Business Hours are Over! ... Temporarily.

Silly Little Culinary Annoyances

Yesterday, I learned about how Senegalese salesmen price their goods. It's time forrrrr:
(Click to enlarge)


This Is Africa; we bargain.

So onto the theme of this post. If you’re a student at ALA, and not me, your academic life feels quite similar to what I imagine drinking water from a fire hydrant would be like. And if that weren’t enough, there are a number of other ways that your existence could be made harder, most of them in the dining hall.

If you’re vegetarian, you could suffer from an extreme protein deficiency, curable only by mass ordering margarita pizzas.

Also, apparently the bread is laced with preservatives. Don’t eat it! Actually, there’s no way to survive without it. Go ahead, kill yourselves! I do.

And if you do manage to avoid the bread, you have to have cereal for breakfast, and you’re in trouble then too. Here’s why: At the beginning of the term, we had a lot of small, very shallow bowls, and some big hexagonal ones. Because I enjoyed eating more than three cornflakes per sitting and wasn’t able to find a pipette with which to douse them in milk, I used the big bowls. Then, for no discernable reason, the big bowls vanished! Now, eating cereal is one of the hardest parts of my day. It requires concentration, fine motor skills, and balance.

ALA Guide To Eating Cereal.

1. Fill a bowl with between 10 and 15 Branflakes/Cornflakes, or 3 teaspoons of Rice Krispies.
2. Even them out along the base of your bowl with a plastic spoon.
3. Fill the bowl with milk, very slowly. It is recommended that you actually pour into the milk carton’s cap, and transfer it to the bowl that way. Pause after each capful to inspect potential space for the next one.
4. When the bowl has reached maximum capacity (around 5 capfuls), pick it up and walk gingerly back to your seat. Caution! – if your bowl deviates more than 4˚ from the horizontal, all of your breakfast will be on the floor, and you’ll start to feel a lot like the Danaides.

(The Danaides were forty-nine maidens in Ancient Greek mythology who were condemned to an eternity of trying to fill leaky jugs with water in the underworld after they all killed their husbands.)



Okay so what really happened is that we lived like that for about a week, and then found a workaround (thank you Entrepreneurship class!). We began using separate mugs for cereal and milk. Now we don’t have to eat cereal out of saucers!

Nothing makes life hard for us Americans like the absurdly heavy South African soda cans though. What is going on? A Fanta can in Gauteng is about three times heavier than its US equivalent. Honestly, they might as well have been hand carved from granite, lined with lead, and then given an anchor. Not only are they a waste of good aluminium, but they’re very off-putting. I have been trained to feel how much liquid is left in a can, and an empty South African one feels like it’s about two thirds full to me. The experience of drinking from them is always a huge let down. I’ll be looking forward to that last mouthful of ginger beer, only to tilt the can back and realize that I had it five minutes ago. It’s a lot like seeing a really attractive girl flirting with you on the other side of the street, crossing the street, introducing yourself, and then discovering that despite appearances, she’s actually in her middle ages, and dedicates her entire life to cataloguing and naming her toenail clippings.



South Africa needs lighter soda cans.

Lions, and Giraffes, and McDonalds Oh My!

It’s come to my notice that anyone reading my blog would have a very difficult time working out what my daily existence is like. So today’s blog post is all about the recent five day holiday, which was fairly typical going for my life at ALA. Heh.


Saturday
On Saturday, I did not go off campus. I stayed at school, vegetating and basking in the glory that is a non-class Saturday. In the US we like to say, “Thank God it’s Friday" (there’s an entire restaurant chain named after the phrase). But only the most pious of students would ever thank The Almighty for an ALA Friday. Here, Fridays are just glorified Thursdays.

We rounded off the day with ALA’s first all-night movie marathon, which fizzled out at about 4am, when all of the exhausted zombies in attendance finally got their priorities straight. It’s a miracle the whole thing happened at all though; Mr. Peter had to dig deep within himself to find the trust to allow teenagers to watch a late-night movie unsupervised. I think his thought process went something like this:

ALA students have hormones
At 3am, they will be sleepy. They don’t sleep enough anyway.
They will also be in closed, dark rooms.
Sleepy teenagers with hormones in closed, dark rooms.
AHHHHHHH!!!!!

Fair point actually.

Before we could leave the dorm, the teachers made us line up and walk out in single file. I thought we were going to have to remove our shoes and go through a backscatter x-ray machine, but we were just scowled at. Anyway, thank you for allowing the movie night Mr. Peter, because I was given free popcorn and watched the new Karate Kid. Twas awesome.


Sunday
On Sunday, the Gap Years partook in another staple of ALA life: The Lion Park. With Ms. Laura as our intrepid guide, we saw ostriches, zebras, wildebeest, and lions eating cows’ legs. The three of us covered a whole spectrum of reactions. At one end of the scale was Julia. Julia could not have been more excited if the lions had been Disney cartoons, dancing to an Elton John soundtrack, and handing out McFlurries. She was bouncing. Then there was me. I like animals a lot (my dad is biologist), and I thought watching lions up close was fun. And lastly, Gaciru was not chuffed. She did not enjoy the sight of giant carnivores ripping apart a mangled and bloody limb, complete with hooves and hair.

After that we got to pet lion cubs, and Gaciru’s mood didn’t pick up much, especially when Julia asked her for a favour:



I took the pictures instead; baby lions are really cute, and very similar to household cats. Then Julia petted a giraffe and her heart almost gave in. She looked like a mother whose child had just won a spelling bee.

In the afternoon, we went to the mall, ate lunch, and found ice-skating! The man at the skate hire place was determined to be Gaciru’s gardener in America, and very kindly offered her his services in return for just a plane ticket and $300 a month. Strangely, she declined.

The ice reminded me of sandpaper, but it was really fun nonetheless.

Thank you so much Ms. Laura!


Monday
By Monday, Mr. Peter was pretty sure that I’d had more off campus fun than any ALA student should be allowed, but he was kind enough to drive the gap years to the mall to buy phones (I sat on my previous one). It was unexpectedly simple:

“What is the cheapest phone you sell?”
“This one.”
“Ooo, that looks Spartan and unadorned. How much?”
“259 Rand.”
“Excellent!”

My new phone is the Nokia Unsophisticator. It takes 40 minutes to charge, and has a flashlight, a battery that lasts a week, and a screen with seven pixels. It’s perfect.

At some point during the return journey, the two girls convinced Mr. Peter to take us to McDonalds. I have no idea how it happened, but it was probably juju.

I thought wildlife made Julia happy, but she was McDelusional when we arrived. Her eyes widened, her heartbeat tripled, and she began salivating like a St. Bernard. I think she needs to see the life coach for her acute case of “Americawithdrawal Syndrome”.

Luckily, McDonalds provided her with much needed medication: a double quarter pounder, fries, and coke. Julia was McDelighted.

And then there was Mr. Peter. Mr. Peter had never really been to McDonalds before, so we got him a McFlurry, with extra caramel and chocolate. Unfortunately, it turned out he was not used to that much sugar, and he started shaking. He could barely contain himself, and claimed that we tried to murder him; he was McSugar High*. It was one scary return drive to campus.


Tuesday
On Tuesday, I went swimming and then to my advisor’s house for burgers with the rest of the advisee family. All in a good day’s work.


Wednesday
On Wednesday, I stayed on campus and caught up on all the work I had left until the last minute. Now that's typically ALA.



*Ms. Chemeli was the first person to say this. Credits to her.

L&E Faculty

Contrary to popular belief, I do not live a life of lackadaisical freedom, unencumbered by every aspect of student life, from community hours to classes. Although I probably sleep about two hours more than the average ALA student every night, I also take six subjects and work as an assistant in the Leadership and Entrepreneurship Office. For example, I’ve researched Corporate Social Responsibility in Africa, catalogued some of the office’s library, and gathered information on community service sites. But enough about me. The best part of working in the L&E office is the L&E faculty, who I will now attempt to describe. Here’s the lineup (click to enlarge, as always):


There used to be five, but Ms. Carter left to go have a baby (hoorayyyy!!), and it took so long to draw the remaining four that I decided to use that as an excuse not to depict her as well. But if you want a mental picture, she has wavy brown hair, and sometimes wears long cardigans and big glasses. We miss her!

Right so here goes:


Mr. Ngozi

In the 1890’s a physiologist called Ivan Pavlov conducted an experiment in which he got some dogs to salivate, even when they didn’t actually intend to. Mr. Ngozi’s sarcasm is sort of like that; it's reflexive. For example, there is no difference in the tone with which he says these two sentences (this is from personal experience):

Negative chastising: “Hmm, telling me how to teach my class on the first day, interesting.”
Positive complimenting: “Hmm, that’s a good point. Interesting.”

Unfortunately, this makes Mr. Ngozi harder read than a Stephanie Mayer book. Yet we all know that inside lays a heart of pure gold. Actually, it’s not pure gold, because Mr. Ngozi's blood stream is about 60% caffeine; he was responsible for the L&E office’s coffee machine purchase, and he has never been happier.

Mr. Ngozi is also ALA’s hip-hop choreographer extraordinaire, and as I learned from absent-mindedly whistling in a room next to his, he dislikes Katy Perry. I was suitably reprimanded and embarrassed.


Mr. Bennin

Unlike most students, Mr. Bennin has a laptop, and he’s not afraid to show it. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s afraid to put it down (as you can see from the picture). The marginal benefit of placing his laptop on the table does not exceed the marginal cost (Mr. Bennin also teaches economics). In any case, he is also the only member of the L&E department who we actually refer to with a full surname, and that’s not a coincidence. After Ms. Carter left, he graded my class's presentations, and he did it bluntly and irrefutably. I think I’m going to sleep with the rubric under my pillow from now on; Mr. Bennin’s catchphrase should be, "Well, if you had really wanted to go for the A*…"

After we finished the assessment, Mr. Bennin proceeded to teach the next unit via a slow paced yet knowledge-saturated lecture.


Mr. O

Mr. O is my ‘boss’ and the only one of the L&E faculty whose class I am in. A few days ago, he told Lailat to “find the words” when she was struggling to explain something in English, and he waited while she did. The class ended up clapping for her after she made her point elegantly, and it was one of the best teaching moments I have ever seen.

It would be impossible to talk about Mr. O without mentioning clothing though. To quote another unnamed person in this school, Mr. O looks like he’s preparing for a flood in the 1950s. (As you can see from the group drawing, his belt is a good twenty inches above Mr. Ngozi’s.) Yet although Mr. O’s trouser line is a little higher than usual, he dresses with superb style, from his cap down to his very visible socks. He has caught many a female student’s eye, and he is certainly doing his upmost to show technical leadership in both the fashion and teaching worlds. Mr. O doesn’t just explain paradigms; he sets them.

Perhaps most importantly, Mr. O has soul. Whenever we read in class, he puts on a soothing, barely audible jazz soundtrack. Also, when I’m working in the office, Mr. O sometimes bursts into a shatteringly audible and spontaneous falsetto warbling.


Mr. Ismoila
Mr. Ismoila is the strong, silent type. Word has it that he used to be rifle sergeant in the US army, and that he did one-armed pull-ups during an advisee meeting (see illustration). And that he can run through a brick wall and bench press a matriarchal elephant. Okay so not really, but Mr. Ismoila is actually a giant mass of muscle, barely contained by his classy assortment of cardigans and loafers. Let's just say that I've seen a fair few arguments between girls extolling the virtues of Ismoila and O.

Other important details that people have mentioned to me: Mr. Ismoila smiles a lot. Mr. Ismoila spends a lot of time in class twirling his board markers, dropping them, and then picking them up. And Mr. Ismoila loves his Blackberry as much as Mr. Bennin loves his laptop.

Languages, Part 2.

My last post was about how I find it difficult to understand people sometimes, but I was sort of making a mountain out of a molehill. Yes, I have a hard time comprehending Amharic (which has a mind blowing 200-something letters!) when I’m standing between two Ethiopians, but this is an Anglophone school, and I’m used to that. Yet for students from Francophone West Africa, Mozambique, Algeria, or anywhere else that doesn’t really speaks English, ALA feels like studying for an anatomy quiz with a some Picasso portraits.

The English problem is genuine. This one of the hardest schools I could imagine, and it’s a miracle that any non-Anglophones, let alone all of them, keep going. Many of them were the most brilliant, accomplished students in their home countries, but now, they have a hard time even being understood. Their courage is inspiring.

Yet I have had some amusing experiences. The person with the most positive attitude towards the language barrier is our old friend, Boubacar. He and I have a lot of excellent misunderstandings, and I’m going to roll out my first titled comic strip to depict a recent example! Pleeease Welcoooome: (You might have to click on the picture and then zoom in)



Even more hilarious communication difficulties occur when Mr. O uses American phrases in class. A few days ago, he threatened to throw his pen at Julius with a “snap pass”, and a wall of just the blankest canvases I have ever seen stared back at him. Clearly, the future leaders of Africa need to learn more about American quarterback terms.

But there’s one aspect of language here that is just mindboggling: hectic. Hectic might seem like it’s just one word, but it is so much more than that. Hectic is versatile, hectic is all-encompassing, hectic is omnipotent. Hectic couldn’t have been more one-size-fits-all if it were a pair of elastic-waist trousers with drawstring cuffs. In fact, I might mention it to the English as a Second Language faculty soon, because it would save Francophones from having to learn a lot of superfluous vocabulary. They could avoid unnecessarily specific words such as busy, arduous, atrocious, catastrophic, or bad.

That having been said, I’m not sure that anybody has looked hectic up in a dictionary yet, or if they have they’re being pretty laissez-faire about it, because it means “full of incessant or frantic activity”. Here are some usages of the word that I’ve heard recently:

“The Central Business District is sooo hectic!” This is actually quite plausible. The CBD is, in general, quite hectic, particularly at rush hour.


“My test was really hectic. Oh my God.” So this seemed less likely. Most of the tests at ALA are what I would describe as “quietly intensive”, but none of them have widespread commotion. For the most part, people stay in their chairs, suffering in silence. This is a hectic test:


“And then she was decapitated by her own seatbelt. I don’t even know how to describe it… It was HECTIC.” For obvious reasons, there’s no cartoon for this quote, and I'm sorry it's a little macabre. But to summarise, a girl was in a car crash, and her seatbelt took her head off. And I’m sorry, no, that isn’t hectic in any way whatsoever! Horrible and mortifying, maybe, hectic, no.

Ahh the wonders of slang.

This Verbal Class Distinction, By Now Should Be Antique

Yes, I have watched My Fair Lady way too many times.

Languages are difficult. At ALA, I frequently find myself surrounded by tens of languages, none of which I understand. This is relatively new to me; my greatest experience in linguistic disorientation prior to ALA was when I left the comfort of my American upbringing to attend a British private school in 1999. Five weeks in a spiraling hamster ball would have left me feeling more grounded than that one day of scrumhalves, jammy dodgers, toad in the hole, flapjacks, pelican crossings, and plimsolls. Even definitions made no sense; when I asked what "toad in the hole" was, someone replied that it was “a banger, stuck in mash, all in a Yorkshire pudding.” I thought people were speaking to me in some sort of code.

The point is, that was only one day, and I’ve stayed in places that speak English and Mandarin for 98% of my life. On the other hand, many days at ALA are like living in the enigma machine. I found myself using Google Translate a lot with Boubacar during the first week, but then it told me that “tu puisses” means “thou mayest”, and I stopped. I don’t want my roommate to sound like he lives in a Dickens novel.



Some of my confusion was to be expected; I cannot understand Arabic or Bambara because I did not grow up in Morocco or Mali. I also didn’t spend my entire childhood flicking my soft palate with my tongue or taking mouth supplements, which is I cannot click louder than pneumatic drill, like Andile. For the record, Xhosa is the single most fantastic language I have ever heard. It sounds like they swallowed a drum kit.

Yet when it comes to mystifying, nothing beats Pidgin. For those of you have never been to Nigeria, Pidgin is the lingua franca there. My Uncle Courtney speaks Jamaican Patois, Rima speaks Creole, and it puts them both to shame. Apparently it’s partly English, but I have no clue what’s going on when I hear it. I did get some insight into how Nigerians learn their pronunciation though. Ola said that when she was younger, her mother used to tell her off for saying ing instead of in' at the end of words. Based on my textbook knowledge of Nigerian parenting, this is how I imagine that conversation typically went: