Fire! Fire!

26 June:  So there I am, sitting around, at 10 in the morning, and happen to look out of the window.  This is what I see:

Coming from Cape Town, I'm a little bit sensitive about fires, as Table Mountain is particularly vulnerable.  I like to think I am a responsible citizen, so I phoned the golf course, and asked if they know about the fire.  No, they said, they don't have any controlled burns at the moment.

So I phone the Fire Department.

"Hello"
"Hi there, I live off Delville Road, and the golf course is on fire.  If the fire continues to spread at this rate, it will reach the houses in about 15 minutes"
"Where did you say you were calling from?"
"Just off Delville Road.  The golf course is on fire."
"You mean the grass is on fire."
"Yes, that's what I said"
"You phoned us for a grass fire?"
"Yes"
"OK"
*click*
 
I phoned Bob to tell him we might be homeless tonight, but reached his voicemail - he was in a meeting.  He phoned me back about an hour later, after having listened to my message and speaking to a colleague who is a golfer.  Apparently the golfers regularly set the long grass alight, as it's a real pain to look for your balls in that long grass.

(To the credit of the Fire Department,  they did send someone in a white bakkie to have a look)

But wait, there's more!

On Friday (1 August), I look out of the window (again), and see the homeless man in this picture has started a fire.  Outside the golf course.  Over the road from our house.  In the picture, he is moving his wêreldse goed away from the fire because it's getting a bit hot for him.

 Now, I'm becoming a regular Mthatian, and don't panic about such silly stuff any more.  So I phone Bob at work and tell him there's a fire, but there's nothing to worry about.  He says thank you, it's very sweet that I phone him.

I've heard that the sound of a grass fire is quite frightening.  Now I know why.  It's quite ominous in its regularity and intensity

While I'm watching this fire grow and spread, I see the man from next door (not this one, the other side), sending the homeless man on his way.

My isiXhosa is very basic, but my father taught me some very colourful phrases when I was 10 years old.  This is the first time I have heard them spoken out loud.  I had to smile and thank my dad for his foresight.

I asked the man next door if the fire was safe, and he said, yes, it's okay, he'll keep an eye on it (as I had to go to a rehearsal at the school).  I got home two hours later, and the fire had spread about 500m, into Delville Road, which is home to quite a few guest houses.  Yesterday, I spoke to an owner of one of the guest houses, and she told me that her staff were standing outside the property with fire extinguishers on Friday.  She was pretty cross about the fire - they happen quite regularly, and are not always as innocuous as they seem.

I have to admit this made me feel a bit better about phoning the fire brigade last time.

Back to School

I've always believed I was allergic to children, but it appears I've grown out of it.

One of the gals at Book Club is a Grade 3 (Standard 1 for the oldies like me) teacher at the local primary school, and she mentioned that this is a crazy time of term with exams needing to be marked, marks needing to be submitted, and learners needing to be kept occupied at the same time. Would I, she asked, be interested in class-sitting for her at all?

Ooh, something new to do!  So I said yes, and went to meet the class of 9- and 10-year olds on Tuesday morning.  I greeted all 33 of them as I have been taught : "Molweni Bafundi".

"Ahem,"  said titshalakazi (Xhosa for a female teacher), "this is an English medium class."  Never mind, it worked!  A class of faces lit up and grinned.  We did a bit of reading, maths and Life Skills. At home time, titshalakazi asked if I would like to come in the next day and provide relief for another Grade 3 teacher.  I'd had such fun, I agreed.

Well.

On Wednesday, as I walked into the classroom, I was engulfed in a 20-strong hug sandwich.

"Yay, Aunty Wendy's back!"  What a heartwarming, special experience.  I just had to laugh out loud. I must have done something right! Each child wanted to say hello, and hug me individually.  How on earth can hugging a child be wrong?

And then I started getting letters:

 

Have I mentioned that children are observant  and intelligent?

On Wednesday, I was left alone in the classroom with a whole new set of young minds to warp.  Silly titshalakazi. They were fascinated with my attempts at Xhosa, and I rewarded each completed task with a phrase or two, which usually resulted in laughter and arguments correcting my pronunciation.

Most of my utterances that day were along the following lines:

Sit down / hlala phantsi (raucous laughter)
Yes you can go to the bathroom.
Sit down.
You don't have a pencil. Well, borrow a pencil.  Who can lend Ovayo a pencil? (Big mistake - any diversion is a welcome opportunity to avoid work)
Sit down.
No, you can go to the toilet when Kora gets back
Sit down.
I don't care who farted.
Sit down.
No!  Please don't use the Glade Strawberry for Sipho's farts. It makes my teeth curl.
Sit down.
No, you can't write the names of the people who are talking on the board.
Sit down.
That's beautiful!
Sit down.
Mpho, please give Onamusa's shoes back.
Sit down.
What are you doing under the desk?
Sit down.

That was the first ten minutes.  Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

It was exhausting, but we still got through a remarkable amount of work between 7:30 and 14:00.

I'm delighted that despite technology cursive is still being taught, and that the times-tables are being drilled into the kids. I couldn't fault them on their 6x table and they weren't too shabby up to the 8x table.  I was secretly thrilled to see a child sneaking her book out of her case to read, instead of doing a maths exercise.

I also invigilated a Grade 6 Afrikaans Begrip exam, and was heartbroken when a child asked what 'vakansie' meant when the question asked 'Vertel van jou beste vakansie'.  I couldn't tell him, as it was an exam.  It reminded me of one of my Afrikaans exams, when the question was something about 'iemand wat met worshonde teel'.  I had no idea what 'teel' was, the invigilator couldn't tell me, and I still remember the hour of terror and despair that followed.

Friday was amazing.

I spent it with Grade 7s who were preparing for Speech Night in August.  Just up my street! Each of the three classes (now between 20 and 25 learners per class) had to tell me what their topic was, and a little bit about what they were going to say.  If they didn't have a topic, we would use the time to help them choose. The range of topics blew my mind.  Inner Beauty versus Facial Beauty, Freedom of Religion, Racism, Therapy of Dogs, Rugby, Significance of Rap Lyrics, Bullying, Political Secrets and Corruption.... it made my heart sing.  At this age (12/13/14) all I was thinking about boys and discos.  These kids are so aware of society and what's happening around them, I have renewed hope for our country, our kids, our education system.

Please sir, can I have some more?

All Mlungu look the same

Drove my car for the first time today, after arriving in Mthatha over a week ago.

I decided to practise my elementary Xhosa on the petrol jockey, and all was going swimmingly until he mentioned Hellen Zille. I asked him to repeat his question in English.

"Are you Helen Zille?"

He looked skeptical when I said no, because Helen had been in Mthatha just before the elections and she can speak a smattering of Xhosa.

My voice is quite croaky (like Helen's), my hair is the same length and colour (sort of) as hers, and we both wear specs. But I'm sure that is where the similarities end. Oh, and we both drive cars with a CA registration (very rare in Mthatha).

I think he still didn't believe me, because when I left, he asked again, "Are you sure you're not Helen?"

Just call me Ma'am.