So I've been living with the Dzonzis all this time, my headteacher ('principal') and his wife, Madame Dzonzi (I still have yet to hear her first name spoken...I like it...keeps her mysterious), and their son/grandson Chisomo (which means 'hope' in Chichewa). He's 11, and one of their daughters had him when she was 15. They've raised him like their son and now, even though that daughter is now married and has another kid and is living 6 hours away, he still lives with them. They have been wonderful. First of all, I'm getting 3 meals a day cooked for me (2 of which are nsima, but meh, I can't complain). Second of all their house is 2 steps away from the school, which is nice when school starts at 7:30am. But that's not that big of a deal when you don't have electricity. Once the sun goes down, there's not too much to do, and like an old lady, I'm usually in bed by 8-something, lights out by 9ish. Also, they're just plain awesome. Mr. Dzonzi and I discuss all sorts of things, like marriage and divorce, teen pregnancy and abortion (which is illegal here), the gays and lesbians, Malawi culture, etc. etc. etc. Mrs. Dzonzi taught me how to make 'snacks' (what we would call biscuits) in a pot over and under hot coals. I love that they just call them snacks, and I'm always singing to myself: 'Snacks!' But it doesn't sound right when it's not followed up with 'on the bus!' (or 'for the bus') She's also going to teach me how to cook goat meat, because either it's actually very delicious (which I highly doubt), or the combination of tomatoes + salt that she cooks it in + nostalgia for Niger = mouthwatering amazingness. I'm serious, I love goat meat here. It's weird.
I'm teaching Form 1 (9th grade) English and 1/2 of the Form 3 English class. There are 7 periods a week, so I'm teaching literature during 4 of the Form 3 English periods, and Mr. Dzonzi is teaching language (AKA grammer) during the other 3. That means I only have 11 periods a week right now, which is a pretty light load, but since I came in halfway through this term and I'm still getting my bearings, I think it's perfect. I'm having to readjust my expectations all the time here. Critical thinking is a foreign concept. Actually, sometimes I wonder if 'thinking for oneself' isn't a new idea for these kids either.
I've been running, and I've garnered a following. At first it was just young boys who would go with me, but now the high school boys are into it and I've got a few regulars now. We run to the next town and back, little kids screaming and laughing at us (well, me, the 'azungu') the whole way. Whatever, I've got thick skin. And if I didn't have thick skin before living in Africa I definitely do now! After we run we stretch, which means I lead about a dozen or so little kids in stretching and kickboxing moves. It's awesome! They love it, the moms love me for playing with the kids, it's win-win. Then I pump a bucket of water for my bath at the borehole. I am strong, I am awesome!
The big news last week: buying a 1/2 kilo of pork (for 175 kwacha, where 150 kwacha = 1 USD) and cooking and eating it! Well, to be fair, Mable cooked it, but still, pork! I never knew how much I loved it until I lived in a Muslim country for 6 months.
So next week's the week: I'll finally move into my house! It's adorable, but kind of off on it's own and doesn't currently have a fence so Mr. Dzonzi is being all mother hen about it and worried about me. They were also kind of surprised when I said I didn't want/need a girl to live with me to cook for me, but then I cooked them spaghetti. 'Oh, you can cook for yourself!' they condescend. I try not to be too offended, because, after all, I am soft and don't work as hard as these ladies do, pumping water, carrying water, cooking, cleaning, farming (Mrs. Dzonzi is going to teach me how to farm with a ho!), etc. etc. etc. Mr. Dzonzi liked the spaghetti, but Mrs. Dzonzi would barely try it: she literally ate one tiny piece of spaghetti. ('How many sticks do you cook at one time?' she asked as I was making it, and I was like: 'I don't know! I don't count them out individually!') Well, she was exposed to it, at least. To her a meal isn't a meal without nsima, the hard cornmeal porridge that's the staple food of Malawi. What's the staple food of America, besides McDonald's?
Last weekend I went for a bikeride with Mr. Tung'ande (pronounced 'tune-yong-day'), the deputy ('vice principal') of my school, to Makioni, a small town about 15k from Thavite. Malawi is gorgeous. Whenever I get sad thinking about Niger and my friends there, I just look around me. I could be doing a lot worse. We drank Cokes ('Do you have Coke in America?' he asked, and I had to laugh) and ate Obamas (bread rolls that for some reason are called Obamas...he said there are different, less popular rolls called 'Osama bin Ladens'...oh Malawi!). It was a good day.
By the numbers Bike rides to date: 2
Dresses made at the local tailor to date: 2
