted individuals to lead the class at the blackboard, but none could point to the correct word. Yet with gusto they tried, and with the teacher's determination the class continued.

I daydreamed back to 1988, to an excited moment checking out armfuls of illustrated children's books from the public library. Happily my mother taught me how to read before I started school. Reading and breathing come naturally to me, and so I cannot imagine teaching multiple disciplines to forty illiterate students. Given that I'm not a professional teacher, what can my "evaluation" possibly contribute to these circumstances other than encourage these teachers to trust in their abilities to positively affect these children's lives. In a similar manner, I'm thrown into this teacher role, just like these primary school teachers. We all continue to learn through this process, for the learning method is experiential, or do-it-yourself. Not too long ago I interviewed a jolly old American lady who explained that, "the key to being a good teacher is to love and believe in the children." She made up songs up to suit any situation and could motivate the notoriously difficult inner-city youth. At the time I listened intently to her tips about discipline, but her key is simple to remember. Comparatively less poetic, my suggestions sound more like, "save your breath until they've shut up." Although children show respect, overly permissive teachers lose the students' attention by not setting clear expectations.

The veteran teachers at the primary school sit at the back to offer advice to the novice. Some are better than others, but all seemed competent from my observations. Only the PE teacher wielded a stick. In the unlikely even that some child-loathing dictator taught at the school, still the experience would be valuable. Using common sense, we all learn from what people say as well as what people do. Who knows, maybe the new energetic teachers would influence the old stagnant ones. In experiential learning we all learn more than is written on paper or spoken in theory.

It seems silly to fuss about such a trivial item, but since I can't donate all my belongings, I must deny another request for a pen. Old volunteers advise that denial is best for fairness. However, I notice that the kids often share their food and stationary with their snatching classmates. They share books among a circle of five. They throw pencils at each other to lend the tiny stub of an eraser at the end. I am definitely selfish and feel relief to work at a purposeful job. When I eventually deliver stationary, it will be in bulk form for the school to distribute. The challenge will be to locate quality stationary, for these cheap colored pencils simply don't work. Part of my job is to find colors to make visual aids for these empty classrooms.

At last physical education class breaks up the day, and the students are instructed to race in pairs under the hot sun. Two sets of whirling legs kick up sand as they propel the fluffy dresses back the cashew tree that shades the cheering auxiliaries. The runners enjoy themselves more that the older kids who are lead to stretch in unison by the stick-wielder. It is easy to imagine how one, single volleyball would be enough to transform physical education into games.

Another day at school ends for the children, but not the teachers-in-training. Back at the training school, they return to a simple dinner of rice and beans, possibly fish, and spend the evening working in their small groups to develop their lesson plans. The school is situated in the middle of a large field on the bend of the main road from the beach to Inhambane, a journey people cannot afford to make often. During the day the road is traveled by about one vehicle every 5-10 minutes, in terms of hitchhiking. At night the road is deserted and makes it an excellent stargazing spot. Too bad about the lights outside the classroom and dorm blocks. Despite the fact that these few building can't accommodate the existing 60 students and 8 teachers, the student population will double next year. The construction company is struggling to keep up. Fortunately the housing demand is alleviated by available rooms in the neighbor's houses, but this means that the 8 teachers are left living without electricity. Even the modern dorm blocks offer little more than electricity since the plumbing doesn't work. Every morning those who wish to wash or flush the toilet must fetch bucketloads of water from the wells. (The flush-free latrines prove themselves a more sanitary option.) The morning routine also involves hauling water to stock the kitchen and water the vegetables, a type labor that many hope to avoid with an educated employment. Work starts tomorrow at 4:30AM to repair the cyclone damage. These teachers-in-training participate in the chores of the school, such as cooking, like we did at the volunteer-training-school at IICD Massachusetts. The training to become a teacher is of course far more academic and exhausting than training to become a volunteer.

Feeling tired and reluctant to perform at 8PM, the teachers-in-training are prodded to write their plans in the preferred format: objective, time outline, activities. The chairs scrape the concrete classroom floors and echo against the high white walls and tin roof to make it impossible for me to hear sense. I could help in class preparations, but usually end up being more of a distraction. Instead I spend more time next door in the teacher's room pouring over books to guide me as to how to insert myself into the project well. I like books. I want to build a bookshelf to make the books more accessible, for they are stored in the accounting room with other miscellaneous items. Upon arrival I brought as many as I could carry, and fortunately the school just acquired more government-published books. But books do little to help teachers plan their time, for there is simply not enough time. One teacher shakes his head at a particularly dense planner who wrote the activity where the objective ought to lie. What's the problem here? Don't they see the importance of preparing ahead of time? Do I resist planning in the same way? However, once they get the hang of it, they use a ruler and perfect cursive to create a detailed plan. Don't judge too soon. This process cannot be hurried, for the Mozambicans value rest, as I learned in the construction period. Though the sooner they finish, the sooner they can sleep.

I'm required to plan my "development work" here in the same way, open to scrutiny. By working here as a volunteer, my job requires that I apply myself when presented with both responsibility and freedom. While Johnny and I will contribute to the learning process, our position goes beyond the classroom. The teachers are busy with the challenge of teaching the teachers-in-training, and our relative freedom allows us to focus on fundraising partnerships to ensure the success of school classes and community outreach activities. We are charged with developing the "Open Saturday" events, which give back to the generous community that bestows housing, gardening tools and primary children. On the other hand, in the early days perhaps the funding should address the grievance of the teachers' living conditions. By valuing their contribution the school can retain them. The administration should act wisely.

Last week the director decided to crack down on the rules. The students apparently can't control the alcohol intake, and this triggered a lecture. It makes sense to start strict so that the rules are abided by. The guards started to ban the neighborhood children from dancing at the disco, probably scared of losing their jobs. This unfortunately ruined the best night of the week. Usually this fun night begins with a dance competition where three odd couples are paired together and forced to slow dance in front of everybody, which they secretly relish. When the beat kicks in, people jump up to get down. Butts wiggle, legs stamp and arms float. The kids adore dancing and outshine the adults. But now they can't come. Some people worry that members of the community might see the TV and computer and attempt to steal them. Apparently the school now attracts the wrong sort of people, after the shop across the street was robbed. Luckily the district is so small the thieves were apprehended in the act and dragged to the police. True, it is difficult for three guards to protect a school in the middle of a big field, fort the hedges need years to grow big enough to prevent intruders or escapes. However, it is more likely for a thief to wait until after the party before hopping in the already-broken window. In the meantime, the kids only want to dance. For the past year they danced at the school without causing problems. How torturous for them to hear the thumping music throughout this sleepy neighborhood. This ban conflicts with the goal of leading community activities, especially since the older folks don't appreciate the midnight noise.

After the lecture, I asked the students in my English class why they drank so obviously when it jeopardized everybody's chances and forced the school to treat them like children. In response, an emphatic speaker listed the rules, "no alcohol, no drugs and no sex!" and lingered on the last one because it challenged their very life essence. These rules are designed to prevent parties in the dormitories, but the punishment for infidelity is suspension, possibly expulsion. Nobody wants to jeopardize their status. On the rare occasion that a person indulges in a beer off-campus, their tolerance level wasn't what it used to be and they return to school embarrassingly giddy. One imploring student asked me for advice on controlling what he called his instincts. Hmm, tough one. Instead I pointed out that the school feels like a prison when they're so childish. I insisted that adults should know how to compose themselves so that they can be treated like adults. I basically tell them there's a time and a place for everything, so don't get caught. Optimistically, if people are responsible then they earn their freedom. Perhaps transgressors could be rehabilitated rather than expelled by attending a similarly lively discussion. I look forward to a similar discussion about self-discipline with a focus on STDs.

"Who enjoys learning the most?" I speculated while monitoring the new recruits during the entrance exam. Only sixty of the four-hundred that pass can gain a place. By this logic, the difficulty of the geometry question signified that my thorough education was wasted me. At age six I felt the thrill of mathematics, of telling the time and counting in tens and units. Somewhere along the way to university I accepted that learning felt more a chore than a joy. Yet here many people strive for that university degree. People stand in awe of the certification that I take for granted. Perhaps my current practical experience teaches me more than my past education. Learning occurs easily through enjoyment.


forks along the trail to the nearest primary school now confuse me less. After lunch, I follow the teachers-in-training as they rush over to give their lessons. I nestle into the sand and prop my back against a post in the back of the reed-walled classroom. As the funny pink one, I am adored by the kids. I'm a real novelty. After two weeks of sneaking stares, they now feel comfortable enough to swarm around me to show off. My job is to evaluate, but through watching I learn more about speaking Portuguese, life in Mozambique, techniques of teaching and group dynamics. Previously, I underestimated the quality of the education and just how fascinating this task would become. The education is designed for the children of Mozambique, which is reflected in the government-produced books that manage to boil down life's lessons into a few illustrated pages. Stimulated with little more than a blackboard, one of those textbooks and a story-teller teacher, the eager students remain seated and engaged. Let's go to class!

Unfamiliar with kindly, respectful children, I look for signs of trouble. They stand up to answer questions to the whole class and calmly sit back down for hours. The difficulty is learning. Showing patience, most of the teachers-in-training developed a good rapport with the students, but some still struggle to encourage the students to speak up in class. This avoidance of public speaking still appears in the teacher-training college since there is nothing to feel embarrassed about in comparison to some of the adults outside the school who read poorly. I watched intently as the teacher rewrote the text in cursive on the board in a Portuguese class. Their little raised faces and little bodies disguise the student's true age, but still their difficulty with reading surprised me. After repeating the story several times with a chorus, the teacher gently prompted individuals to lead the class at the blackboard, but none could point to the correct word. Yet with gusto they tried, and with the teacher's determination the class continued.

I daydreamed back to 1988, to an excited moment checking out armfuls of illustrated children's books from the public library. Happily my mother taught me how to read before I started school. Reading and breathing come naturally to me, and so I cannot imagine teaching multiple disciplines to forty illiterate students. Given that I'm not a professional teacher, what can my "evaluation" possibly contribute to these circumstances other than encourage these teachers to trust in their abilities to positively affect these children's lives. In a similar manner, I'm thrown into this teacher role, just like these primary school teachers. We all continue to learn through this process, for the learning method is experiential, or do-it-yourself. Not too long ago I interviewed a jolly old American lady who explained that, "the key to being a good teacher is to love and believe in the children." She made up songs up to suit any situation and could motivate the notoriously difficult inner-city youth. At the time I listened intently to her tips about discipline, but her key is simple to remember. Comparatively less poetic, my suggestions sound more like, "save your breath until they've shut up." Although children show respect, overly permissive teachers lose the students' attention by not setting clear expectations.

The veteran teachers at the primary school sit at the back to offer advice to the novice. Some are better than others, but all seemed competent from my observations. Only the PE teacher wielded a stick. In the unlikely even that some child-loathing dictator taught at the school, still the experience would be valuable. Using common sense, we all learn from what people say as well as what people do. Who knows, maybe the new energetic teachers would influence the old stagnant ones. In experiential learning we all learn more than is written on paper or spoken in theory.

It seems silly to fuss about such a trivial item, but since I can't donate all my belongings, I must deny another request for a pen. Old volunteers advise that denial is best for fairness. However, I notice that the kids often share their food and stationary with their snatching classmates. They share books among a circle of five. They throw pencils at each other to lend the tiny stub of an eraser at the end. I am definitely selfish and feel relief to work at a purposeful job. When I eventually deliver stationary, it will be in bulk form for the school to distribute. The challenge will be to locate quality stationary, for these cheap colored pencils simply don't work. Part of my job is to find colors to make visual aids for these empty classrooms.

At last physical education class breaks up the day, and the students are instructed to race in pairs under the hot sun. Two sets of whirling legs kick up sand as they propel the fluffy dresses back the cashew tree that shades the cheering auxiliaries. The runners enjoy themselves more that the older kids who are lead to stretch in unison by the stick-wielder. It is easy to imagine how one, single volleyball would be enough to transform physical education into games.

Another day at school ends for the children, but not the teachers-in-training. Back at the training school, they return to a simple dinner of rice and beans, possibly fish, and spend the evening working in their small groups to develop their lesson plans. The school is situated in the middle of a large field on the bend of the main road from the beach to Inhambane, a journey people cannot afford to make often. During the day the road is traveled by about one vehicle every 5-10 minutes, in terms of hitchhiking. At night the road is deserted and makes it an excellent stargazing spot. Too bad about the lights outside the classroom and dorm blocks. Despite the fact that these few building can't accommodate the existing 60 students and 8 teachers, the student population will double next year. The construction company is struggling to keep up. Fortunately the housing demand is alleviated by available rooms in the neighbor's houses, but this means that the 8 teachers are left living without electricity. Even the modern dorm blocks offer little more than electricity since the plumbing doesn't work. Every morning those who wish to wash or flush the toilet must fetch bucketloads of water from the wells. (The flush-free latrines prove themselves a more sanitary option.) The morning routine also involves hauling water to stock the kitchen and water the vegetables, a type labor that many hope to avoid with an educated employment. Work starts tomorrow at 4:30AM to repair the cyclone damage. These teachers-in-training participate in the chores of the school, such as cooking, like we did at the volunteer-training-school at IICD Massachusetts. The training to become a teacher is of course far more academic and exhausting than training to become a volunteer.

Feeling tired and reluctant to perform at 8PM, the teachers-in-training are prodded to write their plans in the preferred format: objective, time outline, activities. The chairs scrape the concrete classroom floors and echo against the high white walls and tin roof to make it impossible for me to hear sense. I could help in class preparations, but usually end up being more of a distraction. Instead I spend more time next door in the teacher's room pouring over books to guide me as to how to insert myself into the project well. I like books. I want to build a bookshelf to make the books more accessible, for they are stored in the accounting room with other miscellaneous items. Upon arrival I brought as many as I could carry, and fortunately the school just acquired more government-published books. But books do little to help teachers plan their time, for there is simply not enough time. One teacher shakes his head at a particularly dense planner who wrote the activity where the objective ought to lie. What's the problem here? Don't they see the importance of preparing ahead of time? Do I resist planning in the same way? However, once they get the hang of it, they use a ruler and perfect cursive to create a detailed plan. Don't judge too soon. This process cannot be hurried, for the Mozambicans value rest, as I learned in the construction period. Though the sooner they finish, the sooner they can sleep.

I'm required to plan my "development work" here in the same way, open to scrutiny. By working here as a volunteer, my job requires that I apply myself when presented with both responsibility and freedom. While Johnny and I will contribute to the learning process, our position goes beyond the classroom. The teachers are busy with the challenge of teaching the teachers-in-training, and our relative freedom allows us to focus on fundraising partnerships to ensure the success of school classes and community outreach activities. We are charged with developing the "Open Saturday" events, which give back to the generous community that bestows housing, gardening tools and primary children. On the other hand, in the early days perhaps the funding should address the grievance of the teachers' living conditions. By valuing their contribution the school can retain them. The administration should act wisely.

Last week the director decided to crack down on the rules. The students apparently can't control the alcohol intake, and this triggered a lecture. It makes sense to start strict so that the rules are abided by. The guards started to ban the neighborhood children from dancing at the disco, probably scared of losing their jobs. This unfortunately ruined the best night of the week. Usually this fun night begins with a dance competition where three odd couples are paired together and forced to slow dance in front of everybody, which they secretly relish. When the beat kicks in, people jump up to get down. Butts wiggle, legs stamp and arms float. The kids adore dancing and outshine the adults. But now they can't come. Some people worry that members of the community might see the TV and computer and attempt to steal them. Apparently the school now attracts the wrong sort of people, after the shop across the street was robbed. Luckily the district is so small the thieves were apprehended in the act and dragged to the police. True, it is difficult for three guards to protect a school in the middle of a big field, fort the hedges need years to grow big enough to prevent intruders or escapes. However, it is more likely for a thief to wait until after the party before hopping in the already-broken window. In the meantime, the kids only want to dance. For the past year they danced at the school without causing problems. How torturous for them to hear the thumping music throughout this sleepy neighborhood. This ban conflicts with the goal of leading community activities, especially since the older folks don't appreciate the midnight noise.

After the lecture, I asked the students in my English class why they drank so obviously when it jeopardized everybody's chances and forced the school to treat them like children. In response, an emphatic speaker listed the rules, "no alcohol, no drugs and no sex!" and lingered on the last one because it challenged their very life essence. These rules are designed to prevent parties in the dormitories, but the punishment for infidelity is suspension, possibly expulsion. Nobody wants to jeopardize their status. On the rare occasion that a person indulges in a beer off-campus, their tolerance level wasn't what it used to be and they return to school embarrassingly giddy. One imploring student asked me for advice on controlling what he called his instincts. Hmm, tough one. Instead I pointed out that the school feels like a prison when they're so childish. I insisted that adults should know how to compose themselves so that they can be treated like adults. I basically tell them there's a time and a place for everything, so don't get caught. Optimistically, if people are responsible then they earn their freedom. Perhaps transgressors could be rehabilitated rather than expelled by attending a similarly lively discussion. I look forward to a similar discussion about self-discipline with a focus on STDs.

"Who enjoys learning the most?" I speculated while monitoring the new recruits during the entrance exam. Only sixty of the four-hundred that pass can gain a place. By this logic, the difficulty of the geometry question signified that my thorough education was wasted me. At age six I felt the thrill of mathematics, of telling the time and counting in tens and units. Somewhere along the way to university I accepted that learning felt more a chore than a joy. Yet here many pe