Across The Great Waters Bheka Pierce   © Copyright 2025 by Bheka Pierce

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I wrote back to thank him for his generosity. I let him know that I personally would not be caught dead wearing black pajamas, with or without the straw hats, but I did feel people ought to be allowed to wear what they liked, however unsettling it might be to those of us who take our haberdashery seriously. As such, I was wondering, if he could possibly send me instead to somewhere in Africa, which I had long wanted to visit, where I might teach English at some rural school.

He said he would be glad to.

In January of 1969, I began teaching in a remote valley of southern Swaziland (now known as Eswatini.) There was a cement-block and corrugated-iron roofed schoolhouse, and two teacher houses, one for me, one for the headmaster. There was a church. There was no electricity, no plumbing, no shops, no cars, no phones. A bus chugged by once a day, if it came at all, if its gear box had not jammed again. The nearest town was thirty miles away at ten miles an hour up a perilous mountain-cliff road, a trek I made once a month, largely with my eyes closed, working imaginary rosary beads.

It was not a good place to have an acute appendicitis, but other than that, I was delighted. The people of our valley were so entirely friendly and welcoming, coming to my house to sell me eggs, tomatoes, and such at one-for-a-cent, and simply to shake my hand and thank me for coming across the great waters to teach their children.

The kids were wonderful. My first morning, there were forty-two tenth-graders in my first class. When I came in, they all stood by their desks and said, “Good morning, Sir.” Well, most of them did. I heard a few say just as earnestly as the others, “Good afternoon, Madam.”

I took a quick glance at the book in my hand, the first we were supposed to study, a play in five acts, entitled Julius Caesar, by a fellow from England going by the name of William Shakespeare. I said to the Bard in my head, “Well, Bill, this is gonna be a challenge.”

By the end of the first week, we’d nearly finished Act I. At the end of each period, I’d asked if there were any questions. Oh, no, Sir, thank you, Sir, for coming across the great waters to teach us this language of the King of England.

On Friday, I gave them a simple multiple-choice quiz. A boy named Paulos got the highest grade: 18%. Monday, I threw the stack on the table and asked what the hell had happened? What went wrong? Why hadn’t they asked questions?”

Paulos, who turned out to be one of the brightest students I had in forty years, who would help teach me how to teach, said, “Oh, we are very sorry, Sir, but there is only one problem.”

“Well, that’s good news,” I said. “What is it?”

“The only problem is, Sir, that we cannot understand one word you are saying.”

Every head was nodding in agreement.

“Why the hell not?!” I asked

“Oh,” Paulos said, “it is because it seems you are talking in a great hurry down in a deep hole.”

Which, fortunately for me and them, was perfect, which was then and still is one of the most sublimely funny things I have ever heard. I laughed. And then I couldn’t stop laughing. And then they were laughing.

And the next day, the real work began. I slowed my speech from 45 rpms to 33 rpms, and obeyed my new rule: If it’s important, say it slowly, write it on the board, and say it again more slowly.

By November, we could sing Shakespeare together and row out with Santiago in his skiff in the Gulf Stream to where the great fish were. And in December all forty-two of my kids passed their Junior Certificate English Exam.