A Distant Nostalgia: Dead Poets Society - Saint Andrew's School ...

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moment they wake up to the moment they go to
sleep, and they go through the day with great
energy and cheerfulness. For the boarding boys
the day often starts at 6:00 a.m. with the running
of "bounds"-a three-kilometer jog around the
boundaries of the school. I ran with them once
just for the experience. It was simply more fun
than I ever hope to have again.
The boys are generally quite friendly and
deferential, though perhaps not as mature as
American students. They stand when you walk
into the classroom or simply walk by, and "sir"
you to death. I don't think I've been called by
my name once-it's just "sir." The boys don't
quite know what to make of me. They often look
at me strangely when I grab them playfully or
kid around. When it finally dawns on them that
I've made a joke their eyes grow large with
recognition: "Oh! Oh yes, sir. Very good. sir!"
Their misconceptions about American life are
almost as horrific as ours about them. They
seem to think that most Americans are just filthy
rich, and that you need a gun or switchblade to
survive in our schools. Though the "Albanians"
are not armed, I've found teaching here a little
more difficult. There are usually about 25 boys
to a class, and I have four separate class
preparations daily. All classes are taught in an
outrageously long morning-from 7:40 a.m. to
I:50 p.m. The boys are not terribly contributive
or inquisitive, so I end up spending a good part
of the class lecturing. My greatest teaching
experience thus far has been "upgrading"­
teaching a class of mat ric boys and girls from
black public schools around Pretoria. These
pupils want to get every academic edge they can
on the way (hopefully) to a university, so they go
to their own schools during the day and then are
bussed to St. Alban's in the late afternoon. I
teach a class of 37 blacks, ranging in age from
17 to 22. They look up to me like I'm their
ticket out of the ghetto-I've never felt more
motivated or energized to teach a class in my
life. It's a great temptation to lock the door for a
week and teach them Everything I Know. They
are very curious about American life and were
amazed when I told them that many St.
Andrew's students have their own computers.
One of the boys said he'd like to have one for
himself. I jokingly said I would send him one
when I got back to the States. The students
laughed, but after class this boy came forward
and solemnly handed me his address.
But it is the faculty here at St. Alban's that
has made my stay most worthwhile. They work
very long days and understand the importance of,
shall we say, "creative recreation." There is a
beautiful little pub-like building with a thatched
roof called the Weatherston, where the bachelors
meet every weeknight for drinks and dinner.
There is also a nice new building overlooking the
cricket fields called the Pavilion, where Old
Boys, faculty members and friends meet every
Friday night for what becomes a considerable
party. I have come under the particularly
insidious influence of one Des Webster, the
Ocshe House tutor, who moved here in the
Campbell-Atkins' flat with me soon after the
year started. Together Des and I have hosted a
couple of epic "braais" (barbeques) and parties.
The cats treat both of us with a healthy
contempt.
Two years of military service is compulsory
for all white South African men, and Des is
finishing his second year. In all this time in the
Army, Des has played cricket and field hockeythat's
basically it. If it rains, he comes home
early. Living here at St. Alban's he's technically
AWOL, but no one on the base seems to know or
care. It's a strange setup--I don't think Des has
carried a gun yet. When the ANC invades, I
expect Des will bludgeon them with his cricket
bat.
Everyone here has been great about asking me
to join them wherever they go. I've been to
Durban and the beaches of the Indian Ocean,
Cape Town (the most beautiful city I've ever
seen) and Cape of Good Hope, the parched
deserts of the Karoo, played blackjack in the
decadent casinos of Sun City, watched the South
African heavyweight champion defend his title
(against a Virginian), set off a dynamite blast in
the world's largest diamond mine (Premier
Mine-where the Cullinan diamond was found),
and seen Johnny Clegg at the Coliseum in
Jo'Burg (an interesting mix of African township
music and rock-n-roll). But the high point so far
was definitely the weekend on the private game
farm in the Lowveld, next to the Kruger National
Park.
After a slow start, when I wondered what in
the world I'd gotten myself into, the days have
rushed by. The whole experience in some strange
way is greater than the sum of its parts. It's so
unsett) ing to leave 30 years of a constructed self
behind, and to start all over again with people
who don't know you from Adam. It's really an
experience of liberation. There's nothing more
cleansing and stimulating than being put offbalance,
unable to rely on habits and
understandings you've depended on all your life
long. Though the strangeness is found mainly in
the little things, the cumulative effect is
tremendous-hearing new bird calls, listening to
so many different languages, seeing strange
constellations in the evening sky. It's both
unsettling and alluring. Still, I think I need to
get back soon. I'm starting to like these cats.
Duncan
February 26, 1989