This is story #48 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.
48. A Full Timetable in the Middle of Nowhere
Life for me as a teacher in the bush consisted of nothing much except work and more work. I felt as if I had simply replaced all the studying at university and at school, for more schoolwork, but taken from a different angle. I was the teacher, this time, not the student. I needed to understand and apply the curriculum, I needed to read the books which went with the courses, and I had to prepare for each lesson I took. I didn’t want to run the risk of being less than prepared, since I suspected that the students would soon see this and might become discipline problems in class.
So, schoolwork took over my life. In any case, there was nowhere to go and nothing to do outside of the school grounds. Nothing. No movie theatre, no restaurants, no cafés that I can remember. We were in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t have a car so I couldn’t go anywhere unless I was offered a ride. So, I buried myself in my schoolwork, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments every evening.
I can’t remember doing anything much that was exciting, ever. We didn’t have a TV in our rooms, so maybe I read. Sometimes, we young teachers got together and listened to records played on a record player in one of our colleague’s rooms. I didn’t have records, nor a record player. I had a small transistor radio, and that was it.
Schoolwork took over my life. Every Friday, we teachers were required to hand into the headmaster of the school, our lesson plans for the coming week. He examined these in detail, returning them to us early on Monday morning. He wrote comments, accordingly. My plans were always accepted, and his comments complimentary. I was, as always, very conscientious, a dedicated teacher to each class I taught.
I enjoyed the meals. I didn’t have to prepare them for myself, a bonus in my books since I didn’t know how to cook. Meals were prepared in the hostel kitchens by a team of African cooks overseen by a white woman supervisor. She was responsible for feeding the students, but she also made for the four of us staff members different, fabulous meals, which we all relished. These latter were served in a small private dining room for us. It was for me the highlight of the day to attend a meal in that bright, sun-filled dining room, where the table was laid with a linen cloth as if we were in a restaurant.
