WEEK 3

30 Sept. - 8 Oct. 2007.

Getting accustomed. An encounter. Spring is coming?

Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings—always darker, emptier, simpler. Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche (1844 - 1900), The Gay Science.

My faith in this project, in this choice of life, in myself, flow inconstantly in the daily life, as in every beginning, and the river of my changeable feelings still has not dug its bed. It takes time for me to get used to the people, to their style of living, of communicating, and to the material conditions of life here in Angola. My mind is not as flexible as when I was 18 years old, and my brain has to bear the physical effort (that, by the way, I consider as a sign of learning) of trying to formulate or understand sentences in the new language. However, Persistence is the wisest of the teachers, and, without even realizing it, day by day we feel comfortable in a place that some days before we could not think as ours, a place that we can somehow dominate. Even the small, daily actions require a constant repetition to become automatisms: my room is finally dressed with the comfortable suite of Habit; and my motivations towards this new experience of life increase proportionally as I get accustomed to it: perhaps that is the reason why I like to travel, to change, even to suffer when a new adventure begins; perhaps it is a Habit of my times.

picture 1. the lesson is about to start.

The school hosts about 190 students, divided into two groups, according to the year of enrollment (2006 – 2007). They live and study in the school for 18 months, learning all the basic topics (Portuguese, English, History, Mathematics, Philosophy, etc.). After this period, they will attend a one-year stage in other schools of the Country, giving the final exam which will disclose their way to the Diploma of Teacher. The age of the students ranges between 19 and 30 years old. I have been asked to take care of one specific class (20 students, more or less), giving them courses and correcting their tasks. At the moment, however, my main duty remains to teach English.
I have never been a teacher before, and giving a course is quite hard. I agree with the idea that the teachers should be paid more. The biggest difficulty so far has been to lead a lesson in which I am able to explain the knowledge that I take for granted. Last Saturday, for instance, it took two hours to make the students understand the difference between the present simple and the present continuous. But at the end, their attention and their satisfied eyes witnessed that my good will (and, again, my persistence) finally worked; anyway, the students deeply want to learn English, the language of opportunities, of dreams, of coolness, and, I must say, they show hunger for knowledge in general, although they often mistake it with notions.

picture 2. a funny sign on the way to Ramiro.

On Saturday, right after my lesson, I rewarded my newly regained confidence with a long lonely walk to the village of Ramiro, 4 km north of the school. I walked quiet along the road which leads to Luanda, taking the chance to do some “shopping” (bread, butter, orange juice in powder. These are my diversions). When I approached the town I encountered a student, named Gildo, who greeted me with a surprised expression, asking if I was not afraid of being alone, especially as a foreigner, among the dangers of the streets, of the villages, of the Country. My calm negative answer doubled his disorientation, probably because a shy person is not supposed to be brave or self-confident, according to the unverifiable equation (that so much made me suffer during my youth, when my sensitivity was not aware enough of itself to make me consider it as a cultivable feature of my personality, and not a fault to hide; an equation that even some dictionaries apply so easily): shyness = lack of courage.

picture 3. kids on the beach by the school.

Meanwhile, the first green leaves colour the majestic and ancient “Imbondeiros” with emerald gems of green, and proving that there is a tiny, hidden, and meticulous life inside these arid and hollow barks; and a great tenderness comes by the vision of this contrast – the enduring will of these old, white, sleepy giants, to produce their little offspring day by day. I ask myself if it’s true that the spring doesn’t exist in the tropical Countries.
Time is up: I’m going to see the Ocean.