Most schools have an Outdoor Education programme, be it a camp or some sort of a leadership experience away from their usual four-walled classroom spaces. We all know about our beautiful South African environment and the opportunities it provides, and most teachers have done at least some reading about experiential learning. Unfortunately, though, our students and their experiences in the outdoors tend to be curtailed by paperwork, academia and more testing. We focus on helping the students the best set of results that they can, and unfortunately this is just not enough.
You see, the problem with much of what happens in schools is that it is too learner-centred. The students benefit from their knowledge personally, and it allows them to qualify with a Matric Certificate, but that is where their education stops. With them. Schooling should be more than preparation for a set of exam results. It should be the chance to make a real difference in the environment and the community. Our wild places are under constant pressure, and with a population that is nearing eight billion, we continue to encroach on these spaces and unfortunately, everything that lives in them. Educated decisions are made in managing them, and those soldiers who try to preserve our natural heritage do their job with the best intentions and should be lauded. However, they cannot do it on their own. They need numbers on the ground. This is where my embryonic idea of an Outdoor Education programme comes into it, and it differs slightly to what we do at the moment in schools when it comes to immersing students in the environment. The current trend in providing experiences outside the classroom for students is predominantly founded on the principles of resilience. We send boys in particular out on camps where they are able to test themselves and find their limitations. They might experience discomfort, but the trade-off is self-discovery. And this premise is vitally important. Particularly for boys. The problem, though, is that some students begin to associate the outdoors with hardship, and in later life, a hike as a way to escape, to rejuvenate or to enjoy, is probably not their first option. So, some schools bring an element of fun into their outdoor programme. They interweave challenges with activities like archery, rock climbing and river rafting. Hopefully these detours provide a break from the trials and testing and enable to students to realise that being outdoors is not just about testing yourself. It is a place to enjoy, recharge and renew. There is a third tier, though, which few camps ever consider. It is seldom that Outdoor Programmes resonate with an underlying understanding of preservation, ecology and conservation. For students, most of these words are covered in the classroom and as such, are considered taboo. These words create screen-saver eyes and students add them to the list of all of the responsibilities that we as adults tend to give them to shoulder. But being outside, in a wilderness environment provides a scope for making a real difference, not just talking about it. And that is where my ideas come in. As I mentioned earlier, dedicated conservationists do their bit to sustain the environment, but imagine if they had help from school children. Imagine if we were able to take students into an environment that has all the hallmarks of a threatened wild Africa. Most of our school camps find themselves immersed in some sort of socio-economic-environmental battle anyway, so why not allow the students to become one of the foot soldiers? What difference could they make if they studied the ecology of a given area, in collaboration with students from other schools, building up a research base of information long term to aid conservation? The possibilities of studying ecosystems, micro and macro with relationships between species and individuals and the impact that they have on one another is an exciting prospect. All of this is made even more feasible with technology because technology is at a place where camera traps, GoogleEarth and communal websites make achieving such goals more than 'pie in the sky'. Trophic balances reflect the quality of the environment, and studying something as small as a dung beetle, could have far reaching effects. And more than that, it is all do-able in something that has more scope that a single individual's efforts. If we deal in the practical ecology of an area in a manner that is hands on and experiential, the students will appreciate the affects that we have on nature. Obviously they will need to be guided by Game Rangers and Teachers, and in doing so, I think that the affects of their conclusions could be far-reaching. Why not build an activity like this into all of our camps, and provide a forum for this findings to be collaborated with other students? And we can also bring in the community. Because a project like this is not just about the students who can afford it making a small difference, it is about all of us. Understanding how to care for our natural world is about understanding how to empower people to realise that it is their own individual responsibility. Training locals on how to mark and recapture small insects and animals, for instance, might be a starting point, and if they are remunerated, we might find it the beginning of further involvement and collaborative ideas. A project like this is about every single one of us doing our bit, instead of expecting others to make a difference on our behalf. Humanity may have a right to clean water, for instance, but if we do not exercise accountability and responsibility in sustaining the water we have, that right would no longer be realistically achievable. Nature has a marvelous Godly ability to heal itself, as long as the onslaught that we produce is not continuous. If we are able to understand nature by inculcating an ethical responsibility towards it among our students and indeed the greater community, maybe the world will have a fighting chance. Take a look at the countries with the most developed education systems, like Finland and Denmark. It is no coincidence that they have a steadily declining population growth. The reason is because the citizens of these nations have realised that more people require more resources and are therefore not sustainable. Much can be read into this, but maybe the most profound epiphany (which most of us already know) is that education done correctly promotes responsibility and maybe if we look at our environmental impact, education will have the power to create a global ethical consciousness towards our environment. Unfortunately there is a chasm between the impoverished who cannot afford this sparkling education and the affluent who can but often don't do the right thing. Maybe including opportunities like this in our camps will bridge that gap within the parameters of understanding each other and the impact that we have on our world. There is a poetry in nature that we need to preserve, and we can only make a difference by balancing self-discovery with enjoyment with environmentalism. The youth are able to produce inspiring solutions to problems, but we need to plant the seed within them in order to create teenage conservation soldiers. Maybe then our students will become something like Warrior Poets: boys and girls who are able to halt our wanton pressure on nature through their empathy and understanding of it.
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When we went to the aquarium, Bella was full of wonder and excitement. She was learning so much about the sea and loving every minute of it. There is a TED Talk buy a classical musician called Benjamin Zander and in it he speaks about shining eyes. That is exactly what Bella had. Somehow between childhood and adult cynicism we manage to lose that sense of wonder, and I think that part of understanding our own lives is by trying to recapture it.
No animal is half as vile
As Crocky–Wock, the crocodile. On Saturdays he likes to crunch Six juicy children for his lunch And he especially enjoys Just three of each, three girls, three boys. He smears the boys (to make them hot) With mustard from the mustard pot. But mustard doesn't go with girls, It tastes all wrong with plaits and curls. With them, what goes extremely well Is butterscotch and caramel. It's such a super marvelous treat When boys are hot and girls are sweet. At least that's Crocky's point of view He ought to know. He's had a few. That's all for now. It's time for bed. Lie down and rest your sleepy head. Ssh. Listen. What is that I hear, Galumphing softly up the stair? Go lock the door and fetch my gun! Go on child, hurry! Quickly run! No stop! Stand back! He's coming in! Oh, look, that greasy greenish skin! The shining teeth, the greedy smile! It's Crocky–Wock, the Crocodile!" Roald Dahl © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes With tuppence for paper and strings
You can have your own set of wings With your feet on the ground You're a bird in a flight With your fist holding tight To the string of your kite Oh, oh, oh! Let's go fly a kite Up to the highest height! Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring Up through the atmosphere Up where the air is clear Oh, let's go fly a kite! When you send it flyin' up there All at once you're lighter than air You can dance on the breeze Over 'ouses and trees With your first 'olding tight To the string of your kite Oh, oh, oh! Let's go fly a kite Up to the highest height! Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring Up through the atmosphere Up where the air is clear Let's go fly a kite! We always went to Ramsgate on holiday. It ended up being a full-family affair with aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. We got together on the deck of the house that we rented, Sietta, and had breakfast together before going off down to the beach. In the 1980s the area was not as built-up as it is today to the extent that the locals would often knock on our door in the morning looking to sell some fresh crayfish, and we often enjoyed this delicacy with our breakfast.
I remember the fun we had on the beach, with my grandparents perched up on the grassy embankments above the sand, in their full costumes, taking a dip in the tidal pool if they were feeling particularly adventurous. We would build huge sandcastles with my cousins and spent hours running into the sea and then trying to escape from the tide. Somehow we always managed to find stalks of sugar cane that were possibly dislodged during their transport to the refineries, and I remember chewing their fibrey core to release the sweet juices they stored. If we were lucky, we were treated to the lunch at the famous Waffle House. Sticky fingers and sandy feet will always remind me of that place. They are very happy memories. Some time later, Gramps decided to buy one of the flats that looked over the car park and then beach. It was called the Green Dolphin. Somehow our family holidays got a little bit smaller, and we started to spend more intimate retreats with Mum, Dad and Gramps. It was a short walk down to the ocean, and I would wake up early before anyone else to explore the rock pools and bring back any treasures that I found on my quests. I think that these adventures are my favourite parts of being at the seaside. I never knew exactly what I would find as I jumped from rock to rock with a net and bucket in one hand, steadying myself with the other. There were always hermit crabs, starfish, snails and crabs, but sometimes I would get lucky. Catching the tantalisingly colourful fish was always difficult, but I became quite adept at catching the tiny dogfish with my hands. Sometimes, I would collect sea anemones that were still attached to rocks that had been dislodged by the waves and at other times I would retrieve vibrant sea slugs that move with the frilly ripples of silk. I remember finding a small octopus at once and marveled at the way it left soft puck-marks on my arm as it clambered about. I always took these creatures back to the flat to display in the Perspex tank that I kept on the dining room table and I would spend hours watching the little aquarium before returning them to the ocean when we went back down to the beach. I think back on all of this and I can see similar memories forming behind Bella’s eyes...her shining eyes. She has learnt so much on this trip and I hope that this place becomes something that is as special for her as it was for me. Hopefully she will be able to return for regular holidays and continue to build on the memories that she has created so far... The more time I spend in the bushveld, the more I feel disconnected from the city. The bush somehow seems more intimate, despite its vastness. As I warm myself by the crackling fire, I listen to the sounds of night. Amidst the constant rattle of crickets, I hear the whoop of a spotted hyena, and I know that they are probably heading towards the wildebeest carcass we found this morning. In my mind's eye, I can imagine them extracting themselves from the rocky fissures where they have made their den, arching backs in a dusky stretch before loping off on a winding track through the mopane trees. A pearl-spotted owlet makes its frenetic whistle and I know that it will be calling for its mate, my thought confirmed when I hear w reply through the darkness. I know my company by name as well, and we share stories around the fire, drinking in the wilderness, the fire, the stars and the peace of this this place. At home, in the city, I feel removed. I feel that I have been robbed of the stars as the Milky Way has been swallowed by ambient light. I hear the sound of cars making their way home from work, but I cannot name them and who they belong to. I am disconnected, just like everyone else in the big city. There is little community, little interconnectedness. In the bushveld, I feel part of a vast ecosystem. Whatever I use is recycled back into the environment. As we walk along dusty game trails, I feel as vulnerable as the wildlife which we are searching for. I do not feel the human illusion of mastery, but instead I feel humbled. I feel an elemental connection to the world. When we came upon a plain dotted with wildebeest, zebra and impala, I return their curious stares with my own sense of wonder. Maybe I have lost something in the complexity of my urban existence. Perhaps simple pleasures are more profound. Maybe the perspective offered by the wilderness will nurture my soul. When I was about ten, we picked up a white-hulled sailing boat that was lying derelict in a rubbish container at the dump. At this point I need to mention that being a Watson meant returning from the dump with some treasure, no matter how battered, and this boat was one such treasure. It had a broken mast and some holes in the hull but nothing that could not be repaired. So, Dad and I took to getting her sea-worthy, and credit to Dad in letting me do most of the work. The result was a re-painted hull in a dribbly bright white that the dexterity of a ten-year-old with a paintbrush can produce. I got Mum to sew up some blue sails out of waterproof material and managed to rig them up to the masts. During our family holiday to Ramsgate, where my Grandfather owned a flat called 'The Blue Dolphin', I spent many hours sailing my yacht in the Noel Quarry Swimming Pool at the main beach. That was in the late-80s, and I had forgotten about that sailing boat until two weeks before we left for our Ramsgate holiday this year. The boat had been packed away for more than twenty years, and I don't know why I suddenly thought about it now after all of these years. In any case, I fished the boat out of its hiding place at my parents' house and decided to give her a refurbishment. Off came the white paint to reveal some beautiful old wood that I decided to varnish up to a glossy sheen. The sails were just as good as when they were made all those years ago and I decided to paint the keel a bright red. With some TLC and new thread for the rigging, she was eventually sea-worthy once again. And I handed her over to Bella, who took the yacht into the same Noel Quarry Pool, and gently placed her hull into the water. She floated! Soon the wind bellowed into her sails and she began easing through the water, a small bow wave coming off the hull. Bella made little movements with the rudder and the boom swung easily with the wind to gain more speed in her voyage. She splashed to keep up and her little fingers pushed the hull in a new direction, the boat responding with even more speed and a marginal angle, but still under control. Bella's eager giggle resonated with my own joy as a youngster. It is amazing how things turn full-circle. I should come up with a name for her, something that maybe reflects her new lease on life. Would Phoenix be a bit cliched? Maybe. I'll have to keep thinking. I poke the Mopane flames with a stick Sending firefly sparks into the air. We chat quietly through by its warmth. "What is the sound of the bush?" And a debate ensues. The boundaries of nocturnal or diurnal Established, we begin a list by name. The fish eagle is a unanimous favorite And someone whistles its cry, Imitating a neck thrown back And the warbling tune. But what about hornbills? Whose collective duets Ebb like violent waves in the trees. Perhaps the franklin in twilight mornings That rattle in the undergrowth? Then there is night, With a scops owl twirr A simple whistle answered by another. Or a fiery-necked nightjar Whose melodious tune reminds me Of its flaming namesake. And what of the animals? A soulful roar from the belly Of a lion, breathless and quaking? Perhaps a hyena's long loping whoop? Maybe it is the witchcraft of a jackal Or the cheer from dazzling zebras? We mimic their voices and listen For other possibilities in the night, While I send more winking sparks From the fire up to the moon. Through a puzzle of crevices I crest the koppie's summit. The sun is seeping through the clouds Her hands making a cup of dawn And slivers of orange and yellow light Slipping through the gaps in her fingers. Mistakingly, I disturb the resident black eagles That effortlessly find the first thermals As they leap from their nest, White V-necks glinting through the morning. An ecology of smooth sandstone Knead the top of Eagle Rock And beneath them the Mohloutse River: A dry snake of sand pockmarked with footprints. Mashatu, Leadwood and Mopane trees Dominate its banks And I see a pair of giraffe plod their path From one side of the river to the next. Their loping gates make me understand Why they are names kameelperd. The dotted guineafowl Bicker on the ground below And hornbills choreograph their calls With the approaching day. I hear some disciplinary barks from The baboons as they mentor their troop And the crack of a branch Makes me turn to watch a proud Male kudu weave past a wild fig A regal ghost in the undergrowth. The long flute of a bush shrike And the whistle of an owlet Reverberate the branches Somewhere below. I look in their direction And catch some movement in the thicket. A bull elephant emerges A silent behemoth whose Wizened steps take him Slurping from a muddly pool. I close my eyes And breath in the warm smell From the elephant Ascended by a gentle breeze And feel I am At Home. |
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