This week I was reminded more than once about my previous life as a teacher, a time I remember with both fondness and horror.
A couple of nights ago I had a nightmare about being sent back to the first school I taught at, in a small industrial town in South Africa. Secunda. The very name gives me shivers. I spotted it on a map while doing some research and to my amazement it isn't where I always thought it was. No doubt the reason I dreamed about it. How did I live there for two years and not know where it was? Memories came rushing back, made even stronger by the contact from an ex-pupil this week.
I was a newly qualified teacher, had bought my first car- a green 1969 Beetle with a starter button. My first posting was to a newly built town where they converted coal to petrol, with accompanying smells and the famous Secunda Flame, a constantly burning flame spurting from one of the tall chimney stacks. I decided it would be an adventure and I was so excited to finally be starting the career I'd wanted since I was little, that I saw everything as a challenge. Ah, youth.
Secunda back then had a few trees, rows and rows of newly built homes, many immigrant workers from all over the world, entire suburbs consisting of randomly placed static caravans, a deathly odour and Panorama Hostel - the only place in the world that's perfected the art of serving up pork chops that are burnt on the outside and still frozen in the middle.
Now, you'd suppose that being one of only ten females sharing a hostel with five hundred men would be exciting and full of possibilities. No. New female teachers were boarded there for a very cheap rate along with the men, most of whom were miners and a bit rough. Okay, a lot rough. I was also the only English speaking person in the hostel - there may have been others but I never found them and my Afrikaans improved dramatically. I spent a lot of time trying to persuade them that I wasn't called 'Kaffy' - Katy with a T not Kaffy wiff an F. With my 'liberal' political views about apartheid and the state of the country, I learned very quickly not to be too outspoken, as the place seemed to be populated by ultra conservative, right-wing supporters, with a strong Afrikaner Weerstand Beweging presence, swastika-style flags on their cars and all.
For those who don't know, the AWB, under the leadership of Eugene Terreblanche, was a right wing, violent neo-nazi political group determined to keep power in white hands. I managed to steer clear of the most vocal members and to avoid confrontations. I was outnumbered. I recall one day telling my class of 9 year olds that South Africa was about to change and that one day they might be going to school with black children, and got into serious trouble. I was called before the headmaster and given a severe dressing down as I'd caused one child 'terrible trauma'. Five years later Mandela was released, schools were opened to all and I'd moved on. I often think of the particular little boy that complained and wonder what happened to him when things changed exactly the way I said they would.
Panorama Hostel not only provided men that threw the previously mentioned pork chops at the women when we entered the dining room while making 'here kitty kitty' noises, it also taught me how to hold a disco in a parking lot. First, you take your car with its nodding dog head, fuzzy dice and un-muffled exhaust and you park it in a circle with similar vehicles - preferably underneath the only English teacher's bedroom window. Next you tune all your radios to the same station, open the doors and crank up the volume. To get the true disco vibe, you then turn on your hazard lights, which give a lovely strobe effect. And finally you drink as much beer as the town can provide and boogie into the night, with breaks between dancing to shoot at beer bottles lined up against the wall. Underneath the teacher's window. Occasionally I would get invitations from drunken, non-English speaking miners to join them. Sadly these types of gatherings were stopped after one of said miners fell out of the window while trying to climb into a teacher's bedroom. On the third floor.
One of the other highlights of my time in the hostel, was the woman in the room on the floor above mine. She entertained men. Many, many men. Every hour on the hour. Every night. And got paid for it. Unfortunately her bed squeaked and sound travelled, so my friend and I would listen to 'activities' above us over the crackly sound of my black and white TV, banging on the roof with a broom when things got too loud. She seemed like a very friendly and popular lady who was asked to leave half way through my second year there. I regret not getting to know her a bit better.
My school had forty four different nationalities, and in my class of thirty seven I had twenty four, half of whom didn't speak English. Communicating with Polish, Czech, assorted English, Welsh and Scottish, one of whom had such a strong accent I never understood him, wasn't exactly the challenge I'd hoped for, but we did have fun and I made some good friends. Apart from the mother of one little boy who stormed into the classroom ready for a fight because her son thought I was more important than she was and loved me more.
I suppose a teacher's first class will always be special and mine certainly was. I remember them all fondly, even the little boy who was part of a Fagin-type gang that went around robbing houses and the shops in the one and only mall. When they were caught the police called round at his parents and sent him outside while they discussed his future. When they came out, he'd stolen the light off the top of the police car. Yes, I have put that in a book along with some of the characters I met. I doubt I'll ever expunge the memory of the mother who arrived to see me about a missing eraser without teeth, bra, underwear of any kind, a 'boob tube' dress three sizes to small and the hairiest armpits and legs I've ever seen. I had to give the children a severe talking to afterwards.
I left Secunda after two years, but I have fond, funny and sad memories of my time there. And now I know exactly where it is too. It feels like a lifetime ago, but it was there that I first started writing. I moved to a school in Pretoria and stayed there for the next eight years until I left to become a full time television script writer. But that's another story. I often dream about being back in the classroom, usually I'm under attack by rabid pupils wielding snot sandwiches and lethal pencils and can only escape by waking up.
Nowadays I'm back in the classroom, but this time I'm the visiting author and it's a whole different type of experience. Those years of preparation have stood me in good stead, and I suppose I'll always be a teacher deep down. The internet has reconnected me with many of my past pupils, and I'm happy to report that they remember the weirdness and funny songs and don't seem too traumatised by the experience. Some of them have gone on to become teachers too, so hopefully I did something right.
A couple of nights ago I had a nightmare about being sent back to the first school I taught at, in a small industrial town in South Africa. Secunda. The very name gives me shivers. I spotted it on a map while doing some research and to my amazement it isn't where I always thought it was. No doubt the reason I dreamed about it. How did I live there for two years and not know where it was? Memories came rushing back, made even stronger by the contact from an ex-pupil this week.
I was a newly qualified teacher, had bought my first car- a green 1969 Beetle with a starter button. My first posting was to a newly built town where they converted coal to petrol, with accompanying smells and the famous Secunda Flame, a constantly burning flame spurting from one of the tall chimney stacks. I decided it would be an adventure and I was so excited to finally be starting the career I'd wanted since I was little, that I saw everything as a challenge. Ah, youth.
Secunda back then had a few trees, rows and rows of newly built homes, many immigrant workers from all over the world, entire suburbs consisting of randomly placed static caravans, a deathly odour and Panorama Hostel - the only place in the world that's perfected the art of serving up pork chops that are burnt on the outside and still frozen in the middle.
Now, you'd suppose that being one of only ten females sharing a hostel with five hundred men would be exciting and full of possibilities. No. New female teachers were boarded there for a very cheap rate along with the men, most of whom were miners and a bit rough. Okay, a lot rough. I was also the only English speaking person in the hostel - there may have been others but I never found them and my Afrikaans improved dramatically. I spent a lot of time trying to persuade them that I wasn't called 'Kaffy' - Katy with a T not Kaffy wiff an F. With my 'liberal' political views about apartheid and the state of the country, I learned very quickly not to be too outspoken, as the place seemed to be populated by ultra conservative, right-wing supporters, with a strong Afrikaner Weerstand Beweging presence, swastika-style flags on their cars and all.
For those who don't know, the AWB, under the leadership of Eugene Terreblanche, was a right wing, violent neo-nazi political group determined to keep power in white hands. I managed to steer clear of the most vocal members and to avoid confrontations. I was outnumbered. I recall one day telling my class of 9 year olds that South Africa was about to change and that one day they might be going to school with black children, and got into serious trouble. I was called before the headmaster and given a severe dressing down as I'd caused one child 'terrible trauma'. Five years later Mandela was released, schools were opened to all and I'd moved on. I often think of the particular little boy that complained and wonder what happened to him when things changed exactly the way I said they would.
Panorama Hostel not only provided men that threw the previously mentioned pork chops at the women when we entered the dining room while making 'here kitty kitty' noises, it also taught me how to hold a disco in a parking lot. First, you take your car with its nodding dog head, fuzzy dice and un-muffled exhaust and you park it in a circle with similar vehicles - preferably underneath the only English teacher's bedroom window. Next you tune all your radios to the same station, open the doors and crank up the volume. To get the true disco vibe, you then turn on your hazard lights, which give a lovely strobe effect. And finally you drink as much beer as the town can provide and boogie into the night, with breaks between dancing to shoot at beer bottles lined up against the wall. Underneath the teacher's window. Occasionally I would get invitations from drunken, non-English speaking miners to join them. Sadly these types of gatherings were stopped after one of said miners fell out of the window while trying to climb into a teacher's bedroom. On the third floor.
One of the other highlights of my time in the hostel, was the woman in the room on the floor above mine. She entertained men. Many, many men. Every hour on the hour. Every night. And got paid for it. Unfortunately her bed squeaked and sound travelled, so my friend and I would listen to 'activities' above us over the crackly sound of my black and white TV, banging on the roof with a broom when things got too loud. She seemed like a very friendly and popular lady who was asked to leave half way through my second year there. I regret not getting to know her a bit better.
My school had forty four different nationalities, and in my class of thirty seven I had twenty four, half of whom didn't speak English. Communicating with Polish, Czech, assorted English, Welsh and Scottish, one of whom had such a strong accent I never understood him, wasn't exactly the challenge I'd hoped for, but we did have fun and I made some good friends. Apart from the mother of one little boy who stormed into the classroom ready for a fight because her son thought I was more important than she was and loved me more.
I suppose a teacher's first class will always be special and mine certainly was. I remember them all fondly, even the little boy who was part of a Fagin-type gang that went around robbing houses and the shops in the one and only mall. When they were caught the police called round at his parents and sent him outside while they discussed his future. When they came out, he'd stolen the light off the top of the police car. Yes, I have put that in a book along with some of the characters I met. I doubt I'll ever expunge the memory of the mother who arrived to see me about a missing eraser without teeth, bra, underwear of any kind, a 'boob tube' dress three sizes to small and the hairiest armpits and legs I've ever seen. I had to give the children a severe talking to afterwards.
I left Secunda after two years, but I have fond, funny and sad memories of my time there. And now I know exactly where it is too. It feels like a lifetime ago, but it was there that I first started writing. I moved to a school in Pretoria and stayed there for the next eight years until I left to become a full time television script writer. But that's another story. I often dream about being back in the classroom, usually I'm under attack by rabid pupils wielding snot sandwiches and lethal pencils and can only escape by waking up.
Nowadays I'm back in the classroom, but this time I'm the visiting author and it's a whole different type of experience. Those years of preparation have stood me in good stead, and I suppose I'll always be a teacher deep down. The internet has reconnected me with many of my past pupils, and I'm happy to report that they remember the weirdness and funny songs and don't seem too traumatised by the experience. Some of them have gone on to become teachers too, so hopefully I did something right.