This is story #45 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
45. Back In The Bush But As A Teacher This Time
The New Year came and went. It was January 1971, which meant the start of a new school year, too. I was so happy to have finished my years of studying, and to be fully qualified as a high school teacher, at last. However, as I had suspected (and dreaded!) I was, indeed, sent to a small rural town called Marandellas (now Marondera), about 50 miles from Salisbury. Once again, I found myself in the bush, in a mainly Afrikaans-speaking farming community where the farms (growing tobacco and maize. I can’t remember if there were cattle, as well.) were vast and the children of farmers were sent from the age of seven to boarding schools.
At least this time I was no longer a student. Far from it. I was the only teacher of French in this co-educational high school where I was responsible for teaching every grade. It was hard work. However, I was lucky to be given board and lodging in the girls’ school hostel. There was another hostel for boys on the school property. However, the boys were not allowed to visit the girls, and vice versa. I suppose all those teenage hormones had to be kept as far away as possible from those of the opposite sex!
I didn’t mind being a resident teacher. I had a room with a large window, so it was bright and light. There were four of us in the hostel, which was supervised by a South African man, who lived with his wife and young children in a special suite of rooms, more like a house, but attached to the hostel. One of my colleagues was a widowed lady in her 60s teaching Afrikaans, but soon to retire. The other two, both a year or so older than me, were a lady on secondment from the UK, who was teaching Geography and Physical Education, and a Math teacher.
