big day tomorrow for us faux-teacher sorts. the namibian ministry of education has finally finished all their grading and are going to publish each 10th graders' report card in the national newspaper. early returns say: not so hott.
selah, i don't know why ppl are bitching. there's no way 16,000 failures can be considered unemployed if 12,000 of them hang themselves. oh wait, deforestation means no trees. uh, park the car in the garage, fall asleep to the soothing sounds of carbon monoxide? i suppose a car is required for that scenerio to play out. garage, too. how about a good old fashioned bullet? nevermind, guns in namibia are more effective as projectiles than as firearms. shite, what a bugger. i suppose you shouldn't fail if there's no real good way to kill yrself, eh.
MORE than 16 000 full-time Grade 10 pupils are expected to swell the number of the unemployed in Namibia today when the Ministry of Education releases their results.
The Directorate of National Examinations and Assessment announced yesterday that only 13 143 of the 30 059 pupils from 488 schools who wrote this year's Junior Secondary Certificate exams managed to score the required 23 points or more and a minimum of a F grade in English to proceed to Grade 11.
...
16 143 PUPILS DIDN'T MAKE IT However, 16 143 failed and their only option now is part-time classes with the Namibian College of Open Learning (Namcol) and vocational training centres.
selah, i don't know why ppl are bitching. there's no way 16,000 failures can be considered unemployed if 12,000 of them hang themselves. oh wait, deforestation means no trees. uh, park the car in the garage, fall asleep to the soothing sounds of carbon monoxide? i suppose a car is required for that scenerio to play out. garage, too. how about a good old fashioned bullet? nevermind, guns in namibia are more effective as projectiles than as firearms. shite, what a bugger. i suppose you shouldn't fail if there's no real good way to kill yrself, eh.
me = bob dylan
them = jimi hendrix
i may have the writing credits, but it's clearly the performance that's going to sell enough records so that i can buy a (slice of) pizza. i was considering releasing the song myself, but getting ho'ed out re: mich/osu is the sort of marketing omen that suggests the hendrix version will make a shit ton more money than the dylan would.
them = jimi hendrix
i may have the writing credits, but it's clearly the performance that's going to sell enough records so that i can buy a (slice of) pizza. i was considering releasing the song myself, but getting ho'ed out re: mich/osu is the sort of marketing omen that suggests the hendrix version will make a shit ton more money than the dylan would.
living abroad entails culture shock. returning home for holiday entails reverse culture shock. me, i'm shocked that this guy is still my president, and i wish we could somehow reverse the results of last year's election.
selah...
"It was a shameful act for someone to disclose this important programme in a time of war," he said, adding that merely discussing the issue was helping enemies of the US, who continue to plot attacks.
selah...
i've been home a week-plus and i'm still rocking the once-per-week blogger schedule i had in namibia. what the ef, i've been busy playing peeping-tom, and i won't apologize for being so fooken good looking.
anyhow, i'm a bit undecided about whether or not i'm happy to be stateside. on the one hand, there are friends and family that i've missed; on the other, it's hard to shoot a music video here. plus it's fucking cold. real fucking cold, and it doesn't help much that my parents begin melting once the thermostat slinks above 60°. nor does it help to wake at 1 pm and find the world looks like this:
normally i wouldn't care, but my dad owns a shovel, and he can still kick my arse. me = shoveling. shivering, too. fucking cold. oh, and i miss my lady a little bit, something i hadn't anticipated. i'm getting old; i'm getting soft...
anyhow, i'm a bit undecided about whether or not i'm happy to be stateside. on the one hand, there are friends and family that i've missed; on the other, it's hard to shoot a music video here. plus it's fucking cold. real fucking cold, and it doesn't help much that my parents begin melting once the thermostat slinks above 60°. nor does it help to wake at 1 pm and find the world looks like this:
normally i wouldn't care, but my dad owns a shovel, and he can still kick my arse. me = shoveling. shivering, too. fucking cold. oh, and i miss my lady a little bit, something i hadn't anticipated. i'm getting old; i'm getting soft...
the final draw for the 2006 world cup is today at 2.15 est. the us just missed a seeding in the top eight, which i suppose means they'll finish pool play 0-2-1 rather than 0-1-2. i'm all whoot-whoot about a #8 world ranking, but my enthusiasm is tempered a bit b/c concacaf is a synonym for inflated results. so is big ten. whatevs, i'm merely groaning b/c i'm one of those hate america first wankers. hugo chavez and fidel castro are my man-crushes..
my deep blue sky introduced me to a new word: billet-doux. perfect, b/c she and i are stuck in a cycle of rebirth: nirvana's just a pipe dream. i don't mind, however, b/c we spend nearly one of every two lives in unfathomable love. some of our loves are melodramatic, most are romantic comedies, and all involve love notes. even the lives we're not in love - the current go round - are spent adoring each other, so it's only fitting that she found the word that describes the messages sent between us.
***ANNOUNCEMENT***
SUCKA BUSTA REUNION TOUR
a joint promotion of ddp, inc and nwa worldperks
touring schedule is still tentative, though some venues have been confirmed:
-holland
-dearborn
-mexican town
-kalamazoo
-marine city
-holland
-chicago
-san antonio/tampa
-ontario
-plymouth
-mofucken ypsi
-anne arbour
SUCKA BUSTA REUNION is so big that we've even released publicity fotos aimed at our various niche markets.
for the loathe to admit they're no longer a part of mtv's target demographic:
or for the best ppl of the world, who wait patiently anxious for me to round the bend and come into view:
the tour kicks of in one of my two hollands so i can parry with two of the early sucka bustas: dagga and mush. i mean, roblem and flemstra. afterwards my tour bus heads into the midwest, where i imagine it'll break down. selah, not like my plans expand too far beyond getting this tour rocked out and finding myself an ipod. i am NOT sitting another year in the bush w/o some fooken (decent) music.
this is a sucka busta tour, so rather than emailing for info, please email me with info. i'm a derelict, and i don't have a mobile anymore, so i'm shit out of contact info.
SUCKA BUSTA REUNION TOUR
a joint promotion of ddp, inc and nwa worldperks
touring schedule is still tentative, though some venues have been confirmed:
-holland
-dearborn
-mexican town
-kalamazoo
-marine city
-holland
-chicago
-san antonio/tampa
-ontario
-plymouth
-mofucken ypsi
-anne arbour
SUCKA BUSTA REUNION is so big that we've even released publicity fotos aimed at our various niche markets.
for the loathe to admit they're no longer a part of mtv's target demographic:
or for the best ppl of the world, who wait patiently anxious for me to round the bend and come into view:
the tour kicks of in one of my two hollands so i can parry with two of the early sucka bustas: dagga and mush. i mean, roblem and flemstra. afterwards my tour bus heads into the midwest, where i imagine it'll break down. selah, not like my plans expand too far beyond getting this tour rocked out and finding myself an ipod. i am NOT sitting another year in the bush w/o some fooken (decent) music.
this is a sucka busta tour, so rather than emailing for info, please email me with info. i'm a derelict, and i don't have a mobile anymore, so i'm shit out of contact info.
school finished today, though i've been done and bored for near two weeks now, my comeuppance for marking exams once the students finished taking them. the learners caught wind of this - that i work on occasion - and pestered me for their results. i can read numbers from off a page, and they can understand me, somewhat, so i saw no problem obliging them. the principal, however, did.
-why were the learners by you? did you give them sweets?
-i was giving them their marks.
-you are not supposed to.
-eh, como?
-it is not the law.
-oh, well, uh... how come nobody ever told me?
-i thought you just knew.
-well no, i've usually known my grades before i got my report..
-no, it is not the law.
-yeah, well, neither is beating..
[no, not really. i thought it, if that counts for anything.]
-so why did the students ask me?
-maybe they think you are new and don't know.
[pause for incredulity]
-how do the learners anticipate that but you don't?
-oh, those students, they are very clever.
[longer pause]
-...
-why were the learners by you? did you give them sweets?
-i was giving them their marks.
-you are not supposed to.
-eh, como?
-it is not the law.
-oh, well, uh... how come nobody ever told me?
-i thought you just knew.
-well no, i've usually known my grades before i got my report..
-no, it is not the law.
-yeah, well, neither is beating..
[no, not really. i thought it, if that counts for anything.]
-so why did the students ask me?
-maybe they think you are new and don't know.
[pause for incredulity]
-how do the learners anticipate that but you don't?
-oh, those students, they are very clever.
[longer pause]
-...
i’ve never seen the gods must be crazy, but i’d have to think a contemporary rewrite would include me rocking out on a computer somewhere near the kalahari. i don’t mean to insinuate that my life is so crazy, or that my life should be a movie – the next person to drop a line like that wins lunch with the flying noodle kick – but i do live in namibia, and unless they live in botswana, so do the bushmen.
now that i’ve established my relative proximity to where the movie was set, i’ve begun to pretend all my gadgets and technical know-how elicit the sort of awe that might accompany a coke bottle if it were to fall from the sky. whoops, i said pretend. assume would’ve been a better word, at least when it comes to the computer i mentioned i’d be rocking near the kalahari. i installed photoshop on the school computer, and the other day i was messing around with some yearbook photos. i stuck my roommate’s head onto chasa’s body and showed the cleaning lady/science teacher:
-but raphael, he borrow breasts where?
now that i’ve established my relative proximity to where the movie was set, i’ve begun to pretend all my gadgets and technical know-how elicit the sort of awe that might accompany a coke bottle if it were to fall from the sky. whoops, i said pretend. assume would’ve been a better word, at least when it comes to the computer i mentioned i’d be rocking near the kalahari. i installed photoshop on the school computer, and the other day i was messing around with some yearbook photos. i stuck my roommate’s head onto chasa’s body and showed the cleaning lady/science teacher:
-but raphael, he borrow breasts where?
i don't have the best office. i don't have the best view, either. in fact, i don't have the best of much, though i do have a lot more condoms on my desk than i would if i were teaching in the states. i also have osu week, which would be promising if this was nineteen ninety-cooper. fooken dickles...
mich 436
igan 119
osu(cks) -12
mich 436
igan 119
osu(cks) -12
i try to pass myself off as one of those progressive types who asserts everyone's allowed to harbour their own opinion, as long as they can answer why. of course, i'm only passing myself off as progressive b/c i'm, in fact, a raging hypocrite. people who think differently than me are fooken morons, especially if they're one of my students. like the kid who suggested to me that osama bin laden would beat the us, whatever that means. i didn't say anything in response, though i admit to thinking, "isn't this yr fourth tour through grade 9?" instead i took advantage of the fact i didn't prepare for yet another class and ad libbed a discussion: who would win a soccer match between the us and obl? i won't present arguments here.. ok, i will. bin laden would win b/c:
-he has the strong army
-he has the powerful weapons
-he knows all the places of the us
-he can hide
-he can shoot from very far
i suppose i could spend time deconstructing their strong arguments, but, well, why bother? i really only mentioned obl b/c it was recently halloween. i've blathered before about namibia and sugar, so imagine the wet dreams once i explained to my students that, had they been born an arrogant american like me, they'd spend the evening dressed in drag and soliciting free candy from everyone in their village. after i was finished with my thinly disguised gloating - my holidays are better than yours - i went home for lunch. i tried to sit down and enjoy the same pb&j i eat every day, but i was interrupted by a knock on the door. trick or treat?? i hate losing the last word.
-he has the strong army
-he has the powerful weapons
-he knows all the places of the us
-he can hide
-he can shoot from very far
i suppose i could spend time deconstructing their strong arguments, but, well, why bother? i really only mentioned obl b/c it was recently halloween. i've blathered before about namibia and sugar, so imagine the wet dreams once i explained to my students that, had they been born an arrogant american like me, they'd spend the evening dressed in drag and soliciting free candy from everyone in their village. after i was finished with my thinly disguised gloating - my holidays are better than yours - i went home for lunch. i tried to sit down and enjoy the same pb&j i eat every day, but i was interrupted by a knock on the door. trick or treat?? i hate losing the last word.
hiv/aids is largely a symptom of gender inequality. no, wait, gender equality. i was discussing gender issues with my 10th graders about a month ago and asked if inequality existed in nambia.
-but sir, the constitution says we are equal.
while english has been "quick" to invite itself into the namibian day to day, latin's still at the bar, drinking heavily. i responded by asking, "is that du jure or de facto equality?" i'm still unsure if the blank stares were a response to "is that...or...equality" or "...du jure...de facto." anyhow, i peppered the boys with questions:
-would you cook dinner for yr girlfriend/wife?
-but sir, that is impossible.
-would you drop out of school to cook and clean while yr sisters remained in school?
-but sir, that is impossible.
-would you raise yr child so its mother can rock town with a job?
-but sir, that is impossible.
-would you mind if yr girlfriend/wife had four other boyfriends?
-but sir, that is impossible.
-would you etc??
-but sir, that is impossible.
i seriously doubt my own anecdotal experiences are broad enough to illustrate gender (in)equality in nambia, so why not some more? thankfully this world has gallows, b/c i find this part quite humorous:
i'd like to believe it an isolated belief that an ex-girlfriend can be held accountable for not erecting, but i was talking to my roommate about this.
-no, if yr g/f leaves she can make it so your tools don't work on other girl. she must bring it back.
oh, well then, carry on...
-but sir, the constitution says we are equal.
while english has been "quick" to invite itself into the namibian day to day, latin's still at the bar, drinking heavily. i responded by asking, "is that du jure or de facto equality?" i'm still unsure if the blank stares were a response to "is that...or...equality" or "...du jure...de facto." anyhow, i peppered the boys with questions:
-would you cook dinner for yr girlfriend/wife?
-but sir, that is impossible.
-would you drop out of school to cook and clean while yr sisters remained in school?
-but sir, that is impossible.
-would you raise yr child so its mother can rock town with a job?
-but sir, that is impossible.
-would you mind if yr girlfriend/wife had four other boyfriends?
-but sir, that is impossible.
-would you etc??
-but sir, that is impossible.
i seriously doubt my own anecdotal experiences are broad enough to illustrate gender (in)equality in nambia, so why not some more? thankfully this world has gallows, b/c i find this part quite humorous:
In one of the letters, addressed “to my parents” and dated 03.03.12, he had written: "Sorry for losing control, myself as from 21 February I notice a problem with my 'manhood' as it was not erecting. (...) Up to now that I have lost my manhood and it is not erecting. (...) I was on the phone I was quarrelling with Meriam Haindongo, asking her to bring my manhood, if she does not want me to beat her."
He had also written: "Meriam said that she left me and I have accepted it, but I told her to bring my manhood back before 14 March. If the date comes and she has not done it, I will let her see. (...) How can you be with important manhood while the person who has it is just quiet, there is not such a thing not at all."
i'd like to believe it an isolated belief that an ex-girlfriend can be held accountable for not erecting, but i was talking to my roommate about this.
-no, if yr g/f leaves she can make it so your tools don't work on other girl. she must bring it back.
oh, well then, carry on...
i neglected to include a foto of my beloved sister and her douche/betrothéd. he kind of looks like mark ruffalo selling verizon coverage.
also, it appears there are ways other than joining pee/see to harvest pick up lines. like building houses. if jon's middle name was paco then we'd have the same initials. this year abroad's obviously been a boost to my profundity.
also, it appears there are ways other than joining pee/see to harvest pick up lines. like building houses. if jon's middle name was paco then we'd have the same initials. this year abroad's obviously been a boost to my profundity.
my sister’s been dating some dood named douche for over two years now, only he finally proposed, so I suppose it’s time to cut loose the revolution and give him back the g his parents intended to follow the d-o-u. marrying into the sucka bustas won’t make you rich, but it’ll make you less of a douche, especially if yr a good guy to begin with. werdemup, benefits..
my dear, dear cheryl pointed this out: cheryl, pointing --->
hmmm... donkeys and the road. last night there were four of us, and we happened upon four donkeys straight coking. coincidence?
hmmm... donkeys and the road. last night there were four of us, and we happened upon four donkeys straight coking. coincidence?
a picture from my hugs don't hurt policy. children like fighting; i like peace. if i catch them playing i'm a teacher and yr a student on each other, i break out the camera and they break out the love.
grade 10 exams are getting hot and heavy: hot b/c it’s fooken africa, heavy b/c results determine who’s a halfway decent human being and who should chew on a gun and pull the trigger. in namibia, the decent human beings technically get to enroll in grade 11, though get to enroll is too often euphemism for i’ll kill myself later, at least in a country that hasn’t the space to accommodate the 50% of 10th graders who pass their exams. the reason why everyone who fails the 10th grade gets to chewing glass, carving their wrists, or face fucking a speeding truck is b/c the single alternative to living is to enroll in correspondence school. that was actually the pattern of behavior up till last year, but then I showed up and began campaigning for suicide. I like ppl and all, but I don’t like them knocking on my door the day before an assignment’s due and telling me, “oh, you can just write the answer for me.” like the woman who lives a couple homesteads over from me and happens to be a principal at some primary school. she asked for help, i said sure, and rather than come by like i told her she instead sent her assignment to school with her son.
-what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?
her son just smiled like he understood, which is a lot more than i did. i did nothing, and when I ran into her a couple weeks ago on my way to town she asked me if i had finished.
-mister jerem, is my assignment done?
-ehwhatthefuck, lady?!? i already finished school, and i already speak english, so i’m not doing any schoolwork. i said i’d help…
-oh, then give me my assignment, [b/c i’m a raging dildo-smack and presume you carry my assignment with you everywhere you go.]
anyhow, I tend to regard my 10th graders favorably—as long as I don’t have to see them—and would feel bad about counseling them into suicide. to avoid this i spend hours of sedulous attention writing out my lesson plans. keep in mind i have a master’s degree in education, so i’m well disposed to cognition theories, and i consequently harbor an appreciation for the different modes of learning. despite this—my diligence, my hours of strained concern, my education—all my lessons invariably duplicate themselves as i stand in the front of the room screaming, STOP FOOKEN COPYING!! seriously, i don’t know what the fuck to do. I used my last two weeks with grade 10 for summary writing, and regardless if i said it, wrote it, willed it, or telepathically begged, my students nonetheless persisted with their copying. i even checked my oshindonga dictionary to make sure summary (engongo) was a different word than copy (sindika ko). afterwards i came up with three separate processes for summary writing, went over them in detail, and assigned work after every step to monitor how well they understood. near the end of the two weeks i gave them an assignment to complete on their own and then gave them another when i found they copied from the article they were to summarize. these last summaries i read aloud in class and let the students decide if they were good or not. they, of course, took turns laughing at each other as i read summary after summary sindika ko’ed from the original article. oh well, most of them were at least smart enough to copy before class started. one actually wrote his summary as i was busy ridiculing everyone else’s and handed it to me near the end of class like I didn’t notice it was late. selah, last day, i don’t care, not like i’m keeping track of grades anymore, i’ll read it aloud. ‘twas copied, verbatim, and not even the slightest pretense at hiding his plagiarism. i’d shoot him, but exams are finished next week and he’ll end up doing the dirty work himself. le sigh..
-what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?
her son just smiled like he understood, which is a lot more than i did. i did nothing, and when I ran into her a couple weeks ago on my way to town she asked me if i had finished.
-mister jerem, is my assignment done?
-ehwhatthefuck, lady?!? i already finished school, and i already speak english, so i’m not doing any schoolwork. i said i’d help…
-oh, then give me my assignment, [b/c i’m a raging dildo-smack and presume you carry my assignment with you everywhere you go.]
anyhow, I tend to regard my 10th graders favorably—as long as I don’t have to see them—and would feel bad about counseling them into suicide. to avoid this i spend hours of sedulous attention writing out my lesson plans. keep in mind i have a master’s degree in education, so i’m well disposed to cognition theories, and i consequently harbor an appreciation for the different modes of learning. despite this—my diligence, my hours of strained concern, my education—all my lessons invariably duplicate themselves as i stand in the front of the room screaming, STOP FOOKEN COPYING!! seriously, i don’t know what the fuck to do. I used my last two weeks with grade 10 for summary writing, and regardless if i said it, wrote it, willed it, or telepathically begged, my students nonetheless persisted with their copying. i even checked my oshindonga dictionary to make sure summary (engongo) was a different word than copy (sindika ko). afterwards i came up with three separate processes for summary writing, went over them in detail, and assigned work after every step to monitor how well they understood. near the end of the two weeks i gave them an assignment to complete on their own and then gave them another when i found they copied from the article they were to summarize. these last summaries i read aloud in class and let the students decide if they were good or not. they, of course, took turns laughing at each other as i read summary after summary sindika ko’ed from the original article. oh well, most of them were at least smart enough to copy before class started. one actually wrote his summary as i was busy ridiculing everyone else’s and handed it to me near the end of class like I didn’t notice it was late. selah, last day, i don’t care, not like i’m keeping track of grades anymore, i’ll read it aloud. ‘twas copied, verbatim, and not even the slightest pretense at hiding his plagiarism. i’d shoot him, but exams are finished next week and he’ll end up doing the dirty work himself. le sigh..
it appears my once blossoming basketball future has finally wilted. yes, those are nutz, and yes, that is my mouth. that’s also my face, which has a large beard. large beards are essential to basketball, at least if you’re going to get dunked on and need something to cushion the impact between ball and face. in my own defense, my nose only hurt for five minutes. i also had to borrow someone’s socks and size 13’s just to play. i'm sure i would've blocked the dood had i shoes more my size. or at least had enough time to run out from under mr. dunky, screaming like a little child..
sheat, dood, not much to post. perhaps a foto of me, my guitar, and a hole in my crotch:
or some village children and white ppls' hair:
or some village children and white ppls' hair:
i'm a bit in the dark when it comes to news of the homeland. other than a weak signal from the bbc, some outdated newsweeks from pee/see, and the safe assumption that my president's still a douche, i'm relatively uninformed. relatively: the last i read in newsweek is that bush is losing his reelection, clinton being the strong favorite. relatively: the fox news signal doesn't reach africa, leaving me less retarded than most.. anyhow, apparently msu is good at football and should beat michigan this week. eh? i mean, i remember previous meetings when i thought it possible that michigan could lose, but that's b/c there are only two possible outcomes, losing being one of them. i never thought it likely, but now msu is killing everyone, michigan sucks, and the game's in east lansing....
whatevs. i haven't been gone that long.
UM - 791
MSU - 10
my friend here's a bit less optimistic. he says michigan will win two goals to nil.
whatevs. i haven't been gone that long.
UM - 791
MSU - 10
my friend here's a bit less optimistic. he says michigan will win two goals to nil.
ooh, technology. here's what gosen combined school would look like had i remained stateside and ate myself fat:
but i'm skinny, and ppl here can't thank me enough for my vision, ingenuity, and willingess to serve:
we can accomplish so much when we work together...
but i'm skinny, and ppl here can't thank me enough for my vision, ingenuity, and willingess to serve:
we can accomplish so much when we work together...
i know i shouldn't look a gift donkey in the mouth, but if yr one of those considerate-types who's made sure i have the occasional shirt to replace the ones i've worn threadbare, a run through the dryer would be nice. even though i've finally put aside enough of my pee/see salary to purchase a new washer and dryer, i still haven't figured out how to shrink anything not pre-shrunken. 'tis no problem, however, now that i realize ppl have a thing here for 50 cent, at least till they realize he isn't from africa...
pee/see generally anticipates that the jobs they give us are going to be assbutt (but this job is ass). they don’t tell you that at recruitment of course. what happens is you roll into a staging session somewhere in seattle or phila or miami and find out 30% of yr job is called a secondary project, which i assume is where yr supposed to locate any sort of satisfaction as a human being with a job. i’m both ass and butt at my gig, meaning i’m perfect for the job i’m required to do and haven’t had to be very proactive in committing myself to a secondary anything. i don’t mean to sound like i don’t have any secondary projects. i do, i just haven’t committed myself to any them. the school library, for instance, which people in america would call a broom closet. i’ve been at it a year and the extent of progress has been to serve eviction notices to the teachers who have their desks in the staff room. of course, only a douche would be so brilliant as to clear room for a shit ton of books that aren’t coming any time soon (cough: at all). next... i’ve also been at work on this calendar thingy the hi-5 committee puts out to raise money for awareness programs. at work, by the by, means i enlist my sister’s help stateside and then go all awol and shit, though that’s a different story/finger to point.
anyhow, the reason i don’t have a palpable secondary project is b/c my supervisor is my principal, and most (all) of my meetings with him follow the same pattern:
-i have an idea, how about ________________?
-we can even do that.
-even? we’ve done wank to shit, dood. even means we’ve done this this this that and this and can even throw in yr last suggestion no worries lets go snort coke.
this week i had a meeting with him that varied a bit. it went like this:
-i have an idea, how about ________________?
-we can even do that.
-even? we’ve done wank to shit, dood. even means we’ve done this this this that and this and can even throw in yr last suggestion no worries lets go snort coke.
my suggestion this week was that it’s fucking hot in africa – in case the african guy didn’t catch on yet – and that classrooms made of metal get fuck like really hot. students remain in the same class all day and the teachers move from room to room, so imagine rocking out in a sauna for six hours while yr trying to learn. or the more self-involved reason for my suggestion: if most students wash their uniforms on sunday, and thursday’s the fourth straight day of 90° weather, how nice should i expect 30 kids in a tin shack to smell?
-why don’t we rip the top part of the back wall off, create a cross breeze?
-we can even do that.
so yeah, i don’t care much about a library, and I care even less about this basketball project I’m supposed to initiate, but i REALLY FOOKEN CARE about getting punched in the face by stank ass stank every time I have an afternoon class in the shacks, so it appears i’ve finally committed myself to a secondary project. of course, i should credit my principal for inspiring this idea. he informed the other teachers and me that third term's a bit hot, and that our creativity is required so our students will pay attention despite having class in an oven. me, i follwed his advice and combined creativity with my political sensibilities. american liberals aren't good for much other than tearing things apart, so last week i borrowed a hammer and dismantled enough of the shacks to accomodate a cool breeze. i do so much, eh.
anyhow, the reason i don’t have a palpable secondary project is b/c my supervisor is my principal, and most (all) of my meetings with him follow the same pattern:
-i have an idea, how about ________________?
-we can even do that.
-even? we’ve done wank to shit, dood. even means we’ve done this this this that and this and can even throw in yr last suggestion no worries lets go snort coke.
this week i had a meeting with him that varied a bit. it went like this:
-i have an idea, how about ________________?
-we can even do that.
-even? we’ve done wank to shit, dood. even means we’ve done this this this that and this and can even throw in yr last suggestion no worries lets go snort coke.
my suggestion this week was that it’s fucking hot in africa – in case the african guy didn’t catch on yet – and that classrooms made of metal get fuck like really hot. students remain in the same class all day and the teachers move from room to room, so imagine rocking out in a sauna for six hours while yr trying to learn. or the more self-involved reason for my suggestion: if most students wash their uniforms on sunday, and thursday’s the fourth straight day of 90° weather, how nice should i expect 30 kids in a tin shack to smell?
-why don’t we rip the top part of the back wall off, create a cross breeze?
-we can even do that.
so yeah, i don’t care much about a library, and I care even less about this basketball project I’m supposed to initiate, but i REALLY FOOKEN CARE about getting punched in the face by stank ass stank every time I have an afternoon class in the shacks, so it appears i’ve finally committed myself to a secondary project. of course, i should credit my principal for inspiring this idea. he informed the other teachers and me that third term's a bit hot, and that our creativity is required so our students will pay attention despite having class in an oven. me, i follwed his advice and combined creativity with my political sensibilities. american liberals aren't good for much other than tearing things apart, so last week i borrowed a hammer and dismantled enough of the shacks to accomodate a cool breeze. i do so much, eh.
say what you want about namibian education, but at least i can wear cornrows to school...
HUGE game this weekend between the alma maters. sheeat, whom to root for... michigan, whom i've supported since i was 8-years-old b/c i lived in oregon and my dad would phone from michigan to make excuses for their pitiful, though annual, nonconference showing? or emu, whom i followed every year at uni until they won a game, pissing me off that they wouldn't go 0-11 and bring national exposure to the school. i suppose i've created a false dilemna for myself. i mean, shit, eastern? at least if they refined crude through their arse and won michigan could still go to the rose bowl. oh wait, the rose bowl is reserved this year for good teams. i meant the fiesta bowl. or some bowl you get to go to b/c you suck but the teams in yr conference suck worse. fucking notre dame.
HUGE game this weekend between the alma maters. sheeat, whom to root for... michigan, whom i've supported since i was 8-years-old b/c i lived in oregon and my dad would phone from michigan to make excuses for their pitiful, though annual, nonconference showing? or emu, whom i followed every year at uni until they won a game, pissing me off that they wouldn't go 0-11 and bring national exposure to the school. i suppose i've created a false dilemna for myself. i mean, shit, eastern? at least if they refined crude through their arse and won michigan could still go to the rose bowl. oh wait, the rose bowl is reserved this year for good teams. i meant the fiesta bowl. or some bowl you get to go to b/c you suck but the teams in yr conference suck worse. fucking notre dame.
most good news begins with an es, as in SIKE, as in sancho isn't dead b/c she happened to find me while i was out for a run. das sigh of relief... good thing, b/c i was buggered enough to spend the first half of the week planning revenge. i'm not much for an eye for an eye, so i thought the quick theft of my witchdoctor's cowboy hat would suffice. my "educated" roommate gasped when i ran my plan of attack by her. "he will witch you." oh, ppl...
i've combined my love of fashion design with my equally passionate concern for all things living to create a new line of clothing. the concept for my designs centers on sancho, and thus i've titled my line don't eat my fooken dog! fashion is obviously my life. models, please..
of course, using fashion to plea for my pooch's welfare is much more effective than doing something halfway tangible about it, like foregoing my obstinacy and offering my witchdoctor friend a chicken as an alternative to dog. my campaign has gone about as well as livestrong has. i mean, all those cute bracelets and ppl still die from cancer. my dog, too. all that work i put in to get don't eat my fooken dog! launched for the fall season and i'm fairly certain sancho's been eaten. bugger.
selah, at least i can try making out with my ladyfriend. god i'm smooth..
of course, using fashion to plea for my pooch's welfare is much more effective than doing something halfway tangible about it, like foregoing my obstinacy and offering my witchdoctor friend a chicken as an alternative to dog. my campaign has gone about as well as livestrong has. i mean, all those cute bracelets and ppl still die from cancer. my dog, too. all that work i put in to get don't eat my fooken dog! launched for the fall season and i'm fairly certain sancho's been eaten. bugger.
selah, at least i can try making out with my ladyfriend. god i'm smooth..
i'm a pretty smooth guy, you know. i dress nice, have perfect hair, spend hours in the gym, earn six figures, and drive a fuck-big suv when i don't feel like pulling my italian roadster out of storage. this obviously means i'm better than you. it also means i pull quite a bit of ass, enough so that my nomme de guerre is tugboat. but occasionally i meet one of those women who think and shit and i have to pretend i'm not shallow. luckily i studied literature in undergrad and can impress with my poetic wit, though sometimes i trip over authors and books and other artsy shite. like this one time i tried rocking out on some hottie. i was too preoccupied with my cool man walk that i neglected to work out an opening line. i actually forgot to work out a purpose for the come on, so caught up was i with my gangsta stroll, that i confused my idioms and went about picking a fight rather than picking her up. so i sucker punched her. right before she kicked my ass. and i don't mean kicked my ass like i sat there and took it. i mean i tried to win the fight but didn't.
figures. i suppose that's what happens to you when you try to exert your manhood, if you even have one. like me. i may have testicles, a deep voice, male ticked on all my application forms, higher insurance premiums, a large beard, and a hott ladyfriend, but i also have small muscles, a preference for wine over beer, emotions, a library, a disposition toward pacifism, tickets to the opera, uncalloused hands, and a closet full of dresses (joke). the point: i'm not brawny. i don't think people would look at my picture and mistake me for a hell's angel, which means i need to find a theater that demonstrates how fooken tough i am. the best i've found so far is a soccer field. how brute, right? imagine: barefoot and short shorts. it just bleeds tough, like a toothless hockey player and his two black eyes. except i'm a panzy and they stuck me in goal. how will people know i'm tough if all i do is stand at the edge of the field, a glorified spectator? no worries, i eventually collided with an 80 lb monster and hurt myself. ooh, my angle: i can play hurt and people will admire my tenacity. 'twas only a sprained ankle, but people nonetheless asked if it hurt, to which i'd nonchalantly answer, sheeat. pretty soon i was wearing muscle shirts and drinking beer, but three months have since passed and my ankle still hurts. uhhh... that's not good. i finally took myself to see the doctor - crying, of course - and had an x-ray taken. it turns out i fractured my fibula. holla. who's a tough guy now? ME me ME me ME me ME me... ME me... i've been walking around on a broken leg for three months. that means i'm tough, and all i have left to do now is find the bitch that kicked my ass and, i don't know, see if she'd like to ride donkeys???
figures. i suppose that's what happens to you when you try to exert your manhood, if you even have one. like me. i may have testicles, a deep voice, male ticked on all my application forms, higher insurance premiums, a large beard, and a hott ladyfriend, but i also have small muscles, a preference for wine over beer, emotions, a library, a disposition toward pacifism, tickets to the opera, uncalloused hands, and a closet full of dresses (joke). the point: i'm not brawny. i don't think people would look at my picture and mistake me for a hell's angel, which means i need to find a theater that demonstrates how fooken tough i am. the best i've found so far is a soccer field. how brute, right? imagine: barefoot and short shorts. it just bleeds tough, like a toothless hockey player and his two black eyes. except i'm a panzy and they stuck me in goal. how will people know i'm tough if all i do is stand at the edge of the field, a glorified spectator? no worries, i eventually collided with an 80 lb monster and hurt myself. ooh, my angle: i can play hurt and people will admire my tenacity. 'twas only a sprained ankle, but people nonetheless asked if it hurt, to which i'd nonchalantly answer, sheeat. pretty soon i was wearing muscle shirts and drinking beer, but three months have since passed and my ankle still hurts. uhhh... that's not good. i finally took myself to see the doctor - crying, of course - and had an x-ray taken. it turns out i fractured my fibula. holla. who's a tough guy now? ME me ME me ME me ME me... ME me... i've been walking around on a broken leg for three months. that means i'm tough, and all i have left to do now is find the bitch that kicked my ass and, i don't know, see if she'd like to ride donkeys???
i met ben in early 2001 and a six months later his hott ass g/f peaced out on him. poor guy, i thought, except meeting someone so perfect afterward is an efficient balm for a broken heart. ben, two girlfriends: christie and serendipity. except christie's no longer his girlfriend, either. today she becomes his wife, and although i'd like to offer numerous encomiums to relate the nature of their relationship, it'd be best to simply say: they are a genuine love story.
with all my love.
the second and third weeks in august are scheduled for exams, which means they actually began during the first week. i found this out the final thursday of july, giving me four days’ more notice than i’m used to. selah, the english exam was given on the 4th instead of the 11th, and i was left with an extra seven days’ worth of excuses for not grading papers. that makes me a bad person, non? i should grade them right away, i thought to myself, b/c (1) the students are interested in their results – although if they were so “interested” in their grades they should prolly worry as much about performance before the exam as they do after…other story, again – and (2) i’d have arse to do but sit around and read books while all the other teachers complain about marking the exams that they’ve put off for two weeks themselves. or (2 revised) i could have a visitor, and we’d do fun things like sit in a combi, sit in a combi, sit in a combi, and perhaps see swakop or walvis bay. if we made it to walvis we could meet someone named shannon, who would promptly admit to being wigged out on crack before inviting us for coffee. we’d accept, of course, and then we’d invite any friends we might have in walvis to join us…
actually, i didn’t see walvis or swakop. i’ve never been there. but i did meet a person named shannon, and i can definitely imagine what it’d be like to meet someon in walvis. or even swakop. maybe even in windhoek or cape town. lets see, what kind of character would this shannon be… for starters, androgynous. the third-person in the bantu languages i’m familiar with is gender neutral. in oshindonga, the pronoun for man, woman, boy, circus, red cow, shiny mullet, new friend, etc. is ye. it’s understandable then that, when speaking english, many owambos have difficulty differentiating between he and she. if people can use their language to compress he, she, and it into a single pronoun, why not extend that phenomenon to other aspects of our existence, like visual appearance? just b/c someone has on a dress doesn’t mean he’s a she, or that she’s a he b/c (s)he rocks clothes generally associated with men. something like that. i suppose i should just say that this shannon of ours (ours: i have a visitor, remember, and 1 + ___ = plural) would be androgynous simply b/c it’d be difficult to answer: man or woman?
my imagination’s a bit limited, so i’ve no idea what else to say about shannon. i think (s)he’d say a lot of funny shit and accompany her remarks with equally comical gestures. perhaps (s)he’d look at me and say (s)he likes my friend better than me, BUT NOT IN A SEXUAL WAY! this, mind you, would precede the rumbling, suggestive giggle of someone looking to trade sex for crack money. or maybe (s)he’d agree to have a photo taken so my friends and i could laugh about it later. (s)he’d demure at first, but just as the photo would be taken (s)he’d scream something – CELEBRITY POSE! – and raise his/her left leg, exposing an inexplicably moist crotch. afterwards (s)he’d probably sit down and suggest that we order a bottle of wine. obviously, b/c WINE MAKES ME HORNY!, though the wet jeans would leave me to regard the wine as impertinent to the state of his/her sexual whoot-whoot. about this time my friends and i would begin to tire of the antics, so we’d ask for the bill, pay for our coffee, and begin the sojourn to our host’s flat. shannon would assume him/herself invited, or at least entitled to “taxi fare.” when both of these scenerios fail to materializ, (s)he’d stand in the middle of the road, screaming.
MY NAME’S SHANNON! i KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING! YOU’RE GOING TO [inaudible]! IF YOU’RE NOT GOING THERE YOU’RE GOING TO THE [inaudible]! MY NAME’S SHANNON! i’LL FIND YOU! YOU HEAR ME?!? MY NAME’S SHANNON….
of course, all of this comes from my imagination. what i really did was sit around a dusty namibian village and grade papers. 47% of my 10th graders got at least 50% on their august exams, which is better than the 14% that did the same last year, though the 14% comes from the december exams. the august exams are also called mock exams and have no bearing on whether a student passes or not. but then again, mock doesn’t necessarily entail mock. i do happen to live in a country where the sole utility of names and labels is decorative. just b/c a store is called “fish and chips take away” doesn’t mean you’ll find any fish. or chips. or even anything to take away. and the numerous shops along the main road called “pick a phone?” maybe an old woman and a stool, but that’s about it. selah, the best i can do at the moment is take my 47% and pretend i’m having some sort of impact. perhaps i can entice one more student to rock the 50% in december so that i have more students passing than failing. if that be the case, i’m going to walvis, dancing the crack rock, smoking the horny wine, and standing in the middle of the road so everyone knows that MY NAME’S JEREMY! i TEACH OWAMBOS, MOFUCKA!!
actually, i didn’t see walvis or swakop. i’ve never been there. but i did meet a person named shannon, and i can definitely imagine what it’d be like to meet someon in walvis. or even swakop. maybe even in windhoek or cape town. lets see, what kind of character would this shannon be… for starters, androgynous. the third-person in the bantu languages i’m familiar with is gender neutral. in oshindonga, the pronoun for man, woman, boy, circus, red cow, shiny mullet, new friend, etc. is ye. it’s understandable then that, when speaking english, many owambos have difficulty differentiating between he and she. if people can use their language to compress he, she, and it into a single pronoun, why not extend that phenomenon to other aspects of our existence, like visual appearance? just b/c someone has on a dress doesn’t mean he’s a she, or that she’s a he b/c (s)he rocks clothes generally associated with men. something like that. i suppose i should just say that this shannon of ours (ours: i have a visitor, remember, and 1 + ___ = plural) would be androgynous simply b/c it’d be difficult to answer: man or woman?
my imagination’s a bit limited, so i’ve no idea what else to say about shannon. i think (s)he’d say a lot of funny shit and accompany her remarks with equally comical gestures. perhaps (s)he’d look at me and say (s)he likes my friend better than me, BUT NOT IN A SEXUAL WAY! this, mind you, would precede the rumbling, suggestive giggle of someone looking to trade sex for crack money. or maybe (s)he’d agree to have a photo taken so my friends and i could laugh about it later. (s)he’d demure at first, but just as the photo would be taken (s)he’d scream something – CELEBRITY POSE! – and raise his/her left leg, exposing an inexplicably moist crotch. afterwards (s)he’d probably sit down and suggest that we order a bottle of wine. obviously, b/c WINE MAKES ME HORNY!, though the wet jeans would leave me to regard the wine as impertinent to the state of his/her sexual whoot-whoot. about this time my friends and i would begin to tire of the antics, so we’d ask for the bill, pay for our coffee, and begin the sojourn to our host’s flat. shannon would assume him/herself invited, or at least entitled to “taxi fare.” when both of these scenerios fail to materializ, (s)he’d stand in the middle of the road, screaming.
MY NAME’S SHANNON! i KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING! YOU’RE GOING TO [inaudible]! IF YOU’RE NOT GOING THERE YOU’RE GOING TO THE [inaudible]! MY NAME’S SHANNON! i’LL FIND YOU! YOU HEAR ME?!? MY NAME’S SHANNON….
of course, all of this comes from my imagination. what i really did was sit around a dusty namibian village and grade papers. 47% of my 10th graders got at least 50% on their august exams, which is better than the 14% that did the same last year, though the 14% comes from the december exams. the august exams are also called mock exams and have no bearing on whether a student passes or not. but then again, mock doesn’t necessarily entail mock. i do happen to live in a country where the sole utility of names and labels is decorative. just b/c a store is called “fish and chips take away” doesn’t mean you’ll find any fish. or chips. or even anything to take away. and the numerous shops along the main road called “pick a phone?” maybe an old woman and a stool, but that’s about it. selah, the best i can do at the moment is take my 47% and pretend i’m having some sort of impact. perhaps i can entice one more student to rock the 50% in december so that i have more students passing than failing. if that be the case, i’m going to walvis, dancing the crack rock, smoking the horny wine, and standing in the middle of the road so everyone knows that MY NAME’S JEREMY! i TEACH OWAMBOS, MOFUCKA!!
i had buck teeth when i was younger, so i didn't get much in the way of love notes. there were a couple, but one was from a girl progressing through a roster of potential suitors/likely rejectors and the other from a girl with glasses thick enough to be spelled g-g-g-g-l-a-s-s-e-s-s-s-s. point: other than will you go [out] with me?, i don't know what criteria designates a love letter as good, bad, or fooken ridiculous. selah. i confiscated this from one of my students, so perhaps those of you without buck teeth can clue me in. pee/es: letter is transcribed as/is. no editing from me, other than the bracketed words i included to help with translation.
[drawing of heart]
[flush right as per letter format]
Time for Love
Time for sex
Time for corabration
Hellow my Dearing
[drawing of heart]
How are you the at your place are you oky like me. This is me and your Letter I lead it with smarring [a smile].
My Dream always tell me about you I think you are learies [serious?] Love me as you say in your last letter.
Please ******* this is my true speaking also to you my Baby Boy.
[drawing of heart]
Oky I just want to tell you that to day see me after school bihind Gade 8C Because I want to play Love with you- I think that yestarday when you give me a latter at sutdy time I am was blive that you want sex with me. that is why I writ it back. oky great [greet] telphina and NangI thank you
from: * *** your Baby girl
To: * ******** my Baby Boy
[drawing of heart]
[flush right as per letter format]
Time for Love
Time for sex
Time for corabration
Hellow my Dearing
[drawing of heart]
How are you the at your place are you oky like me. This is me and your Letter I lead it with smarring [a smile].
My Dream always tell me about you I think you are learies [serious?] Love me as you say in your last letter.
Please ******* this is my true speaking also to you my Baby Boy.
[drawing of heart]
Oky I just want to tell you that to day see me after school bihind Gade 8C Because I want to play Love with you- I think that yestarday when you give me a latter at sutdy time I am was blive that you want sex with me. that is why I writ it back. oky great [greet] telphina and NangI thank you
from: * *** your Baby girl
To: * ******** my Baby Boy
i wouldn't classify the music here as bad, but i'd prefer to be ear-raped by a dull pencil. at least then the rhythm would resemble somewhat this idea of time i've heard about. like most of what i envisioned about namibia, i had had expected differently from her music. what i anticipated was the harmony of disparate voices, that they would sound like the rising sun looks. what i got instead was a bunch of fake rap laid down to casio beats and celine dion covers. wait, there's something dangling in that last sentence. i haven't heard any fake rap laid down to celine dion beats yet, but i wouldn't be surprised if i did. the fake rap is this cudda called kwaito. to be a kwaito superstar, all one needs is a broken synthesizer and a limited english vocabulary. once you have the requisite essentials, the only thing left is to correlate -i use this term loosely- repetitive phrasing with a sparse catalogue of beats. i can't wait to return home and embarrass myself the first time i mistake the new sum 41 track for a progressive epiphany. selah.
what i've found most impressive with kwaito's repetitiveness has not been the product, but rather the consumption. if you happen to be using a combi to travel between owamboland and windhoek, don't expect much variety from the cd changer. in fact, don't expect a cd. what yr most likely, i mean, going, to get is some busted ass cassette dubbed from one of the five or nine ppl in the country who've purchased the actual cd. and for some reason, the dub doesn't reflect the actual track listing. it's more like: track 4, track 5, track 1, track 4, track 4, track 8, track 2, track 4, repeat. i'm actually relieved when track 8 comes on forth fourteenth time b/c i've already heard track 4 fifty-five times.
then there's the cuca shop. while the playlist in a cuca shop lacks the confined intensity of the combi, it more than compensates through sheer frequency, frequency like no one appears to notice the same song has repeated itself seventeen times over: i'll play it again... and not only is the same song being rocked for an eighteenth time now, but the excitement at hearing a familiar classic for the first time in ages reincarnates itself over and over, too. i've been in the cuca shop before when some shite gazza tune will come on and all the men (girls are home being women: cooking, washing, etc.) will grab their tafels and find a spot on the floor to dance with themselves. halfway throught the sixty-first chorus most have found their chair or spot on the wall, but the song invariably plays again, the men all yell gazza!, and everyone's dancing again. well, not everyone. i don't dance to that shit, even on E.
i'd generally sigh and say selah, but sometimes it's 3.00 am and i leap out of bed b/c i have this poem in my head that's burning to be written. i grab whatever paper's closest and scribble feverishly, only to be disappointed when i read over what i wrote and find it's the lyrics to some crap song that's been on repeat ever since i crawled into bed around 8.45. the cuca shops might be close to a km from my house, but i'm still more likely to fall asleep in a mosh pit than i am in my own bed. that's b/c i've discovered only two volumes in northern namibia thus far: off and real fucking loud.
but that's fine. ppl make music and some ppl actually enjoy it. i can't really tell ppl they're some piddly wanker b/c their tastes vary from mine, though i can imagine what it'd be like to throw a brick at someone's face. in all actuality, i'm finally growing accustomed to the music here. or maybe it's been awhile since i've cleaned my ears. thank god jesus invented earwax, n'est-ce pas? regardless, whether i'm used to the music or conditioned to finally ignore it, i'm rarely tempted to throw that brick at anyone. but BUT but BUT BUT i had this revelation: new releases. what if one of these wankers drags his arse into some studio thing b/c he has new ideas? and what if that same douche has expanded his artistry to include b, f, and g within his three-note repertoire? i suppose there's exponentially more variety possible with six notes than there is with three, but i don't put much faith in any kwaito mix-master's ability to mix. selah, at least time's on my side and my service should expire before the new stuff gets rocked out. it'll be at least four months before all the essential music ppl keep their studio appointments; another five minutes, judging from the sound quality, to produce/mix the cd; two months to finally phone the distribution agent and arrange for distribution; and another three for the actual distribution. by then it's the end of april, but now comes commercial purchasing, which requires ppl to willingly part with N$150. uhhh... it's at least another five months before some lazy entrepreneur-type drives enough taxi shifts to afford the cd and a dozen blank cassettes, which means i have another six weeks before they're hawked outside the shoprite. i guess that means the new cassettes won't be available till mid-october 2006. i don't peace out till december 2006, but pee/see made it very clear during recruitment that i can get nostalgic about the great satan anytime i want and fly home early. wird..
what i've found most impressive with kwaito's repetitiveness has not been the product, but rather the consumption. if you happen to be using a combi to travel between owamboland and windhoek, don't expect much variety from the cd changer. in fact, don't expect a cd. what yr most likely, i mean, going, to get is some busted ass cassette dubbed from one of the five or nine ppl in the country who've purchased the actual cd. and for some reason, the dub doesn't reflect the actual track listing. it's more like: track 4, track 5, track 1, track 4, track 4, track 8, track 2, track 4, repeat. i'm actually relieved when track 8 comes on forth fourteenth time b/c i've already heard track 4 fifty-five times.
then there's the cuca shop. while the playlist in a cuca shop lacks the confined intensity of the combi, it more than compensates through sheer frequency, frequency like no one appears to notice the same song has repeated itself seventeen times over: i'll play it again... and not only is the same song being rocked for an eighteenth time now, but the excitement at hearing a familiar classic for the first time in ages reincarnates itself over and over, too. i've been in the cuca shop before when some shite gazza tune will come on and all the men (girls are home being women: cooking, washing, etc.) will grab their tafels and find a spot on the floor to dance with themselves. halfway throught the sixty-first chorus most have found their chair or spot on the wall, but the song invariably plays again, the men all yell gazza!, and everyone's dancing again. well, not everyone. i don't dance to that shit, even on E.
i'd generally sigh and say selah, but sometimes it's 3.00 am and i leap out of bed b/c i have this poem in my head that's burning to be written. i grab whatever paper's closest and scribble feverishly, only to be disappointed when i read over what i wrote and find it's the lyrics to some crap song that's been on repeat ever since i crawled into bed around 8.45. the cuca shops might be close to a km from my house, but i'm still more likely to fall asleep in a mosh pit than i am in my own bed. that's b/c i've discovered only two volumes in northern namibia thus far: off and real fucking loud.
but that's fine. ppl make music and some ppl actually enjoy it. i can't really tell ppl they're some piddly wanker b/c their tastes vary from mine, though i can imagine what it'd be like to throw a brick at someone's face. in all actuality, i'm finally growing accustomed to the music here. or maybe it's been awhile since i've cleaned my ears. thank god jesus invented earwax, n'est-ce pas? regardless, whether i'm used to the music or conditioned to finally ignore it, i'm rarely tempted to throw that brick at anyone. but BUT but BUT BUT i had this revelation: new releases. what if one of these wankers drags his arse into some studio thing b/c he has new ideas? and what if that same douche has expanded his artistry to include b, f, and g within his three-note repertoire? i suppose there's exponentially more variety possible with six notes than there is with three, but i don't put much faith in any kwaito mix-master's ability to mix. selah, at least time's on my side and my service should expire before the new stuff gets rocked out. it'll be at least four months before all the essential music ppl keep their studio appointments; another five minutes, judging from the sound quality, to produce/mix the cd; two months to finally phone the distribution agent and arrange for distribution; and another three for the actual distribution. by then it's the end of april, but now comes commercial purchasing, which requires ppl to willingly part with N$150. uhhh... it's at least another five months before some lazy entrepreneur-type drives enough taxi shifts to afford the cd and a dozen blank cassettes, which means i have another six weeks before they're hawked outside the shoprite. i guess that means the new cassettes won't be available till mid-october 2006. i don't peace out till december 2006, but pee/see made it very clear during recruitment that i can get nostalgic about the great satan anytime i want and fly home early. wird..
one of my best ppl of the world is a photag and did a shitload of ground work (eg. sit in a fluffy chair and email my credit card info all over the us) to get me a digital camera. i decided to buy one b/c i’m sooooo fooken rich and can buy all these rich-guy trinkets. it didn’t even matter that i had a good $0 in my american account after buying the camera b/c my friend’s padre flew out for a visit and became the point man for operation: free postage. whoot! oh, and the point: g’s up, sancho’s down. meet my dog:
at the end of most days i’m ready to kill, so i don’t know if it’s a latent sophistication or a perverted identification with alex that inspires me to remain at school and listen to the brandenburg concertos. it’s prolly the fancy pants i wear under my extremely worn khakis. Even if it’s not, coloring my tastes urbane is a bit safer than admitting I use a clockwork orange as some sort of manual for coping with teacher-related stress. besides, i think alex had a proclivity towards mozart’s 40th something-or-other. personally, i’m a wagner and bach kind of guy… sort of like: sucka bach-a numero uno.
what actually keeps me at school past 4.00 is entropy. i can’t tell what frustrates me more, the students or the teachers. whichever it is, the wheels seem to be coming of both those donkey carts. i’ve heard other pee/see wiggedy wacks, both here and abroad, wank on about the lack of structure at their schools: students don’t attend regularly, and if they do, the teachers’ own sporadic attendance rarely correlates with that of the students, which in itself merits little attention b/c even if everyone regarded education as a regular commitment there wouldn’t be enough materials – physical, ancillary, or otherwise – to accommodate even half the enrollment figures. In this regard I’ve considered myself fortunate. what i anticipated before arriving in namibia was the sort of deprivation that causes people to spend their money on debt relief rather than the bombs they’re accustomed to; that my classroom walls would be the bark of a tree and a southeasterly wind; and that i’d be digging a new hole every time i had to drop a poo-poo. instead, i find myself drinking clean water from a tap (circumlocution for flushing toilet) and teaching at a school with nearly enough physical space, a chalkboard for every classroom, about one textbook for every 2.5 students, and most of all, regular attendance from both the teachers and students. i’ve yet to collect my own story about the teacher who disappears to caprivi b/c he’s afraid his ndonga colleagues bewitched him, but then again, it’s only mid-july, and entropy occasionally requires time.
two of my classes are taught in a tin shack, which is fine as far as stories go after I’m through with the peace corps, but right now i actually have to deal with that shite, not to mention sweaty boxers. the students are already fidgety and restless with heat exhaustion by the time i roll in to teach them the language o’ imperialism, so the last thing i need to deal with is the unsupervised douche rockets in the two adjoining shack-rooms. generally there’s a teacher, you know, teaching, which consequently provides nominal order, but that was before july.
–where are all the fooking teachers, i ask as i count one, two, five, seven classrooms without a teacher.
–oh, some of us are finished teaching the syllabus this term.
that’s pretty coke. i mean, the term ends mid-august, so it’s only rational that teachers peace out in early july b/c they finished the syllabus. scoring 30% to pass is instant rice, non, especially since half the students here don’t quite eat, to keep with the metaphor..
but what am i hankering about? i’d do the same except i’m still in the first term as far as the syllabus is concerned. the only reason i’ve been crying myself to sleep is that the other teachers get to rock the free time while i have to actually do my job. work is for people who get paid, unless yr a sucka busta..
but yeah, entropy. and wheels. coming off. i haven’t even mentioned students yet. well, i have, but only to illustrate the growing (or seasonal?) lethargy among the other teachers. but students: fooken wankers. some of them. most of them. ok, all of them, except for the few that can break-dance and get 30% on their exams at the same time. i’ve long ago accepted that i’m not going to be teaching any lewis carrolls or sage francis’s – unless there’s a deliberate creativity in all this broken english – but the learning curve has resembled less anything parabolic and more a straight line that points down, about a 55º angle. ‘tis ok, i think, might as well teach them to cheat. turns out the load’s already been shot on that peter principle: dildo-smacks can’t even cheat right.
for one thing, they have trouble with the furtive glance as i stand at the front of the room surveying their wandering eyes. since the perpetually telescopic context in pee/see is cultural, i guess i’m supposed to assume that owambos aren’t socialized to look left or right without rotating their entire head. it’s ok, i tell them, copy all you want. (a) it’s not going to help you do any better on the year-end examination and (b) the kind of ppl who fail the 8th grade three times are the kind of ppl who think it wise to copy from someone pulling a solid 22% average.
what are some other ways they fail to cover there tracks… oh, cheat sheets. except they’re not cheat sheets, per se, more like cheat posters. and the few who’ve attempted this approach don’t find it necessary to conceal the fact they’re, well, cheating. like i said, i don’t really care. i’d rather just read a book while they trip all over each other’s wrong answers, but even if i’m hovering just over a student’s shoulder, breathing progressively louder into his/her ear, the douche rocket doesn’t even bother to conceal the contraband. my learners haven’t quite learned that the script calls here for them to either persist in some inane claim about not cheating or to throw up their hands in mock surrender. i get neither, so i just sigh, grab their exercise book, throw it on the roof, and sit back down to my book. i once tried to explain something about body, soul, and spirit, that if they’re not going to work on their mind then they can spend class running laps, but most of them haven’t quite had english stamped into their language passports yet and don’t catch on to my pedestrian philosophies. selah. at least i’m rocking africa and a pair of sweaty boxers.
what actually keeps me at school past 4.00 is entropy. i can’t tell what frustrates me more, the students or the teachers. whichever it is, the wheels seem to be coming of both those donkey carts. i’ve heard other pee/see wiggedy wacks, both here and abroad, wank on about the lack of structure at their schools: students don’t attend regularly, and if they do, the teachers’ own sporadic attendance rarely correlates with that of the students, which in itself merits little attention b/c even if everyone regarded education as a regular commitment there wouldn’t be enough materials – physical, ancillary, or otherwise – to accommodate even half the enrollment figures. In this regard I’ve considered myself fortunate. what i anticipated before arriving in namibia was the sort of deprivation that causes people to spend their money on debt relief rather than the bombs they’re accustomed to; that my classroom walls would be the bark of a tree and a southeasterly wind; and that i’d be digging a new hole every time i had to drop a poo-poo. instead, i find myself drinking clean water from a tap (circumlocution for flushing toilet) and teaching at a school with nearly enough physical space, a chalkboard for every classroom, about one textbook for every 2.5 students, and most of all, regular attendance from both the teachers and students. i’ve yet to collect my own story about the teacher who disappears to caprivi b/c he’s afraid his ndonga colleagues bewitched him, but then again, it’s only mid-july, and entropy occasionally requires time.
two of my classes are taught in a tin shack, which is fine as far as stories go after I’m through with the peace corps, but right now i actually have to deal with that shite, not to mention sweaty boxers. the students are already fidgety and restless with heat exhaustion by the time i roll in to teach them the language o’ imperialism, so the last thing i need to deal with is the unsupervised douche rockets in the two adjoining shack-rooms. generally there’s a teacher, you know, teaching, which consequently provides nominal order, but that was before july.
–where are all the fooking teachers, i ask as i count one, two, five, seven classrooms without a teacher.
–oh, some of us are finished teaching the syllabus this term.
that’s pretty coke. i mean, the term ends mid-august, so it’s only rational that teachers peace out in early july b/c they finished the syllabus. scoring 30% to pass is instant rice, non, especially since half the students here don’t quite eat, to keep with the metaphor..
but what am i hankering about? i’d do the same except i’m still in the first term as far as the syllabus is concerned. the only reason i’ve been crying myself to sleep is that the other teachers get to rock the free time while i have to actually do my job. work is for people who get paid, unless yr a sucka busta..
but yeah, entropy. and wheels. coming off. i haven’t even mentioned students yet. well, i have, but only to illustrate the growing (or seasonal?) lethargy among the other teachers. but students: fooken wankers. some of them. most of them. ok, all of them, except for the few that can break-dance and get 30% on their exams at the same time. i’ve long ago accepted that i’m not going to be teaching any lewis carrolls or sage francis’s – unless there’s a deliberate creativity in all this broken english – but the learning curve has resembled less anything parabolic and more a straight line that points down, about a 55º angle. ‘tis ok, i think, might as well teach them to cheat. turns out the load’s already been shot on that peter principle: dildo-smacks can’t even cheat right.
for one thing, they have trouble with the furtive glance as i stand at the front of the room surveying their wandering eyes. since the perpetually telescopic context in pee/see is cultural, i guess i’m supposed to assume that owambos aren’t socialized to look left or right without rotating their entire head. it’s ok, i tell them, copy all you want. (a) it’s not going to help you do any better on the year-end examination and (b) the kind of ppl who fail the 8th grade three times are the kind of ppl who think it wise to copy from someone pulling a solid 22% average.
what are some other ways they fail to cover there tracks… oh, cheat sheets. except they’re not cheat sheets, per se, more like cheat posters. and the few who’ve attempted this approach don’t find it necessary to conceal the fact they’re, well, cheating. like i said, i don’t really care. i’d rather just read a book while they trip all over each other’s wrong answers, but even if i’m hovering just over a student’s shoulder, breathing progressively louder into his/her ear, the douche rocket doesn’t even bother to conceal the contraband. my learners haven’t quite learned that the script calls here for them to either persist in some inane claim about not cheating or to throw up their hands in mock surrender. i get neither, so i just sigh, grab their exercise book, throw it on the roof, and sit back down to my book. i once tried to explain something about body, soul, and spirit, that if they’re not going to work on their mind then they can spend class running laps, but most of them haven’t quite had english stamped into their language passports yet and don’t catch on to my pedestrian philosophies. selah. at least i’m rocking africa and a pair of sweaty boxers.
i spent high school living quite a few miles past the city limits sign, which meant my weekends depended either on my mama’s willingness to rock the station wagon into town or my persistence in peddling a bike 1.5 hours to a friend’s house. my mama didn’t say much other than fuck off back then, and i didn’t own a bike, so i was left to sit in my room and read. or something. i suppose I could’ve passed the time hunting, living on a farm and all, but most hunters beat their wives. i didn’t even have a girlfriend. so back to my room where i could imagine what it’d be like to have friends.
By the time i danced my shit over to university i decided hippies have lots of friends. you can’t be a proper hippy unless you’ve become a knee-jerk liberal, so i fomented an unhealthy rage toward all things republican or multi-national. pretty soon i had all sorts of friends who were, like, so deep. spiritual, too. we’d sit around in our air-conditioned apartments drinking our microbrew, listening to expensive radios, and engaging ourselves in a two-minute intolerance over those we labeled intolerant. whatevs, mock all you want. at least i have street cred: eugene, mofucka!!!
one of our favorite topics for confabulation is the ugly american. trustafarians aren't authentic unless they've traveled abroad, preferably to the third world. paris and london don't count b/c that's like america with an accent, but you can still redeem points by sharing a story about a compatriot's ignorance of the other 7999 world languages. like: i love when i'm in a foreign country and my thoughts are interrupted by some wanker and his/her brash yankee accent: DEWWWWW - - - - YOUUUU - - - - - SPEEEEEEAK - - - - - ENGGGGLISH ???? HOOWWWWW - - - - - MUUUCH - - - - - DUZZZ - - - - - THISSS - - - - - CAWWWST ????? it sounds even worse when done in dixie-speak. i become a bit confused when this happens b/c i'm only lying when i tell ppl i'm canadian, but surely i'm not from the same country as the type of retard who thinks slower and louder will cause someone to miraculously understand english. but then again, i've only travelled. actually living abroad has taught that i and the rest of my hippy friends are a bit overreactive to to what we'd peg as cultural insenstivity. slower and louder still means i tell ppl i'm canadian, but it's a shitload better than the persistently oshi-only abuelos i meet in the village:
-hello, cute old man. you don't have many teeth.
-oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo...
-uhhhh, wa lala po, tatekulu?
-oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo...
-kandi ku uvite, dood?
-oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo...
-k a n d i ku u v i te. i don't fucking understand. stop speaking oshiwambo to me. i bet you don't understand what I'M saying, do you????
i had this exact exchange with a tatekulu a couple saturdays ago after i was dropped at the road and started my walk into the bush. i passed this old dood on my way home and went through the customary greetings. he didn't have much in the way of teeth, so i assumed he returned my greeting, but after five minutes of listening to him go all oshiwambo oshiwambo on me, i went from thinking how hippy this is to how peace aut i'm about to be. turns out i was involved in an impromptu custody battle. one of my students chased me down to tell me the old man was sancho's other owner. ohhhh, a peu de chose...
i headed back to the road thinking logic would be the arbitrator to solve our difference, but yeah, logic... in so many words, since our interpreter didn't speak english very well, i explained to the douche rocket that sancho was mine. with quite a few words, since our interpreter spoke oshiwambo rather well, he told me:
-we could go to the headman (fine)
-i could pay him (fuck yrself)
-he would kill sancho once she gave birth (dog food is something you buy in cans and feed TO yr dog)
-i don't know him (...)
we parted with a couple of unresolved issues: (1) sancho is still either mine or his. i suggested sancho continue roaving between both homes and he could keep the puppies (i don't want grandkids), but that's when he mentioned killing her. and (2) why did he continually mention that "i don't know him?" i asked my student/interpreter, who replied that he's going to cast a spell on me. WHAT?!? -oh those ndonga, they know magic. conventional wisdom in the village is that the witchdoctor won't fuck my shit too bad, perhaps make it so i repeat dog over and over and over. -you will be teaching or sweeping and say, dog dog dog. selah. oh, and sancho had her puppies, albeit at the witchdoctor's place, so i still haven't seen them. i feel like i've been robbed of a paternal right of some sort. les sighs.
By the time i danced my shit over to university i decided hippies have lots of friends. you can’t be a proper hippy unless you’ve become a knee-jerk liberal, so i fomented an unhealthy rage toward all things republican or multi-national. pretty soon i had all sorts of friends who were, like, so deep. spiritual, too. we’d sit around in our air-conditioned apartments drinking our microbrew, listening to expensive radios, and engaging ourselves in a two-minute intolerance over those we labeled intolerant. whatevs, mock all you want. at least i have street cred: eugene, mofucka!!!
one of our favorite topics for confabulation is the ugly american. trustafarians aren't authentic unless they've traveled abroad, preferably to the third world. paris and london don't count b/c that's like america with an accent, but you can still redeem points by sharing a story about a compatriot's ignorance of the other 7999 world languages. like: i love when i'm in a foreign country and my thoughts are interrupted by some wanker and his/her brash yankee accent: DEWWWWW - - - - YOUUUU - - - - - SPEEEEEEAK - - - - - ENGGGGLISH ???? HOOWWWWW - - - - - MUUUCH - - - - - DUZZZ - - - - - THISSS - - - - - CAWWWST ????? it sounds even worse when done in dixie-speak. i become a bit confused when this happens b/c i'm only lying when i tell ppl i'm canadian, but surely i'm not from the same country as the type of retard who thinks slower and louder will cause someone to miraculously understand english. but then again, i've only travelled. actually living abroad has taught that i and the rest of my hippy friends are a bit overreactive to to what we'd peg as cultural insenstivity. slower and louder still means i tell ppl i'm canadian, but it's a shitload better than the persistently oshi-only abuelos i meet in the village:
-hello, cute old man. you don't have many teeth.
-oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo...
-uhhhh, wa lala po, tatekulu?
-oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo...
-kandi ku uvite, dood?
-oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo oshiwambo...
-k a n d i ku u v i te. i don't fucking understand. stop speaking oshiwambo to me. i bet you don't understand what I'M saying, do you????
i had this exact exchange with a tatekulu a couple saturdays ago after i was dropped at the road and started my walk into the bush. i passed this old dood on my way home and went through the customary greetings. he didn't have much in the way of teeth, so i assumed he returned my greeting, but after five minutes of listening to him go all oshiwambo oshiwambo on me, i went from thinking how hippy this is to how peace aut i'm about to be. turns out i was involved in an impromptu custody battle. one of my students chased me down to tell me the old man was sancho's other owner. ohhhh, a peu de chose...
i headed back to the road thinking logic would be the arbitrator to solve our difference, but yeah, logic... in so many words, since our interpreter didn't speak english very well, i explained to the douche rocket that sancho was mine. with quite a few words, since our interpreter spoke oshiwambo rather well, he told me:
-we could go to the headman (fine)
-i could pay him (fuck yrself)
-he would kill sancho once she gave birth (dog food is something you buy in cans and feed TO yr dog)
-i don't know him (...)
we parted with a couple of unresolved issues: (1) sancho is still either mine or his. i suggested sancho continue roaving between both homes and he could keep the puppies (i don't want grandkids), but that's when he mentioned killing her. and (2) why did he continually mention that "i don't know him?" i asked my student/interpreter, who replied that he's going to cast a spell on me. WHAT?!? -oh those ndonga, they know magic. conventional wisdom in the village is that the witchdoctor won't fuck my shit too bad, perhaps make it so i repeat dog over and over and over. -you will be teaching or sweeping and say, dog dog dog. selah. oh, and sancho had her puppies, albeit at the witchdoctor's place, so i still haven't seen them. i feel like i've been robbed of a paternal right of some sort. les sighs.
***REQUEST FOR SUBMISSIONS***
since most ppl i'm friends with or love or don't love or wish would stab themselves in the thigh didn't send fotos the first time i requested, i need a new method of solicitation. or rather: i need a new way for submission. don't send fotos. yr all fooken lazy. computer is the word, and email makes words. digital fotos don't require another morpheme b/c there are really only two numbers in the grammatical world: one and everything else. so words is where i'm at, and near a computer is where yr at. i'm sure there's a pic of you lying around somewhere on the hard drive. you should email it to me so i can print it out and tape it to a wall in my room. i have namibian visitors, and they all wonder why i don't have any friends. i tell them b/c i smell bad, but someone pointed out that a nose in a picture doesn't work as well as a nose on an actual face. yeahs, i say, wird to yr dog.
EDIT: my sister's (darker hair) fooken sweet. and on the ball. she even lets my faux-sister (lighter hair) tag along in the jet stream:
since most ppl i'm friends with or love or don't love or wish would stab themselves in the thigh didn't send fotos the first time i requested, i need a new method of solicitation. or rather: i need a new way for submission. don't send fotos. yr all fooken lazy. computer is the word, and email makes words. digital fotos don't require another morpheme b/c there are really only two numbers in the grammatical world: one and everything else. so words is where i'm at, and near a computer is where yr at. i'm sure there's a pic of you lying around somewhere on the hard drive. you should email it to me so i can print it out and tape it to a wall in my room. i have namibian visitors, and they all wonder why i don't have any friends. i tell them b/c i smell bad, but someone pointed out that a nose in a picture doesn't work as well as a nose on an actual face. yeahs, i say, wird to yr dog.
EDIT: my sister's (darker hair) fooken sweet. and on the ball. she even lets my faux-sister (lighter hair) tag along in the jet stream:
big fourth of julius caesar party this weekend in ongwediva. northern namibia is rife with both peace corps volunteers and those of the vso variety. on the agenda:
-food
-rock music
-drinky
-sex??
-battle of bunker hill: a reenactment
-don't have sex till you see the whites of their eyes
-drinky
-food
-rock music
-drinky
-sex??
-battle of bunker hill: a reenactment
-don't have sex till you see the whites of their eyes
-drinky
the pangs of homesickness punch you in the stomach when you least expect it, most often when yr hungry. it's generally lunchtime when i wish i ate dog b/c i see so many scavenging around school grounds. convenience, right? but i don't eat dog, so my thoughts then turn to things i'm comfortable digesting. i was pondering yesterday whether i should fry my pb&j sandwich in butter, eat it plain, or have a pb&j sandwich (peace corps = variety) when i began to think: i would kill (preferably one of my learners) to have something phallic-shaped and wrapped in tinfoil to stuff into my mouth. it makes little difference if it comes from btb or jay garden...
[by the by, this space was previously earmarked to wanker on about shit coffee, but i have three bags left of the four-bag starbuck shipment my mama sent, so i'll save the fetal position for later.]
[by the by, this space was previously earmarked to wanker on about shit coffee, but i have three bags left of the four-bag starbuck shipment my mama sent, so i'll save the fetal position for later.]
if yr at all interested in learning oshindonga, i wouldn't mind posting lessons on my blog. i'll begin with vocabulary:
konya - eat porridge from the stick
kotamena - drink with mouth in the water
or you could just go here or here or here.
also: i don't know if this is related to tate samurai peter's story, but i found this in a student's workbook:
my cat is die, but my dog is eaten by snack.
sancho sleeps indoors now.
konya - eat porridge from the stick
kotamena - drink with mouth in the water
or you could just go here or here or here.
also: i don't know if this is related to tate samurai peter's story, but i found this in a student's workbook:
my cat is die, but my dog is eaten by snack.
sancho sleeps indoors now.
i initially found the candy-as-currency culture here rather amusing, and when i say currency, i mean currency in all its forms: monetary, social, etc. ok, i'm bullshitting. i had to use etc b/c i can only think of two forms of currency at the moment, and it's my blog so i should appear smarter than anyone reading it. the et cetera allows me to move to subsequent thoughts while readers assume me capable of completing the series if only i wasn't so rushed. whatevs, some people use combovers, i use strategically-learned latin.
the message here is sweets. most ppl understand that the major expense in an african holiday is the airfare, that once here you can get by quite comfortably on summer earnings from burger king. that's not the case at all. consumer goods cost money, quite a bit of it. the reason day-to-day living here is so inexpensive is that candy is more addictive than crack, which consequently means you can use jolly ranchers to buy just about anything. anything. food, clothes, police protection, governmental contracts, a new wife. if yr caught at the angolan border with diamonds, assault rifles, honey, japanese cars older than five years, or even sam nujoma's very own kidnapped mother, a casual mention of snickers will send you unfettered to the nearest (black) market stall. i've personally used sweets to curry favor with postal employees and taxi drivers. it's amazing the coincidence that arises between a soft bribe and the "sudden" arrival of a parcel my mama posted three months earlier. or the suddenly non-belligerent stance taxi drivers assume even though yr n$5 short of fare.
i've never understood the appeal of candy to namibians, but i looked in the mirror today and noticed my teeth are either dark yellow, black, or have fallen out. i don't think it's an issue of maintenance. i currently own five toothbrushes, two tubes of toothpaste, and have ready access to running water. there's also a bottle of listerine in my room. i even use it on occasion. that leaves me to assume my sugar consumption has thoroughly outpaced my oral hygiene, which is odd considering my general aversion to sugar at home. when i was younger i wanted nothing more than a dinner plateful of starburst and a liter of coke, but then i turned 20 and my craving for unnecessary sugar extinguished itself. my only reason for buying coke since then is if i'm sharing the bottle with capt. morgan. but now that i live in southern africa: GIVE ME NOW FOOKEN SUGAR NOW OR I'LL NOW STAB YOU!!! i don't know why, but i can't walk past a cuca shop without wrestling an urge to buy a coke. nor can i casually dismiss the bags of candy i find in the occasional care package. i used to offer candy after tests to the best performing students, but i was invariably left with half a bag to hide under my shirt so the other teachers wouldn't see and, consequently, ask me to share. i've since squelched that temptation by shifting from curve-based assessment to straight numbers. ever since i've introduced 80% as the new standard i've been able to walk past the candy aisle with nary the concern. it's not like students study, though that's an entirely different story.
the message here is sweets. most ppl understand that the major expense in an african holiday is the airfare, that once here you can get by quite comfortably on summer earnings from burger king. that's not the case at all. consumer goods cost money, quite a bit of it. the reason day-to-day living here is so inexpensive is that candy is more addictive than crack, which consequently means you can use jolly ranchers to buy just about anything. anything. food, clothes, police protection, governmental contracts, a new wife. if yr caught at the angolan border with diamonds, assault rifles, honey, japanese cars older than five years, or even sam nujoma's very own kidnapped mother, a casual mention of snickers will send you unfettered to the nearest (black) market stall. i've personally used sweets to curry favor with postal employees and taxi drivers. it's amazing the coincidence that arises between a soft bribe and the "sudden" arrival of a parcel my mama posted three months earlier. or the suddenly non-belligerent stance taxi drivers assume even though yr n$5 short of fare.
i've never understood the appeal of candy to namibians, but i looked in the mirror today and noticed my teeth are either dark yellow, black, or have fallen out. i don't think it's an issue of maintenance. i currently own five toothbrushes, two tubes of toothpaste, and have ready access to running water. there's also a bottle of listerine in my room. i even use it on occasion. that leaves me to assume my sugar consumption has thoroughly outpaced my oral hygiene, which is odd considering my general aversion to sugar at home. when i was younger i wanted nothing more than a dinner plateful of starburst and a liter of coke, but then i turned 20 and my craving for unnecessary sugar extinguished itself. my only reason for buying coke since then is if i'm sharing the bottle with capt. morgan. but now that i live in southern africa: GIVE ME NOW FOOKEN SUGAR NOW OR I'LL NOW STAB YOU!!! i don't know why, but i can't walk past a cuca shop without wrestling an urge to buy a coke. nor can i casually dismiss the bags of candy i find in the occasional care package. i used to offer candy after tests to the best performing students, but i was invariably left with half a bag to hide under my shirt so the other teachers wouldn't see and, consequently, ask me to share. i've since squelched that temptation by shifting from curve-based assessment to straight numbers. ever since i've introduced 80% as the new standard i've been able to walk past the candy aisle with nary the concern. it's not like students study, though that's an entirely different story.
pc/namibia sponsors various committees do to things. what those things are, i don't know. i'm a member of one. in fact, i'm the pageant coordinator for the hiv/aids committee, so i should probably educate myself on what is entailed by things. i'll get on that tomorrow. i do know that the diversity committee has interpreted things to mean they should put together a diversity tour. i forget b/c i'm ignorant, but i think there are 12 or 13 distinct ethnic groups in namibia. even though nationalism dictates that the people here are first and foremost namibian, it's not long into persiflage that you discover the presence of tribalism. i don't know the precise extent of the issue, but i've had enough anecdotal experience to know it's a problem. things like: "oh, those hereros. they were nowhere when we fight against south africa." or, "i don't like walvis bay; they are too much ovambos."
like most forms of prejudice, tribalism is based on ignorance. the apartheid system of governance seperated people into bantustans depending on their tribal affiliation, and since even today many people don't wander much past the old boundaries, it's easy to think of damaras, himba, the san, or whomever else you aren't as those people. sheeat, aspersions are even flung within the same territory. the owambo people are comprised of eight seperate tribes, and it's not uncommon to hear about those dirty ndonga, or how kwanyamas grow up to be thieves.
to promote better understanding between peoples, the diversity committee sponsors a tour in which they take ~30 school-aged children and stick them on a bus that travels through different parts of namibia. the idea is to sit the students next to someone their parents have claimed smells like shit and have them realize if they smell shit, it's prolly b/c they're staring up a cow's arsehole. the committee selects participants for the tour by inviting submissions from students all over the country. i don't know what exactly is submitted, but it looks all poem-y, or crayon-y, or essayish. i think the focus is, uh, diversity? participants are then chosen based on some criteria i'm not privy to and then told they can sit on a bus for five days if they don't have anything else going on.
i think 200+ submitted entries for this year's tour, which meant there was a pile of 170 rejections that i got to rifle through, keeping whatever i thought cute, funny, retarded, or [insert complementary adjective]. the point: i have a pile of artwork that i'm going to use for enclosures in the letters i send home. i think i salvaged only one poem, so most of them are drawings of some sort, though the lucky few of you will have the benefit of expository captions:
I like Ovambo people because when they playing they make exercise. The sound & voice they use it is good & I like Ovambo Cultural association when they associate.
anyhow, i suppose i should publish the single poem i pilfered. i wouldn't say it demonstrates a firm grasp on the language, but still...
poem
AIds AIds where are you?
you coward things I wish
I get you in my hands
How could you do it?
How could you bring ashamed
on our, Country, family and on our
friends.
You cut our love you
Destep [destroy?] relationship and our friendship
Everytime I become weak
AIds AIds you coward
Why don't you make me see you.
I wish I wish I wish
I will find a treatment for you
Once you kill my friend
you kill my family
and our nation
Can't you became enough
with that.
You coward!!!
like most forms of prejudice, tribalism is based on ignorance. the apartheid system of governance seperated people into bantustans depending on their tribal affiliation, and since even today many people don't wander much past the old boundaries, it's easy to think of damaras, himba, the san, or whomever else you aren't as those people. sheeat, aspersions are even flung within the same territory. the owambo people are comprised of eight seperate tribes, and it's not uncommon to hear about those dirty ndonga, or how kwanyamas grow up to be thieves.
to promote better understanding between peoples, the diversity committee sponsors a tour in which they take ~30 school-aged children and stick them on a bus that travels through different parts of namibia. the idea is to sit the students next to someone their parents have claimed smells like shit and have them realize if they smell shit, it's prolly b/c they're staring up a cow's arsehole. the committee selects participants for the tour by inviting submissions from students all over the country. i don't know what exactly is submitted, but it looks all poem-y, or crayon-y, or essayish. i think the focus is, uh, diversity? participants are then chosen based on some criteria i'm not privy to and then told they can sit on a bus for five days if they don't have anything else going on.
i think 200+ submitted entries for this year's tour, which meant there was a pile of 170 rejections that i got to rifle through, keeping whatever i thought cute, funny, retarded, or [insert complementary adjective]. the point: i have a pile of artwork that i'm going to use for enclosures in the letters i send home. i think i salvaged only one poem, so most of them are drawings of some sort, though the lucky few of you will have the benefit of expository captions:
I like Ovambo people because when they playing they make exercise. The sound & voice they use it is good & I like Ovambo Cultural association when they associate.
anyhow, i suppose i should publish the single poem i pilfered. i wouldn't say it demonstrates a firm grasp on the language, but still...
poem
AIds AIds where are you?
you coward things I wish
I get you in my hands
How could you do it?
How could you bring ashamed
on our, Country, family and on our
friends.
You cut our love you
Destep [destroy?] relationship and our friendship
Everytime I become weak
AIds AIds you coward
Why don't you make me see you.
I wish I wish I wish
I will find a treatment for you
Once you kill my friend
you kill my family
and our nation
Can't you became enough
with that.
You coward!!!
i won't pretend that i'm not opportunistic when it comes to sport. i found a tv with satellite a couple weeks ago and discovered i'm a pistons fan. afterward i used the internet to see if i'm pulling for the tigers and gave the go ahead once i saw them hovering around .500. and let me claim before anyone else: i fooken l o o o o o o v e chick baseball. then there's soccer. since i live in africa i'm required to support an english football club, and since chelsea ran away with the premiership this year, they were the natural candidate for my unabated loyalty. but i sometimes don't find them on the telly and need a different team to support. i generally go here with arsenal since they won the premiership last year.
so that's me, a grandstander, unless we're talking michigan football. or politics. nay, even here, 9000 miles away from home and american flag in hand, will you hear me claiming george w. bush was my horse. or is my horse, for that matter. but he is my president, and it gets a little tiresome to be bombarded with fuck george bush everytime i set foot outside the country. granted, his approach to foreign, or even domestic, diplomacy could be a bit less ascerbic, but he isn't the puppet master behind robert mugabe's more informed decisions. or even hostage situations in cambodia. nor is he or his party directly responsible for enabling people like kwame kilpatrick. so yeah, double-ewwwww: douche, but not the reason for yr shitty life.
i was wondering about this b/c even here, in a po-dunk village no one's ever heard of before, people occasionally tell me that gw sucks. ok, i can agree. but then they go on. pretty soon america's bombed every known country on earth, even atlantis, leaving me to believe that (1) george bush sucks, (2) america sucks, and (3) americans suck b/c they voted for george bush. (1) i agree with, (2) i can understand why a n.korean might think so, and (3) is complete bullshit, especially when promulgated by people in a society as conservative as namibia. and now that i've reconsidered, (2) is full of arse too, especially since it's predicated on the belief america is too quick to show off its dick. everytime i find myself acquiesing into agreement with "we're too violent" i realize i'm in a poor ass country and the only reason places like namibia, zambia, or chile aren't dropping bombs on people is b/c they can't afford the planes to drop them with. a proclivity towards military interventions can't be blamed solely on societal values. it's been quite some time since namibia's been involved in armed conflict, yet every day at school i see kids beating on each other, and if they're not, the teachers fill the gap. when i was growing up fighting was (supposedly) deterred through suspension. i was even suspended once for NOT fighting the wanker trying to fight me. all this micro grows into macro, which leads me to belief the third world would transgress just as much as the first if given the opportunity.
but whatevs, it's (3) that bugs me the worst. i didn't vote for bush not b/c he speaks like a retard, or even because i don't like his recalcitrance, and i probably would've been justified not voting for him b/c he's an asshole, but i didn't. i didn't vote for him b/c i agreed with kerry on more issues than i did bush. go figure. if you took that novel concept--voting on the issues--and transplated it, as well as the u.s. candidates for president, into namibia, bush would've carried a larger majority than swapo did. for instance:
-namibians hate gays. point bush.
-abortion, too. point bush.
-they REALLY hate gays. three points bush.
-95% of the country is considered christian. five points bush.
-namibians don't have jobs, which is a lot like the america that reelected bush. point bush.
-namibians consequently don't pay taxes. eight points bush.
-"there is no such thing as a gay owambo. now namas and hereros, they are gay." lots of points for bush.
-dissention is akin to treason, with heavy rhetorical emphasis on unity. points swapo. i mean republicans.
-social security is code for i hope yr granchildren like you. two points bush.
-education ministry promotes ridiculous "standards" and blames the teachers when students are invaribly left behind. six points bush.
-fucking gay people and their hiv. thirteen points bush.
so there you have it. george w. bush, president of the republic of namibia. i didn't bother adding up the score b/c kerry didn't get any points, effectively a shut out. that hasn't happened to an american politician since george washington, so i suppose that makes bush more namibia's fault than mine: i voted for kerry.
so that's me, a grandstander, unless we're talking michigan football. or politics. nay, even here, 9000 miles away from home and american flag in hand, will you hear me claiming george w. bush was my horse. or is my horse, for that matter. but he is my president, and it gets a little tiresome to be bombarded with fuck george bush everytime i set foot outside the country. granted, his approach to foreign, or even domestic, diplomacy could be a bit less ascerbic, but he isn't the puppet master behind robert mugabe's more informed decisions. or even hostage situations in cambodia. nor is he or his party directly responsible for enabling people like kwame kilpatrick. so yeah, double-ewwwww: douche, but not the reason for yr shitty life.
i was wondering about this b/c even here, in a po-dunk village no one's ever heard of before, people occasionally tell me that gw sucks. ok, i can agree. but then they go on. pretty soon america's bombed every known country on earth, even atlantis, leaving me to believe that (1) george bush sucks, (2) america sucks, and (3) americans suck b/c they voted for george bush. (1) i agree with, (2) i can understand why a n.korean might think so, and (3) is complete bullshit, especially when promulgated by people in a society as conservative as namibia. and now that i've reconsidered, (2) is full of arse too, especially since it's predicated on the belief america is too quick to show off its dick. everytime i find myself acquiesing into agreement with "we're too violent" i realize i'm in a poor ass country and the only reason places like namibia, zambia, or chile aren't dropping bombs on people is b/c they can't afford the planes to drop them with. a proclivity towards military interventions can't be blamed solely on societal values. it's been quite some time since namibia's been involved in armed conflict, yet every day at school i see kids beating on each other, and if they're not, the teachers fill the gap. when i was growing up fighting was (supposedly) deterred through suspension. i was even suspended once for NOT fighting the wanker trying to fight me. all this micro grows into macro, which leads me to belief the third world would transgress just as much as the first if given the opportunity.
but whatevs, it's (3) that bugs me the worst. i didn't vote for bush not b/c he speaks like a retard, or even because i don't like his recalcitrance, and i probably would've been justified not voting for him b/c he's an asshole, but i didn't. i didn't vote for him b/c i agreed with kerry on more issues than i did bush. go figure. if you took that novel concept--voting on the issues--and transplated it, as well as the u.s. candidates for president, into namibia, bush would've carried a larger majority than swapo did. for instance:
-namibians hate gays. point bush.
-abortion, too. point bush.
-they REALLY hate gays. three points bush.
-95% of the country is considered christian. five points bush.
-namibians don't have jobs, which is a lot like the america that reelected bush. point bush.
-namibians consequently don't pay taxes. eight points bush.
-"there is no such thing as a gay owambo. now namas and hereros, they are gay." lots of points for bush.
-dissention is akin to treason, with heavy rhetorical emphasis on unity. points swapo. i mean republicans.
-social security is code for i hope yr granchildren like you. two points bush.
-education ministry promotes ridiculous "standards" and blames the teachers when students are invaribly left behind. six points bush.
-fucking gay people and their hiv. thirteen points bush.
so there you have it. george w. bush, president of the republic of namibia. i didn't bother adding up the score b/c kerry didn't get any points, effectively a shut out. that hasn't happened to an american politician since george washington, so i suppose that makes bush more namibia's fault than mine: i voted for kerry.
pee/see has us fill out these trimester report thingies in which they ask if we've built a library (nope), built a lab (nope), did anything cultural (nope), pissed anyone off (yup), saved someone's life (nope, back was hurting), or passed the time in any way that can be considered worthwhile (absolutely not). then they ask how many students you taught (185), how many of them recieved passing marks (passing??), how many teachers you've shared teaching methods with (does "beating isn't effective" count?), and whether or not yr principal's a douche (i tend to vacillate on this one). finally they rehash the three goals of peace corps and, since the previous questions cover the first goal, ask you to explain how you've met the following two. to explain how i've brought american culture to namibia i wrote, i'm monolingual, full stop. there are times, however, when i feel guilty for my inability to communicate in a language other than one that 1/4 of the entire world can speak, so i lie and say i know a little spanish. owamboland abuts angola (it might even extend into angola if i'm not mistaken), so people here take my slight fib as a cue to use portugese with me. i eventually explain that portugese and spanish are different languages, but i'm commonly scoffed at. they're the same, or so the thinking here goes.
that leaves me with this curious discrepency in logic. any given owambo will tell you (s)he speaks at least five languages: afrikaans, english, portugese, oshindonga, oshikwanyama, oshikwambi, oshietc. oshiwambo is a language with seven distinct dialects, but when i point out that oshindonga and oshinkwanyama are actually the same language, i get, no, no, they are DIFFERENT! it appears that spanish and portugese, however, are the same. at least the looks i get for being a retard would suggest they are.
anyhow, i was somewhat dedicated to learning oshindonga when i first arrived but, alas, was having a bit of difficulty. i mentioned this to my roommate as he drove me from the swearing in ceremony to my permanent site and his suggestion was to try oshikwanyama first. -it is very easy language, then you learn oshindonga. i thought that was an odd claim, but i've heard it repeated since over and over by other ndonga speakers. i finally asked a kwanyama speaker if this was the case. he said yes, so i asked him to explain. -are there differences in syntax structure, tense formations, does kwanyama do away with all those noxious prefixes??? -yes, was the answer again, and then he proceeded to break it down:
-in oshindonga, "you" is oan-goy-yay. now listen, in oshikwanya it's [really fast] gah-yee. which one is easier?
oooohhh, touche! i'm glad i have a bit of linguistic training, else i would've never thought that different pronounciations, despite shared phonemes, could make learning one "language" that much easier than another. i was about to launch into a motherfucker just b/c you pronounce ongoye slightly different than someone living fourteen miles away from you means you speak a different language, but then he told me some of the spelling differs, too. i guess he body slammed me into a pile of what's up, though being wrong here actually makes me less a prevericator than i already am. i can now claim to be multi-lingual without fear of jesus bootkicking my rotting teeth that give passage to dirty lies. let's see, i can communicate in aave, british english, canadian english, and i'm at least conversational in australian english. i've also read enough irvine welsch to believe i could hack scottish english, and my mother tongue is american english, though i've noticed my natural propensity isn't toward sae, meaning there's another "language" i might get to throw on my list. that means i speak...[let me count for a second]...six, possibly seven languages. oh, eight. i forgot i speak spanish now, which means i understand portugese, but that's not a seperate language so i still speak only eight.
that leaves me with this curious discrepency in logic. any given owambo will tell you (s)he speaks at least five languages: afrikaans, english, portugese, oshindonga, oshikwanyama, oshikwambi, oshietc. oshiwambo is a language with seven distinct dialects, but when i point out that oshindonga and oshinkwanyama are actually the same language, i get, no, no, they are DIFFERENT! it appears that spanish and portugese, however, are the same. at least the looks i get for being a retard would suggest they are.
anyhow, i was somewhat dedicated to learning oshindonga when i first arrived but, alas, was having a bit of difficulty. i mentioned this to my roommate as he drove me from the swearing in ceremony to my permanent site and his suggestion was to try oshikwanyama first. -it is very easy language, then you learn oshindonga. i thought that was an odd claim, but i've heard it repeated since over and over by other ndonga speakers. i finally asked a kwanyama speaker if this was the case. he said yes, so i asked him to explain. -are there differences in syntax structure, tense formations, does kwanyama do away with all those noxious prefixes??? -yes, was the answer again, and then he proceeded to break it down:
-in oshindonga, "you" is oan-goy-yay. now listen, in oshikwanya it's [really fast] gah-yee. which one is easier?
oooohhh, touche! i'm glad i have a bit of linguistic training, else i would've never thought that different pronounciations, despite shared phonemes, could make learning one "language" that much easier than another. i was about to launch into a motherfucker just b/c you pronounce ongoye slightly different than someone living fourteen miles away from you means you speak a different language, but then he told me some of the spelling differs, too. i guess he body slammed me into a pile of what's up, though being wrong here actually makes me less a prevericator than i already am. i can now claim to be multi-lingual without fear of jesus bootkicking my rotting teeth that give passage to dirty lies. let's see, i can communicate in aave, british english, canadian english, and i'm at least conversational in australian english. i've also read enough irvine welsch to believe i could hack scottish english, and my mother tongue is american english, though i've noticed my natural propensity isn't toward sae, meaning there's another "language" i might get to throw on my list. that means i speak...[let me count for a second]...six, possibly seven languages. oh, eight. i forgot i speak spanish now, which means i understand portugese, but that's not a seperate language so i still speak only eight.
some bush-types visited northern namibia to make sure those lascivious africans weren't using u.s. money to have sex with each other. condoms BAD: the lord said to wait till marriage.. which generally isn't a problem here. guy gets married THEN has sex, albeit with 20 or 30 women who aren't his wife..
they brought david brooks with him. i've been out of the states for awhile and have forgotten if i hate him. prolly, but he wrote an op/ed about his visit. it's a bit touchy feely, which is how the hiv spreads itself, non? i think he's slightly off point about this whole life after death thing, though. he treats hope as the ends when it's really the means. as in, the stigma and fear of hiv/aids need to be overcome (hope) so ppl will foot their arse to the clinic, get tested, and quit passing out the hiv b/c they're ignorant of their status.
they brought david brooks with him. i've been out of the states for awhile and have forgotten if i hate him. prolly, but he wrote an op/ed about his visit. it's a bit touchy feely, which is how the hiv spreads itself, non? i think he's slightly off point about this whole life after death thing, though. he treats hope as the ends when it's really the means. as in, the stigma and fear of hiv/aids need to be overcome (hope) so ppl will foot their arse to the clinic, get tested, and quit passing out the hiv b/c they're ignorant of their status.
i've finally begun to shed, alter, and adopt entirely new priorities for my teaching here. out is english. why bother, right? i'm sure my kids are smart, precocious, talented, etc., but they don't speak english very well. they've basically taken english vocabulary and plugged it into oshiwambo syntax, which i find reasonable yet grating. i consequently spend lesson after lesson trying to right the ship, but my 40 minutes invaribly expire and i defer to the next teacher's reinforcement of owamblish. selah, i's best start looking for job satisfaction somewhere else, eh. although i can't really look for another job, so i gather that means i have to seek my satisfaction somewhere else within the same job...
this week was the start of my sugar daddies are murderers campaign. if i can't teach the children (or the 8th grade adults) english, i might as well teach them that 40-year-old men who offer 14-year-old girls money, food, clothes, or mobiles are no va. one of the biggest hiv progenitors is the sugar daddy, the acquisition cycle being:
-some dirty fuck gives a young girl some things
-she reciprocates with the only thing she has to give
-the girl eventually outgrows her appeal (18, 19-years-old?) and is left to get freaky with people more her own age
-she now has TWO things to give
-and she gives them to the boys who'll spend their 40s hanging out in the cuca shop talking to 14-year-old girls.
i understand cultural relativism, but i also understand relativism is bullshit when it leaves girls stigmatized and a country harboring a 22% hiv prevalence rate. i might also pretend to understand sugar daddies who base their appeal on material goods, but particularly disgusting is the sugar daddy who pays a girl's school fees and then rationalizes that he's providing for her future. so my new gig is to rail against sugar daddies as i pretend to teach english. i now walk into class, throw up a bunch of notes i know my students don't understand, then illustrate my lesson with sentences about 40-year-old pervs. last wednesday i simulated a lesson on conditionals, but i really just wanted an excuse to say, if you have sex with a sugar daddy, you'll get hiv and die. i gather subtlety would've been the more prudent approach, but tinkering with nuance prolly won't work so well with kids who don't understand why that can't be loving someone too much.
i've also taken to teaching my 8c about american culture. they're going to grade 9 regardless next year, so i might as well provide them with the upper leg. i tried conditionals with them, too, and asked what would happen if you slapped your father. they said he'd kill you, so i informed them that in america, yr dad slaps you awake on the morning of yr 18th birthday. the two of you are expected to then fight. dad wins, you wear a dress for a week; you win, yr dad cooks dinner. i was prepared to tell them my dad beat my shit bad enough that i had to wear a dress for two weeks, but none thought to ask who won.
this week was the start of my sugar daddies are murderers campaign. if i can't teach the children (or the 8th grade adults) english, i might as well teach them that 40-year-old men who offer 14-year-old girls money, food, clothes, or mobiles are no va. one of the biggest hiv progenitors is the sugar daddy, the acquisition cycle being:
-some dirty fuck gives a young girl some things
-she reciprocates with the only thing she has to give
-the girl eventually outgrows her appeal (18, 19-years-old?) and is left to get freaky with people more her own age
-she now has TWO things to give
-and she gives them to the boys who'll spend their 40s hanging out in the cuca shop talking to 14-year-old girls.
i understand cultural relativism, but i also understand relativism is bullshit when it leaves girls stigmatized and a country harboring a 22% hiv prevalence rate. i might also pretend to understand sugar daddies who base their appeal on material goods, but particularly disgusting is the sugar daddy who pays a girl's school fees and then rationalizes that he's providing for her future. so my new gig is to rail against sugar daddies as i pretend to teach english. i now walk into class, throw up a bunch of notes i know my students don't understand, then illustrate my lesson with sentences about 40-year-old pervs. last wednesday i simulated a lesson on conditionals, but i really just wanted an excuse to say, if you have sex with a sugar daddy, you'll get hiv and die. i gather subtlety would've been the more prudent approach, but tinkering with nuance prolly won't work so well with kids who don't understand why that can't be loving someone too much.
i've also taken to teaching my 8c about american culture. they're going to grade 9 regardless next year, so i might as well provide them with the upper leg. i tried conditionals with them, too, and asked what would happen if you slapped your father. they said he'd kill you, so i informed them that in america, yr dad slaps you awake on the morning of yr 18th birthday. the two of you are expected to then fight. dad wins, you wear a dress for a week; you win, yr dad cooks dinner. i was prepared to tell them my dad beat my shit bad enough that i had to wear a dress for two weeks, but none thought to ask who won.
one of the differences between a white and black person in africa is that the white person's grandparents were busy colonizing everyone in sight as well as raping the land of its natural resources. another difference between blacks and whites here is that a black person gets malaria and does little more than cough, sneeze, and bitch about sore joints. a white person simply dies. or feels like shit in 2-3 day cycles, but looming death sounds more heavy and ominous, non? anyhow, i awoke monday for the fifth day in a row with a raging fever and thought it a good time to chance the namibian health system. i don't know how comfortable i am in a country boasting a 22% hiv-prevalence rate when the woman drawing my blood doesn't wear gloves; or if i appreciate the efficiency of a two hour ride to town before an hour and a half wait behind three ppl in the doctor's office; but i absolutely LOVE that i can walk into the pharmacy, get a shitload of drugs, and tell them the american gov't will pay for it. turns out i had tonsilitis or strep throat or some other thing not called malaria, from which i recovered just in time to sprain my ankle during a soccer match. i was going to roll into the hospital and ask for crutches, but i figure america should stop spending its money on my convalescence and start spending it on a war. what's syria up to these days?
are you allowed to have yr arse kicked on yr own blog? i suppose the pistons are down 3-2 to the heat, but rasheed's sounded the conspiracy alarm. i love that guy and his 1974...
i added a couple new links...
-shane-o-matic
-andrew.. funny guy
...and finally updated the link to douglas is fresh. perchance he'll update his blog?
oh, and a pearl of wisdom from conor:
..did you know that sarcasm is a stereotypical characteristic of the midwest? Everyone else actually have personalities, well not everyone. Plus Im still not convinced that opinionated contempt is any better.
i added a couple new links...
-shane-o-matic
-andrew.. funny guy
...and finally updated the link to douglas is fresh. perchance he'll update his blog?
oh, and a pearl of wisdom from conor:
..did you know that sarcasm is a stereotypical characteristic of the midwest? Everyone else actually have personalities, well not everyone. Plus Im still not convinced that opinionated contempt is any better.
one of the words on my vocab list this week was boner. a student actually had the temerity to spell it b-o-n-e-r. -fool, i said as i slapped him, it's spelled s-t-a-r-b-u-c-k-s. as in, my mama sent me a box full of starbucks and i'm on my way to jesse's so we can drink coffee till our hearts explode. my dad also sent extra guitar strings, so now i can tune my guitar w/o cringing every time i tighten the g-string. certificate of achievement for my parents. no certificate for that truculent douche-rocket who doesn't know how to spell boner. i'd fail him, but they'd send him to the next grade anyhow.
i should prolly introduce you to tate samurai peter. he's already made appearances in two of my posts, and judging from some of the conversations we've had, he'll most likely make a few more. tate samurai peter is half-japanese, a quarter german, and a quarter irish (hmmm.. sounds familiar... that is: we don't differentiate, asian, anglican, or otherwise), which means there isn't a single namibian who'd believe he isn't chinese. that reminds me: i was in a cuca shop last month watching a soccer match between ac milan and psv eindhoven. psv has a couple south koreans on their roster, and every time one of them would appear on screen, the owambos i was watching the match with would point, say something oshiwamboish, and laugh. the only part i could make out, just before the laugh, was "china." -they're not chinese, i'd say, they're korean. they're not even korean. they're SOUTH korean. they nodded their understanding and turned back to the game, laughing and saying china every time one of the koreans came on screen. they still don't understand why i've taken to calling them zulus.
anyhow, my chinese friend and i have been discussing big things for our respective schools. presently on the docket:
-a kung fu club (but i've already mentioned that).
-a spanish club. if the kids won't learn english, perhaps spanish?
-a sort of school bus system, only we'll use donkey carts instead of buses. but they'll be painted yellow and you can get a traffic violation for passing while it has on its indicators.
-i think there's something else but i've forgotten.
-and yes, i used end punctuation even though my list is comprised mostly of phrases.
the rope that teathers me to my job and other responsibilities is made of bungi, and after stretching my holiday as far south as fish river canyon, the rope has nearly contracted and i'll be teaching once again on tuesday. i suppose i can borrow a knife and stab myself, but shane sounds like he might visit in early august, so i'm stuck being alive, and consequently teaching, till at least the 20th of that month. and then we get a two week holiday, so it'd prolly be best to wait till early september to off myself, non? i guess that means i finish the great gig in october, eh. unless, of course, i feel responsible enough to stick around and give away free dogs. sancho's gone and slutted herself out, and i should prolly help her apply to namibian social services for welfare. fucking dogs. literally.
selah, i suppose it's as good as time as easy to reshelve my idea of logic and immerse myself again in namibian rogic. well, i'll wade in rather than jump. i've been hanging out with my books too much, getting used to the "natural" progression of ideas, that i forgot how non-linear exchanges here can be. i was washing clothes two thursdays before the start of may holiday when a village boy stopped by and asked if i could help with his namcol homework. namcol is short for namibian open college of learning, which is orewellian for correspondance school for kids who failed the grade 10 examinations. i told him i'm a cultural ambassodor from the united states and i'd loooooove to show off how smart my ppl are. silva (that being his name and all) said he'd come back tomorrow, a friday. no go, i said, cultural ambassadors only ambassador monday through thursday and the occasional sunday. ok, i actually told him i'd be back from town saturday afternoon and he should come by anytime on sunday. i also mentioned that i was preparing to leave for windhoek and sunday would be the only time i could guarantee i'd be free to help. -you should really, really, really, really come on sunday if you need help. i think i made it clear, b/c sunday rolled around and silva never did. whatevs, ppl ask for help with school all the time, i tell them when and where to find me, and they invaribly fail to access the brilliance i'm giving out for free. good, i prefer to nap.
anyhow, i found silva standing outside my fence this past tuesday, afraid to come to the house b/c sancho's a fucking killer watchdog. about time she developed some bellicosity.. hopefully this temper will dissuade anyone from treating my dog as a delicacy. i was going to tell her to shutup, but then silva said to me accusingly, i came here on sunday and you were not here. -como, wanker? i said to come sunday FOUR FOOKEN WEEKS AGO!!! i was then going to tell him he could come back tomorrow, but i decided to throw a rock at his head instead. i then realized i was out of dog food and told sancho to go ahead and eat silva. i'm actually non-violent, so that really didn't happen. what really happened is i threw the rock and missed. sancho then gave chase, but she's preggers and fell over, which meant that silva came back the next morning with nary the scratch. i let him in and he gave me his homework, along with a pencil, and told me, -you can just write the answers down for me. i forgot that the oshiwambo word for help is o-do my work for me-a. le sigh...
but that's the least of it. silva's 17, 18, 34 at the most, and i expect that kind of gig. what i can't wait for is school to recommence so i can deal with professional incompetence instead. rather: namibian rogic. i shouldn't refer to my principal as incompetent, b/c he isn't. in fact, he does a very good job, but it detracts from the whole pee/see experience if i don't claim to work for some sort of doss cunt. but he does do some things that make me wonder if a fib's actually required to relate his daftness. like the issue of whether i'm qualified to teach or not. he's known since early march that i'm shit in the midfield, but it wasn't till the tail end of april he inquired about my education/professional qualifications.
-i need to fill out this term report thing for the ministry... [question]..
-[answer]
-[question]
-[answer]
-what is yr highest professional qualification?
-you mean like school?
-yes, if i was answering i would say i finished grade 12 and a year at unam.
-oh, ok. i have a masters in education.
-so yr an actual teacher?
so now that's out in the open, perhaps i should use my education to authoritatively petition for common sense. i don't really know what common sense is, and i guess it's culturally defined, but i don't suspect it involves xerox in any sort of way. we don't have classrooms, a library, or even desks to fill the classrooms we do have, but the current proposal on the table is to spend an entire two years' budget on a photocopier. there's a school a bit deeper in the bush that doesn't have electricity and relies on ours once a week to use their copier (they haul it over in the back of a bakki), but they insist we can't use it b/c paper and toner are too expensive. obviously, is the reply, but we'll provide our own paper and replace the toner we use. -no, the paper and toner are too expensive.. the principal actually agrees with this, and the logical way to circumvent the high cost of paper and toner is to buy our own copier. we won't have money to actually use the printer, or anything else for that matter, until i'm queueing for american social services, but i'm fond of saying selah. so: selah. i just hope it doesn't end up like the printer my friend cory's school bought a couple years ago. the principal had it stored at his house, and apparently rats view xerox in much the same way i'm scared owambos view my dog..
selah, i suppose it's as good as time as easy to reshelve my idea of logic and immerse myself again in namibian rogic. well, i'll wade in rather than jump. i've been hanging out with my books too much, getting used to the "natural" progression of ideas, that i forgot how non-linear exchanges here can be. i was washing clothes two thursdays before the start of may holiday when a village boy stopped by and asked if i could help with his namcol homework. namcol is short for namibian open college of learning, which is orewellian for correspondance school for kids who failed the grade 10 examinations. i told him i'm a cultural ambassodor from the united states and i'd loooooove to show off how smart my ppl are. silva (that being his name and all) said he'd come back tomorrow, a friday. no go, i said, cultural ambassadors only ambassador monday through thursday and the occasional sunday. ok, i actually told him i'd be back from town saturday afternoon and he should come by anytime on sunday. i also mentioned that i was preparing to leave for windhoek and sunday would be the only time i could guarantee i'd be free to help. -you should really, really, really, really come on sunday if you need help. i think i made it clear, b/c sunday rolled around and silva never did. whatevs, ppl ask for help with school all the time, i tell them when and where to find me, and they invaribly fail to access the brilliance i'm giving out for free. good, i prefer to nap.
anyhow, i found silva standing outside my fence this past tuesday, afraid to come to the house b/c sancho's a fucking killer watchdog. about time she developed some bellicosity.. hopefully this temper will dissuade anyone from treating my dog as a delicacy. i was going to tell her to shutup, but then silva said to me accusingly, i came here on sunday and you were not here. -como, wanker? i said to come sunday FOUR FOOKEN WEEKS AGO!!! i was then going to tell him he could come back tomorrow, but i decided to throw a rock at his head instead. i then realized i was out of dog food and told sancho to go ahead and eat silva. i'm actually non-violent, so that really didn't happen. what really happened is i threw the rock and missed. sancho then gave chase, but she's preggers and fell over, which meant that silva came back the next morning with nary the scratch. i let him in and he gave me his homework, along with a pencil, and told me, -you can just write the answers down for me. i forgot that the oshiwambo word for help is o-do my work for me-a. le sigh...
but that's the least of it. silva's 17, 18, 34 at the most, and i expect that kind of gig. what i can't wait for is school to recommence so i can deal with professional incompetence instead. rather: namibian rogic. i shouldn't refer to my principal as incompetent, b/c he isn't. in fact, he does a very good job, but it detracts from the whole pee/see experience if i don't claim to work for some sort of doss cunt. but he does do some things that make me wonder if a fib's actually required to relate his daftness. like the issue of whether i'm qualified to teach or not. he's known since early march that i'm shit in the midfield, but it wasn't till the tail end of april he inquired about my education/professional qualifications.
-i need to fill out this term report thing for the ministry... [question]..
-[answer]
-[question]
-[answer]
-what is yr highest professional qualification?
-you mean like school?
-yes, if i was answering i would say i finished grade 12 and a year at unam.
-oh, ok. i have a masters in education.
-so yr an actual teacher?
so now that's out in the open, perhaps i should use my education to authoritatively petition for common sense. i don't really know what common sense is, and i guess it's culturally defined, but i don't suspect it involves xerox in any sort of way. we don't have classrooms, a library, or even desks to fill the classrooms we do have, but the current proposal on the table is to spend an entire two years' budget on a photocopier. there's a school a bit deeper in the bush that doesn't have electricity and relies on ours once a week to use their copier (they haul it over in the back of a bakki), but they insist we can't use it b/c paper and toner are too expensive. obviously, is the reply, but we'll provide our own paper and replace the toner we use. -no, the paper and toner are too expensive.. the principal actually agrees with this, and the logical way to circumvent the high cost of paper and toner is to buy our own copier. we won't have money to actually use the printer, or anything else for that matter, until i'm queueing for american social services, but i'm fond of saying selah. so: selah. i just hope it doesn't end up like the printer my friend cory's school bought a couple years ago. the principal had it stored at his house, and apparently rats view xerox in much the same way i'm scared owambos view my dog..
i hope tinkering with the date function means this won't publish till the 21st, b/c right now it's the 19th, and my parents didn't marry one another on the 19th. they did so on the 21st. anyhow, it's been 17 years since my dad remarried and let my sister and i trade a crap mama in for a good one. or has it been 16 years? or 18? either i'm bad with numbers or i'm bad with the consideration. either way, large turkey for the two of you. happy anniversary.
and kelly: happy bday.
and kelly: happy bday.
i can't type anymore so i'll post pictures. well, i gather i can still type, as i'm doing so at the moment, but my expository skills have been reduced to incoherent mumbling. shite, i just remembered i've always mumbled. perhaps there's hope yet, as long as i don't confabulate extensively with many more owambos. my mama used to harangue me for not communicating very well. something like, -how the fuck am i supposed to know what that is? or there?? fooken tell me, you piddly wanker.. sheeat, my vagaries are much more specific than the shit i get here:
-it's just on that side.
-i will be coming now now. (can mean anywhere from yesterday to my daughter's 10th bday)
-they are in there. (posed as a question, though you don't realize till well after you've pretended you knew what was being said)
-etc.
ooohhh.. i'm feeling a bit tangential, n'est-ce pas? i meant to proffer the point-and-click tour of onyati, gosen, owamboland, namibia, etc. i'm on dial-up, so i'm foregoing direct image sourcing. sorry about the hotlinks, though they are a bit more expository <----second time i've used that word in a single post. - my house in onyati
- my room.. i'm pretty sure irvine welsch would write, -nae majic happens thaer.
- a view of gosen combined school (grades 1-10) from my house.
- the soccer field
- the classrooms for my grades 8b and 8c
- solid deprivation shot i can show girls when i get back to the states
- a full 8c..
- ..an empty 8c
- my 7a religion class. i figured i should provide faces to go with the madonna.
- petrus, who i play catch/soccer with on most nights. i think his mother is in the process of me raising her child these next couple of years..
- view of my house and school as i either run quickly away from on a friday or begrudgingly return to on a sunday
- downtown onyati----> WHAA WHAAT!!. and more banging megalapolis, so to say..
so here's where i leave onyati, owamboland, and my poor dog b/c i think i'm sucka busta numero uno and can hike fish river canyon in three stages:
1. eh, right. i can do this shite.
2. my feet hurt, let's ride a fooken motor scooter. (me and the biker lady will kick yr arse.)
3. the end goes fooken whoot!
now i'm back in owamboland. do i have anymore fotos? oh yeah: shane's been to namibia. i wish that wanker'd get in touch. and this last foto is to assure myself and peace corps that i've taught my stoodents something of value:
-it's just on that side.
-i will be coming now now. (can mean anywhere from yesterday to my daughter's 10th bday)
-they are in there. (posed as a question, though you don't realize till well after you've pretended you knew what was being said)
-etc.
ooohhh.. i'm feeling a bit tangential, n'est-ce pas? i meant to proffer the point-and-click tour of onyati, gosen, owamboland, namibia, etc. i'm on dial-up, so i'm foregoing direct image sourcing. sorry about the hotlinks, though they are a bit more expository <----second time i've used that word in a single post. - my house in onyati
- my room.. i'm pretty sure irvine welsch would write, -nae majic happens thaer.
- a view of gosen combined school (grades 1-10) from my house.
- the soccer field
- the classrooms for my grades 8b and 8c
- solid deprivation shot i can show girls when i get back to the states
- a full 8c..
- ..an empty 8c
- my 7a religion class. i figured i should provide faces to go with the madonna.
- petrus, who i play catch/soccer with on most nights. i think his mother is in the process of me raising her child these next couple of years..
- view of my house and school as i either run quickly away from on a friday or begrudgingly return to on a sunday
- downtown onyati----> WHAA WHAAT!!. and more banging megalapolis, so to say..
so here's where i leave onyati, owamboland, and my poor dog b/c i think i'm sucka busta numero uno and can hike fish river canyon in three stages:
1. eh, right. i can do this shite.
2. my feet hurt, let's ride a fooken motor scooter. (me and the biker lady will kick yr arse.)
3. the end goes fooken whoot!
now i'm back in owamboland. do i have anymore fotos? oh yeah: shane's been to namibia. i wish that wanker'd get in touch. and this last foto is to assure myself and peace corps that i've taught my stoodents something of value:
just to relate why english is so hard to teach here. or why namblish is an entirely different language than english. or why i'm looking for excuses to explain my poor pass rates.
ok, explanatation w/o the self-deprecation: i found a birthday card in one of my student's exercise books. i planned to give it back to her after i posted it on my blog, but that was three weeks ago. i guess i have myself a souvenier.
To: [ ]
all my attention is in you to wish you happy birth day is my plan. Congraturation to your birth day I wish you to spend your happy birth day at cool place God may bless for your birth day.
God may bless you marry and add you many years to come. enjoy it very well my friend I will play for you always Don't forget your God
From: [ ]
it also turns out i'm only second best preacher at my school. even though new number one preacher needs a script to share the gospel, she was creative enough to tell the school that turn the other cheek means if the teacher beats one cheek, give the other to be beaten as well. whoops, edit needed: if the teacher abeats one cheek, give the other to be abeaten as well.
ok, explanatation w/o the self-deprecation: i found a birthday card in one of my student's exercise books. i planned to give it back to her after i posted it on my blog, but that was three weeks ago. i guess i have myself a souvenier.
To: [ ]
all my attention is in you to wish you happy birth day is my plan. Congraturation to your birth day I wish you to spend your happy birth day at cool place God may bless for your birth day.
God may bless you marry and add you many years to come. enjoy it very well my friend I will play for you always Don't forget your God
From: [ ]
it also turns out i'm only second best preacher at my school. even though new number one preacher needs a script to share the gospel, she was creative enough to tell the school that turn the other cheek means if the teacher beats one cheek, give the other to be beaten as well. whoops, edit needed: if the teacher abeats one cheek, give the other to be abeaten as well.
