First Day of School

1/25/13 

It's a long red road from camp to school. The sun climbs slowly over the horizon, still nice and cool with the breeze from open windows. You can only drive about 20 mph on this pocked dirt road—not because of the mud or the accidental knee-high speedbumps or the periodic broken-down electric gates. Here I stop and idle the engine, waiting for a group of giraffes standing in my path. They bob their way into the pale green brush, checking back at me and plucking choice leaves from the squat trees only they can reach. I continue on after staring at them in quiet amazement.

A few minutes later I stop for a pack of wildebeest, burly animals springing over the road, sun dull on thick black horns. They pass, and I throw the truck in gear, checking the bush again before easing on the accelerator. Another big male bursts through within a tail flick of my grill. I stifle a gasp and drive on down the dusty road. I'm going to be late, but that's okay. TIA.

I bump down the rest of my 45-minute commute, passing the usual packs of baboons loping, impala leaping, and innumerable birds flapping across my view. Guinea fowl bob along like stupid chickens, frantically bobbing and weaving in the tire tracks until they finally remember they can fly away. I'm already used to it. I've been here one day.

The school is near the Alldays post office, a low group of buildings surrounded by a chainlink fence. It's the fences and walls around every building, from here in the boonies all the way through the choicest city streets, that remind you this is a developing country if nothing else—I'm pretty sure there's a Whole Foods in Joburg. But up here in this tiny town, things are a lot more informal. 

Despite the delays, I still make it before the kids arrive. First I meet the mother who's been holding down the fort awaiting my arrival. She explains to me how grateful the parents all are, how excited for the concept. She tells me about up-front racism.

"Isn't that illegal?" I ask. Yes, I've brushed up on my apartheid.

"Yea, technically." She sucks her teeth. "But since it's a church school, they can screen their pupils."

We shake our heads, scratching toes in the dust. Many in the community are still very wary of a multiracial school. They wonder if the black kids will be dirty, smelly, stupid. They wonder why these white parents would expose their kids to that.

"But what about when they grow up and have black bosses?" Roxi shrugs. "And how can we tell our kids something, and tell them to respect their teachers but their teachers are saying the opposite?"

I look around at the kids happily playing with hoola hoops and mud, bouncing on the trampoline, hopping from numbered square to numbered square in the playground. Situ, English, and Afrikaans mixing with the dust and high-pitched laughter.

"Anyway, we're just so happy to have you here. It's amazing to see this happening. Like just two years ago, you could've said this and no one would've believed you. So thank you."

I shrug bashfully and shake hands with other parents, equally enthusiastic if rather more brief. My first few days will be pure play, getting to know the kids and figuring out who's who and who fits where. I have them color pictures and count blocks and point out pictures as I read them stories. I struggle to maintain order when I go from kid to kid, giving one-on-one time. I quickly run out of printouts and worksheets, and head home in a daze, hazy with dust and fatigue. It's 3 pm and I'm beat. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow we move into our shack. Tomorrow I'll begin to build my curriculum. For now I must rest.