Different Approaches to Life. And Death.

It certainly has been awhile since I last posted.  I am going to attribute that to summer break, ongoing heat, ongoing adjustments, and, to be honest, graduate school research.  Plus, I think there is truth to the fact that heat can sap motivation.  When it is continually above 90 degrees inside by my laptop, motivation to reflect, recount, relive, and then productively document is considerably strained .  Not that a lot has not happened which I would like to share.  Rather, I could write about painting a World Map on the side of a school with donated paints, planting permaculture garden beds with the help of community volunteers, applying for funding and attending meetings at the Embassy, traveling through Namibia via unreliable public transportation and hitching, having my passport stolen and credit card numbers traced, fighting mice in my pit latrine, or any number of daily occurrences to which I try to continually adjust.

However, as it has been a spell since I posted, I am going to follow up to my last post about my host nephew Desmond.  Sadly, he passed.

When I last posted, Desmond was in the hospital for TB or pneumonia (the official diagnoses was never revealed to me or to Mr. Magoro – the school principal).  He stayed at the hospital for 14 nights and finally returned home with his mother Vivian.  I was home when he returned and although he wasn’t exactly spry, he definitely had regained some strength and a sense of life had returned to his face.  Upon seeing me, his smile was meek, but he had filled out a bit and looked like he was on the road to recovery.  (Of course, “filling up” was not difficult as he was literally skin and bones when we took him to the clinic.  Come to think of it, upon leaving he sadly and eerily reminded me of the TV commercials airing in the US in the 1980s about famished children in Ethiopia).  Vivian carried a bag and when I asked if it was medicine from the hospital, she looked inside the bag as if she had forgotten she was carrying it.

The medicine inside was antibiotics and what I thought to be a type of steroid.  Desmond was supposed to take the medicine for several weeks.  That was in late October.  I asked if and when he was to return to the hospital for a follow up.  The answer?  December.  A child admitted to the hospital for 14 nights for advanced TB and the first follow up is not for 6 weeks?!  Still, I thought maybe there was some language issue which was causing me to misinterpret.  Maybe he would be returning earlier for a medication refill.  Maybe I didn’t understand the whole of what was being conveyed.  Actually, I figured, that was pretty likely.  The good thing is that he was home and looked better.

So the initial weeks when he was home, he stayed out of school.  October turned to November and Desmond started looking weaker quickly.  His condition visually deteriorated fast.  He never felt well enough to return to school and his coughing and inability to hold down food returned.  In fact, his best chance to return to school would have occurred the day immediately following his return from the hospital.

I talked to Mr. Magoro about it the first week of November.  Mr. Magoro agreed to speak to the family.  The following day he came by the house after school and again urged the family to take Desmond back to the hospital.  In recounting their conversation to me later, he even said that he was forthright to the point of saying that if the family were to wait until December for any medical follow up, Desmond “may not make it.”  He also said he suspected that they were not giving Desmond his medicine regularly.  Despite his strong opposition against the way the family was handling Desmond’s care, Mr. Magoro said there was only so much he could do.  We had convinced the family to take Desmond to the hospital once and look what had happened.  At least, that was the family’s viewpoint according to Mr. Magoro.

I tried to empathize.  Tried to put myself in my host family’s place.  I realized that the family had reluctantly sent Desmond to the hospital one time against their own personal beliefs.  The hospital kept him for two weeks after which he returned only slightly better and immediately worsened.  Now, Mr. Magoro and myself were back again urging them to have Desmond returned to the hospital.  But to them, the hospital was the cause of the problems and not the place offering care.  The family was agreeable for him to keep his follow up appointment in December but not for his returning to the hospital immediately.  Although I could “see” their position, I had a hard time empathizing.  I didn’t think the situation was being handled appropriately.  For instance, Desmond of course would stand hardly a chance without regularly taking the medicine issued to him after the hospital discharge.  Moreover, I got the sense that the family believed the hospital stay had actually made him worse and had he just stayed at home for those two weeks, he would be better now.  How do you argue with this belief when the fact was that the family did not want him to go to the hospital initially and after “trusting” our belief that it was for the better, he returned without any notable improvement?  Where was our track record for continued wisdom?  They followed our advice once but the situation did not improve.  Why follow it again?

On my way to school the Monday morning of the second week of November, I came around the side of the house and found Desmond curled on his side on the ground.  I stopped abruptly.  I honestly was not sure if he was alive.  I looked down and saw his small body slowly rising and falling.  He was breathing but was in a deep asleep.  Flies were walking on his arms and face but he showed no sign of noticing through his sleep.  I stared for a few minutes unsure of what to do.  I had the sense he was living his last days.

Desmond had once again been left to his grandparents (my host family).  Desmond’s mother, Vivian, had returned to University the week prior.  Desmond’s father has never been in the radar of his upbringing.  I knew getting these grandparents (my host parents) to react exigently would be futile as the site of Desmond sleeping would not be considered abnormal (even outside on the ground where my host mother often lays for naps).  Plus I would not be able to effectively convey my concern in pure Sepedi and without family around to help with the barest of translations, I would enter a web of confusion.  So I left for school and discussed it with Mr. Magoro.  He calmly told me that there was simply nothing more that we could do and I would have to accept that we had done everything possible but ultimately it was “the family’s decision.”

I decided to phone Vivian.  Surely, if I conveyed to her how sick her son was and that he desperately needed medical attention, she would come home and take him from her grandparents and return him to the hospital.

“Yena o lawla kudu kudu!  Yeno o nyaka go ya hospital!”  (He is very very sick.  He needs to go to the hospital).  I was practically yelling at Vivian on the phone.

“Burneece.  I have the school.  I cannot come” was her reply.  Followed by silence.

I was flabbergasted.  How could she stay in the city at school when her son was dying?  I tried to understand that Vivian either did not think he was dying or honestly did not think there was anything she could do even if she were here.  Even still, my empathy ran out before it really even began.  Shouldn’t she be here with her son regardless?

Upon hanging up with Vivian, I tried to plead with Mr. Magoro to take Desmond to the hospital.  I said we should leave immediately, go to the house, carry Desmond off, and take him back to the hospital.   He would be admitted immediately.  Mr. Magoro said he could not do that.

“What if he were to die in my car on the way?”  Mr. Magoro said.  “I can’t take that responsibility.  We cannot take him if the family does not want.”

I realized that he had a point.  Furthermore I realized that if we called the clinic or the hospital to come and pick up Desmond and he were to die at the hospital or clinic (a possibility which I realized was not terribly unlikely), the family would directly blame us for the death and feel that he would not have died had he stayed at home.  I also understood that I was the guest staying in their house and would need to continue staying for nearly a year so angering them and disobeying them was not the best thing for me to do. Mr. Magoro confirmed that even phoning the mobile clinic to stop by the house would be seen as a breach of trust and would anger the family.

“I know you don’t understand.  We have done everything.”  Mr. Magoro seemed to read my emotions and dismay.  He seemed to fully understand that I was not used to how things were being handled and it was troubling me.  Mr. Magoro possesses this unusual ability to see sides of two different cultures and understand that even among the best intentions, there are important differences.  It is a quality of his personality which I have grown incredibly fond of and grateful for during my service in South Africa.  I have often thought he would make a great diplomat.  Hell, he even did the South African unthinkable of physical affection and patted my shoulder.

That was on Monday.  On Wednesday, I left the village for South Africa’s capital, Pretoria, for a Peace Corps meeting.  Upon waking up Thursday morning at a  backpacker in Pretoria, I received a SMS (text) message from Mr. Magoro that simply read: “Desmond is late.”

I phoned immediately and passed on my condolences to my host family.  I explained I would be back after my meetings.

Funerals occur only on the weekends in the rural villages of South Africa and they occur at the house of the deceased.  Desmond passed on Thursday morning and so the funeral would be the Saturday one week out.  I returned to Phoshiri Monday to a completely full house.  Two large “burial society” army green tents were set up in the dirt yard next to my room.  People were everywhere.  A light had been rigged with a long wire into the pit latrine.  Chairs were strewn about in the yard.  Dishes of water were placed in basins with cup along side.

Extended family had traveled from hours away.  People who had no idea who I was and who were stunned to see a white person in the village – let alone staying at the house stared at me blankly.  In this way, it was a lot like the first week in the village.  As I milled about that first afternoon, I found myself continually explaining my purpose and where I was from.  In Sepedi of course which never fails to amuse those unaccustomed to my presence.  As I tried to retreat to my room, I had to pass dozens of people sitting outside of my door, under my room’s window and throughout the yard.  This occurred daily.  They were all staying at the house.  I felt bad for feeling angry and selfish that my privacy had been utterly taken over.  But I couldn’t help it.  Every time I stepped foot out of my room, I was on display.  That quickly became wearing for me.

A large cow was slaughtered Tuesday and the meat lasted until Thursday when a second cow was sacrificed.  And Vivian was there.  She had finally made it home from school now.  And as was the custom, she stayed in the house mourning and was not to show her face until Saturday, the day of the funeral.  I attended several prayer sessions and hymns given in the room next to mine and inside the “fire house” where porridge and cow were continuously being prepared over an open flame.

In the months following this, I have talked to fellow volunteers about this incident and even my mother at home, who had met Desmond during her visit in April.  Indeed, my own mother was tearful on the phone even hearing about it.

It was, and in some ways still is, hard not to be upset with Vivian.  With the entire family.  But as I often have to remember, I am not here to change a way of life.  I am not here to change customs.  My “way” is not always better.  Just different.  I live in a different culture from what I am accustomed.  I knew that going into this and I still treasure the perspectives it has given me.  I have realized that Desmond was not unloved.  Far from it.  There were, quite literally, a hundred people here for a 7 year old’s funeral.  In a village of just over 400 people, the support was evident.  Tears were common, songs even more so, and general support throughout the village was palpable.

I lived through the experience of watching a host family member pass.  A young family member.  And I realized I was often more angry than mournful.  Indeed, my approach may not better after all.

Western Medicine in Northeast South Africa

              My host family in the village of Phoshiri has a daughter named Vivian and since I am an honorary member of the family while I am living here, Vivian is one of my “host” sisters.  ‘Vivian’ is her given English name and in her case it is unique that her given English name is far more commonly used than her native Sotho name.  In fact, I cannot even recall her Sotho name come to think of it.  The South Africans call her Vivian and so I do as well.
              Vivian is 29 years old and she has a 7 year old son who, also uniquely, has only an English name: Desmond.  Vivian stays with my host family about a quarter of the year.  The rest of the time she is in Gauteng Province (where Pretoria and Johannesburg are located) studying at UNISA (University of South Africa).  This fact is unique among my host family, the Madigoes, as she is the first child to attend the university.  Although Vivian is away from the home three quarters of the year, Desmond stays with my host family (his grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and me) year round.  Aside from attending the University, Vivian is unique from the rest of the Madigoes for her English skills.  By no means is she fluent but I do find myself communicating with her an equal amount in Sepedi as English which does not occur with any of the other family members.  When she lives in Gauteng and is attending school, she has some kind of regular employment.  The details of this employment are unclear to me, but I know that she has some sort of income when she is away from Phoshiri.  In Gauteng, Vivian stays in a “room” there with running hot water which is unheard of in this village of Phoshiri.

              On the Monday week before last, I returned home from school and found Vivian outside.  She had been away for several months and I was not aware that she was returning on that particular day so it was a pleasant surprise when I rounded the corner to my room and heard a soprano-registered “Burneeece!”  (My host family members have all adopted my host father’s unusual persistence in referring to me only by my surname which is pronounced “Burneese” here).  I smiled and exchanged pleasantries with Vivian.  I came to find that she would be staying until the end of the first week in September and she was upset to hear she had missed my Mother who had visited in May from the states.  As I was walking to my room, I heard static-filled music and voices. 
              Could it be?  No….
              Wow, it was!  As I gazed through the door into the family’s living room, I saw a TV flickering on the table.
              “Whoa!”  I reared back and asked Vivian with a smile, “Did you get that?
              “Yes, Burneece.  I bring the television to here.”
              I walked into the living room and found both my host parents, Desmond, and host siblings Thuso and Mihtee sitting in silence around the static-laced set.  We all exchanged the customary greetings and as I smiled, my host father said “I don’t, uh, understand the language.  I just like to watch the pictures.  It’s alright.”  He laughed rather heartily.  In fact, it was easy to see the entire family really digging this television which was broadcasting some crappy sitcom in English.  Through only minor struggle, Vivian was able to communicate with me that she wanted to program the remote’s “favorite” function for her 2 favorite stations.  After adjusting the antenna stand and wand (which involved resting a metal key on it for better reception) and finding the fine tuning adjustment, I had the TV displaying a slightly clearer picture.  Only 4 channels could be received so the point of her desiring to have a “favorite” channel was a bit odd, but I didn’t want to quell any of the family’s enviable enthusiasm.

              As I walked out of the main house to my room located behind the main house, Vivian followed me out and told me that she was worried her son Desmond was sick.  I didn’t get the impression she was overly worried or he was too sick, but she found it important enough to tell me so I asked some simple questions.  Mainly, he had a bad cough and didn’t seem to be eating very much.  She asked if I had any “juice” and so I gave her two things which have been so graciously shipped from the states: Crystal Light powder packs and a couple of Airborne tablets.  She was pleased with this and I retired to my room.
              Later that week, it was Wednesday and as I was pouring water from the large container jug into my medieval-looking chalice pot called a Stulutulu (Stew-lou-two-lou – one of my favorite Sotho words), Vivian came out from the house.  I asked about Desmond as I hadn’t seen him since Monday and she said that “he’s better but still sick.”  I inquired further and found out that she had taken him to the next village over to a traditional doctor.  I asked why she hadn’t taken him to the hospital which is about an hour’s bus ride away.  With a bit of a shrug and in broken English, she explained that her parents always went to this village doctor and the hospital was too far.  She said that the doctor gave her some kind of medicine which I took to be some herbal concoction and she ended by saying that he (Desmond) “is coming better now.  I think so.”

              That week ended and the following week, as was custom, I stayed in my second village of Seleteng in order to work at my second school.  I was also away in Pretoria for the latter portion of that week for a Peace Corps meeting.  I returned to Phoshiri Tuesday evening of this current week.  Wednesday was one of those days here where the frustration arising from life at a different pace gets the best of you and I just wanted to retreat to my room after school for some anonymity and solitude.   So that is what I did.  Didn’t see Vivian that day.
              Upon my return from school Thursday, I found the family once again circled around the television.  This day, feeling much peppier than the previous day, I bounded into their living room to greet, talk about the day, and ask how that cherished TV set blasting foreign English was working.  To the latter, there was a request from Thuso to add E TV as a favorite channel to the menu since she clearly was a fan of the channel.  After obliging Thuso, I said “go lokile” (all is good) in a questioning format and my host mother replied in quick Sepedi something about Desmond.  I looked around but Desmond was not there.  My host mother then rose from her seat on the ground and sauntered out into a back room.  Vivian told me that she was going to get Desmond.  I was a bit confused so I just stood in place sensing “all was not good.”

              Now I must mention that Desmond is one of the cutest boys I have seen here.  I am biased because I live with him and I am fond of him because he is polite, friendly, and very well behaved.  I also am not a person who routinely (or perhaps even scarcely) proclaims children to be “adorable” but Desmond is just that.  He has slightly poofed, soft, furry hair.  He has sad eyes which belie his near-constant shy smile and distinctively large protruding ears.  As he came from the back room this Thursday with his grandmother, he was looking weak.  It is scary when someone, especially a young boy, is visibly weak.  He didn’t look to be in pain; rather he just appeared comprehensively spent.  With his left hand clasped in his grandmother’s right hand, he slowly raised his right hand to shake mine and looked at me tiredly.  His hand was limp and I told Vivian right there in front of everyone that he looked weak and ill and should go to the hospital.  (The hospital is free here!).  I had no idea what kind of turmoil my recommendation would start.
              “Aowa (no)” my host mother replied and shook her head.
              “Ahh Burneece” Vivian said in an exhausted voice.
              My host father grabbed the ubiquitous plastic chairs and our apparent meeting was to move to the rear outside of the house.  This impromptu meeting was only to include my host mother and father, Vivian, and myself.  Voice volumes quickly elevated and Sepedi instantly reached the rapid conversational pace; that pace that native speakers use when they are, well, among natives.  I could only make out individual words here and there.  Vivian got up from the chair and walked past me and I could tell she was doing everything she could not to unload a storm of tears.  My host mother looked angry.  I was clearly confused.  I tried to converse with my host father but I was not getting any direct answers.  From him, I gathered that Desmond had seen a “special” doctor (which I finally realized was the traditional village doctor) and had taken some kind of medicine from the chemist (pharmacy) and would get better.  I was very skeptical.  I went to talk to Vivian.  I told Vivian that I would be riding the bus the next day to deposit money earned from the community poultry project.  I suggested that we could ride together to the hospital.  By this point, she was crying though still holding back the deluge that was obviously on the brink.  She told me she was scared of the hospital which I initially attributed to a break in communicative translation.  However, upon rephrasing the statement several times in English and Sepedi, I became convinced that yes, she was scared of the hospital.  When I told her that I would go with her, she seemed to warm up to the idea but only slightly.  She talked in circles about “her parents” and I could easily tell that she was in disagreement with her parents but I could not pinpoint from what this disagreement was stemming.  I tried to assuage her by telling her that all of the doctors would be speaking Sepedi (the hospital is in the small town of Lebowakgomo which services a rural area dominated by native Sepedi speakers).  She surprised me by giving a small laugh through tears and said “I know its Sepedi Burneece.”
             “Then what?”  I was truly baffled by her fright and very perplexed over the mixed emotions coming from her and her parents. 
               There was a family disagreement occurring.  It was palpable. 

               It is truly an odd feeling being in the middle of a tense disagreement when you don’t know what the specific topic of the argument is and the people arguing aren’t speaking your language.  You feel the tension but are only left to your senses for sorting out its impending release.  It is bewildering and frustrating.  Yet you can’t turn away.

              Finally I resolved to phone my supervisor who is the school principal, Mr. Magoro.  I hate to rely on Mr. Magoro for translation purposes (Mr. Magoro is my English-speaking link to Phoshiri but he only stays in the village during school weeks), but I felt I was in need of both a cultural translation as well as a linguistic translation.
              Mr. Magoro is very well known to the Madigoe family as he arranged for my living at their house after he applied for a Peace Corps Volunteer.  They are all friends though I sometimes sense it is more of a “business” friendship than a ‘kick-back, you-can-tell-me-anything’ friendship.  But whatever, I needed some clarification.
              Over the phone, I explained to Mr. Magoro that Desmond appeared very sick and I thought he needed care and I had told this to Vivian and some sort of disagreement had ensued.  Vivian was in tears and I was not sure if I should accompany her to the hospital with Desmond the next day or not.  He agreed to speak with Vivian over the phone so I handed her the phone only then realizing that I had not explained to her what I was doing.  She looked at me questioningly as she took the phone clearly surprised but not resisting. 
              After Mr. Magoro talked with both Vivian and my host father, I took the phone back.  Mr. Magoro explained to me that Desmond should go to the hospital “right away.”  Apparently, Mr. Magoro had been aware that Desmond was sick for over a week and had told the Madigoes to take him to a clinic, “not the sanguna (traditional doctor)” but clearly they had not heeded his recommendation.  I was right that Vivian was scared of the hospital.  However, despite her fears, she was also well aware that Desmond needed to go there.  She was crying because she was scared for her son and, as Mr. Magoro explained to me, Vivian’s parents do not believe in going to the hospital.  Obviously, Vivian was conflicted.  Mr. Magoro said that they “are not aware that those are places of help” and are skeptical of services.  They always use the traditional doctors.
              Regardless of the familial conflict, Mr. Magoro felt that there was no time for debate.  He told me that he had informed Vivian that he was calling the ambulance and to get ready to go to the hospital.  To this, I was a bit surprised. 
              For starters, I did not even know there was an ambulance servicing any village anywhere near Phoshiri.  In twelve months here, I have only seen about a dozen different motorized vehicles pass through the dirt roads of Phoshiri and nothing resembling anything close to my mental image of an ambulance. 
              Secondly, I was surprised at the exigency with which Mr. Magoro was acting.  Nothing seems to happen with anything remotely resembling urgent in rural South Africa so this was a shock to me. 
              It also solidified concerns over Desmond’s condition.
              As Vivian got her things together and briefly talked to her parents (who now seemed resigned to the fact that Desmond would be going to the hospital), I went to my room still a bit miffed by the whole turn of events. 

              However, the ambulance did not come.  At first, I wasn’t too surprised.  If an ambulance showed up in 30 minutes, that would still seem “urgent” to me in this area.  As 30 minutes came and went and the evening fell to dark, I still fought suspicion.  I mean, c’mon – was I really expecting a siren-blaring loud van thing to barrel down the dirt path to whisk Desmond away?
              Finally, as I washed my dishes outside of my room with the family nearby, Mr. Magoro drove up to the house.  He got out smiling and, of course first things first, we all exchanged greetings.  He explained to the family in Sepedi (and subsequently me in English) that the ambulance would not be coming as it was tied up with “an accident” and so he would be taking Vivian and Desmond to a clinic in a neighboring village where the ambulance could pick him up later that evening after a nurse had assessed his condition.  He instructed me to ride along and off we went.

              The village where we took Desmond is still very rural but is considerably larger than Phoshiri.  The clinic closes shortly after dark, but the nurses live in the village and can be called if they have left for the day.  Fortunately, we arrived just before 6pm and they were still at the clinic but were closing the doors as we drove in.  They were agreeable to see Desmond and Mr. Magoro and I waited in the make-shift waiting room.  Posters adorned the walls that looked straight out of my elementary school Health classes in the 80’s.  Anti-drug posters, anti-smoking posters, and the 4 food groups were all prominently displayed.  Mr. Magoro was in good spirits and as we waited we discussed a range of topics comprising healthcare in South Africa Vs. America, women’s rights, gays’ rights, safety in Botswana, the Peace Corps program, other Peace Corps Volunteers, wine, my visiting his home some weekend in the future, strikes by the public sectors in South Africa (including the current maddening Postal Workers Strike), the upcoming World Cup, and even a few comments on rugby.
              After about 2 hours, Vivian and Desmond came out of the treatment room and Vivian was crying.  She had a bag of medications and as she sat next to me, I looked through the bag.  There were multivitamins, a bottle of some kind of generic antibiotic, cough syrup, and some tissues.  She said that “they are doing tests and will tell us next week.”  After some back and forth, I verified that these tests were for TB.
              She then smiled and said “He is negative for HIV.”
              “Oh.”  I said and smiled. 
                In a country with one of the very highest rates of HIV in the world and where rates are easily above 25% in rural areas, I should not have been surprised that they would routinely test for HIV in a 7 year old boy.  But I was.
              “Even myself.  We both tested negative” Vivian said pointing to the area on her finger where they took blood.
               As we got up to leave Mr. Magoro and I stopped by the nurse’s room to give her thanks and verify that they would be following up with Vivian in the next week.  Vivian and Desmond proceeded outside to the car.  I asked the nurse if she really thought Desmond had TB and she said she did.  “That boy is very sick.  I am just waiting for the sputum to confirm it but yes he shows the signs.”  As I had noticed and Vivian had told me, Desmond was coughing near constantly and was not eating much of anything.  I left Mr. Magoro with the nurse and followed Vivian and Desmond to Mr. Magoro’s car outside.  When we got inside, I sensed that Vivian was still quite upset.  I asked her what she thought and she said “he is now vomiting.”
              In the dark, I turned back to them in the backseat and saw that she was holding Desmond in her lap as she was trying to get him to take the antibiotic.  She was wiping his chin as the medicine was not going down but rather coming right back up.
              I told her to go back into the clinic but she said “No.  Burneece.  Its okay.”
              I got out of the car and went back into the clinic.  I told the nurse and Mr. Magoro that Desmond was vomiting.  They immediately went outside and to the car and collected the small boy.  As Mr. Magoro and I returned to the make-shift waiting room, we were told that the ambulance (which I now had discovered was just a van with the words “medical clinic” painted on the side) was being called and Vivian and Desmond would be going to the hospital for the night.  They were no longer waiting for the sputum test to confirm TB.  If the boy couldn’t swallow anything, he needed to be in the hospital immediately.  As the van pulled up and Mr. Magoro and I prepared to go back home, I asked Vivian if she was going to be alright.  She looked rather frightened.  But she was going to the hospital now without questioning any other option. 
              “I am okay Burneece.”  She said as she packed up some cloths and the bag of medicines.  “We go to the hospital.”
                I realized that without her parents present, the only conflict about going to the hospital was originating from her own fears.  And I also realized that as a mother, she simply had to face her fears with this.  There was no other option.
               The nurse said that Desmond “would be okay” and smiled.

               And he will.  There are treatments for TB. 
               But they don’t exist in the rural traditional clinics and they certainly don’t exist in the home of my host family.  As Mr. Magoro and I drove back that evening, I asked what would have happened if I hadn’t called him or if he didn’t have a car.  He simply said that I did the right thing.  I told him that I had no idea when I phoned him that we would end up in a clinic that night.  I had just needed some help with cultural and linguistic translations and was not sure what should be done.  I also told him that I thought at some point, Vivian would certainly have sought professional help.  He agreed that she likely would have but added that he knew Desmond was sick and “you can’t wait for a situation like that.”  He expressed his gratitude for my calling and I expressed my gratitude to him for being so adamant about helping. 
              And I pondered the differing attitudes towards medical treatment existing in this insanely beautiful but frustrating country. 

              When we returned to the house, we updated my host parents about the situation.  Thankfully, they were nothing but thankful.  It seemed that our concern had been verified to them and Mr. Magoro told me that they were pleased with me for calling him.  They were smiling and all of the palpable tension from earlier in the evening had vanished.

              That was Thursday night.  As I write this on Sunday afternoon, Vivian and Desmond are still in the hospital.  Vivian phoned Friday night to say that Desmond was going to be okay but they would need to stay a few more nights for treatment.
              She finally sounded relieved.

A subtle yet important lesson learned

     At the end of 2008 as I was finishing up my ‘training’ assignments for Peace Corps, I came across an opportunity in which, at the time, I felt I could make somewhat of a substantial difference.  The so-called ‘training’ sessions for Peace Corps in the School and Community Resource Program of which I am a part, mainly involve pedagogical activities: classroom observation, teacher interviews, Student-Governing Body Assessments (SGB which is similar to the parent-teacher board), etc.  In the three-months of Peace Corps ‘lockdown’ training which follows swearing-in and constitutes the initial time in a volunteer’s village, volunteers are not to leave their sites except for an occasional afternoon grocery excursion.  The purpose, of course, is to fully immerse a volunteer in the culture of the village and allow the volunteer to become a visible and contributing member within the village.   During this lockdown phase, I had amassed a binder full of interview forms, community maps (crafted both by me and by the students who are referred to as learners here), educational review standards, and various other rather dry documentary offerings.  During these first three months in Phoshiri village, life was quite exciting.  Bucket baths and mosquito nets seemed novel and fun, and I was still in shock (and not annoyance) at my celebrity status.  As exciting as life was, however, the binder I was compiling was rather bland.
     So when I came across an opportunity to make a marked difference in the education of the learners, I embraced the prospect.  After all, making a difference is one of the central reasons I joined the Peace Corps! 

       At this point, I feel a bit of brief background on the village to which Peace Corps assigned me is needed.  Phoshiri Village is marked by sheer remoteness.  The only way to reach Phoshiri is on one of two dirt roads through 12 km of brush and over a river which is prone to flooding after any substantial rain.  The village sits on the side of a mountain of which the other side only provides miles of additional dry brush.  No South African taxi-van (combi’s) service the village which is rare even for rural South Africa.  A bus service is the only mode of transport to and from the village and the bus only leaves once (at 7AM on Saturday) during the weekends and twice during each weekday.  The village just received electricity in 2007.  I have constantly heard and observed South Africans coil back in surprise when I tell them I live in Phoshiri.  Even the man from the Dept. of Education Circuit Office (which oversees Phoshiri and neighboring Lesetsi Village schools) remarked to me “wow, this place is very removed” as he unloaded my bed from the Dept. of Education truck last summer.  I think the amount of roosters, donkeys, cows, goats, and sheep outnumber the people by a ratio of 2:1. 
     In Phoshiri, I have been assigned to work at Mokgapaneng School.  This school provides education for Grades 1-7 but the physical school building only has 4 classrooms and 4 full time teachers (plus the principal who is also my supervisor, Mr. Magoro).  As a result, several grades are clustered together in one classroom and taught at the same time by the same teacher.  The teacher will often give “classwork” for one grade to complete while instructing a different grade within the same small room.  As the principal, Mr. Magoro does not even have an office in which to meet with parents, government officials, food suppliers, etc.  Clearly, this all adds up to a rather serious educational problem.  It is a problem you notice on Day 1.  Thus, it did not take me long to inquire to Mr. Magoro about this rather egregious circumstance. 
     And to this end, Mr. Magoro was eager to tell me that he had sought assistance and funding from both the Department of Education as well as private donations repeatedly in the past but the Department never responded and private donors, if they responded at all, declined.  Initially it was something that I pondered but figured I would leave alone and work within.   

     The time that I saw an opportunity to provide a substantial change in this school environment came in late 2008 as I was completing the aforementioned Peace Corps ‘training’ assignments.  One morning, Mr. Magoro was summoned to the neighboring village of Lesetsi and their primary school to collect some sort of document.  He requested me to accompany him and meet the Principal of Lesetsi Primary School.  Through this visit, I saw in Lesetsi Primary School a school which had not one, but 4 separate buildings for Grades 1-7 and over 10 different classrooms.  Oh, and a separate principal’s office.  This was not uncommon for rural South African schools but it did strike me since Lesetsi School was less than 2 km away from Mokgapaneng.  Lesetsi Village was in the same remote area and transport predicament as Phoshiri.  In fact, Mokgapaneng and Lesetsi Schools together supplied the learners for the single Secondary (High) School in the community.  In other words, Lesetsi and Phoshiri are adjoining villages of which there are two separate primary schools feeding one secondary school.  And these two primary schools are less than 2 km apart.  And one of these primary schools is disproportionately less endowed with infrastructure than the other.
     I asked Mr. Magoro the reasons for this discrepancy and he did not have many.  If anything, what he told me further fueled my confusion.  While Mokgapaneng School carries an extraordinarily minuscule roster of 78 enrolled learners from Grades 1-7, Lesetsi School isn’t exactly a megaplex of elementary learning either with a roster coming in at just under 200.  If one school with a small amount of learners has ten classrooms why should the school less than 2 km away have only 4 classrooms?  They are both public schools after all.  Why were the two schools even separated?
     I began to discuss the possibility of merging the two schools with Mr. Magoro.  To my surprise, he said that he had considered it in the past, but not seriously and had never followed with any action.  He said that the Department of Education Circuit Office would assuredly ignore any such request and it would be effort wasted.  I sensed he was right but I could not put away the possibility with just that assumption.  If the two schools merged, all of the grades would have their own classroom and their own teacher.  The learners would be exposed to more children from the village in preparation for their secondary school education.  Perhaps most importantly, the funding for the schools would be pooled in order to maximize the teaching materials, sports equipment, office supplies, food for the learners, etc.  After a few conversations with Mr. Magoro, he told me to “go ahead with it.”  In other words, write a proposal to the Board of Education.  He said “they won’t answer it but it will be good to have documentation that we have tried.  They may come back to it in a few years.”
     So I momentarily put aside my Peace Corps training assignments and searched through the binders of old letters and forms Mr. Magoro had meticulously filed for the very reason of documenting his past efforts.  I amassed photocopies of letters mailed to the Department of Education which had requested additional classroom buildings as well as requests for office space.  These letters dated back over 5 years and I was able to attach various forms sent to private donors seeking funds for classroom construction.  I crafted a letter to the Deputy Educational Allotment Officer at the Department of Education explaining that the community of Phoshiri has accepted that further classroom construction was not possible.  I explained that the lack of response from private and public sectors was clearly taken to mean that school expansion would not be happening.  I explained that Mokgapaneng Primary School had attempted numerous times to acquire funding for additional classrooms and teachers.  And thanks to Mr. Magoro’s pack-rack sensibilities, I had the documentation to prove it.  Finally, I sighted reasons that a merger would be beneficial and reported that in light of the fact that additional construction would not be occurring, a merger was the best option.
    So the letter was drafted, the documentation organized & attached, and the package sent.  If nothing else, it was a fun activity in writing persuasive English once again.  A pleasant reminder that my past occupation as a Social Security Claims Adjudicator was not labor done in vain and skills garnered there were perhaps transferable to rural South Africa.  I expected to not hear a word on the topic from the Department of Education.
      And so it came as nothing short of an astonishment when, early in February of 2009, Mr. Magoro received a phone call from the Department of Education stating that they had approved the merger and Mokgapaneng School did qualify to merge with neighboring Lesetsi Primary School!  I remember the day Mr. Magoro told me the news.  I was riding in his car through the brush to Phoshiri from Seleteng (the village where my second school assignment is located).  He was beaming.  He couldn’t believe it.  And frankly, neither could I.  He told me that the Circuit Office was planning to come to Mokgapaneng School the following week to meet with the SGB and the staff of the school.  That is, all 5 members of the staff.

       And now should have been the easy part.  The Circuit Office would come out to Phoshiri for a quick meeting, the meeting would be met with welcome praise, plans would be made to merge the schools at the end of the 2009 school year, the learners and villages would mutually benefit, a certain Peace Corps Volunteer would experience an early sense of satisfaction, and life would go on its merrily way. 
     Except it didn’t happen like that.  The Circuit Office officials made their visit and the SGB met them with appreciative skepticism at best.  Despite Mr. Magoro’s reasoning and later pleading, the members of the SGB would not grant a go-ahead for the merger until all the parents had the opportunity to voice their opinions.  So the circuit office officials left without consent for any merger and were only to wait until further word from the parents of Phoshiri trickled back to them. 
     I was bewildered that this opportunity was not embraced.  It was so rare to have the Department of Education respond to any requests here in South Africa let alone one requiring significant paperwork and restructuring.  Yet here they were in agreement with my reasoning and Mr. Magoro’s convictions.  Clearly the opportunity to expand their children’s schooling would be something embraced by the parents of Phoshiri.  Yet as the SGB-only meeting expanded to a neighborhood-wide meeting, dissent toward any merger continued to gain momentum.  To put it mildly, I was frustrated during these meetings.  I could not keep up with the rapid Sepedi exchanges during the meetings and consequently was left at the mercy of Mr. Magoro’s providing intermittent broken English translations.  And none of the conversations were positively in favor of a change.  The reasons were plentiful: The parents didn’t want their children to walk an extra kilometer to school; they didn’t want the (previously unknown to me) positive reputation of Mokgapaneng School to be tarnished; they wanted their children to go to the same school that they had; they questioned Mr. Magoro’s motives; etc, etc.)
     By mid April, the prospect of a school merger had been entirely squashed and the learners were destined to continue in the small 4-blocked building of a school.  The official decision to not merge had been delivered to the Department of Education.  Mr. Magoro said that he could only provide the facts to the parents and let them decide.  It ultimately wasn’t up to him.  And it wasn’t.  It wasn’t up to him, it wasn’t up to the Department of Education, and it certainly wasn’t up to me.  The way that the public schools in rural South Africa operate, it was up to the parents.  And perhaps this was best.  Perhaps not.  This is not for me to say.  However the experience, while not providing me entirely with that desired early sense of satisfaction, did teach me a valuable lesson for my life here.  It is a lesson that didn’t occur to me right away but has stuck with me and will undoubtedly stay with me until my service concludes:

I am not here to persuade or change life as much as I am here to provide support for the life which already exists.


A Birthday Party In the Village

               

            Today is Freedom Day in South Africa.  Freedom Day in South Africa marks the anniversary of the first Democratic general election held in South Africa on April 27^th, 1994 after the end of Apartheid.  It is a national holiday and so school is off.  For my first Freedom Day in South Africa, I am at “home” in my village of Phoshiri.  It is a Monday.  After waking far later than anyone in my village this morning (which is both normal for me and which is far from difficult considering most people awake with the sun), I took my soiled laundry into the yard and hand-washed my clothes from the past week.  This is a chore which takes about 2 hours and I have slowly grown to dislike.  On this day however, I minded less the scrubbing and circling flies as the temperature has begun to cool and I feel more rested and settled than I have in weeks.

My host father with a man whose hand I shook

 

                Approximately 1 hour into the washing, my host sister Vivian told me that she was going with the boys Dimurelo & Desmond as well as the other sister Thuso to a birthday party for “my father’s brother’s wife’s daughter” which I subsequently deducted to be her cousin (or at least step-cousin).  I knew by her announcing this that she was inviting me but I didn’t blow my awareness to this fact verbally.  Instead I just smiled and attempted to ask how old the girl would be in Sepedi.  She said she was turning 1.  Her first birthday.  She then asked me if I would like to go.  I tried to act surprised as I pointed to my tubs of laundry and said that I needed to finish washing.  She said that she wouldn’t be leaving until “sometime after 2.”  After I took a second to accept that I was okay postponing my computerized electronic plans for the afternoon, I agreed with a smile. 

As she walked away I wondered what a birthday party for a one year old would entail here in the village of Phoshiri.  Booze?  Cake?  Singing?  Dancing?  It turned out to include all of the above but before I would discover that for myself, I saw my host father come from around the side of the house dressed in a full suit.  “Umm.  Tobella!”  I greeted him with a smile and a look that I was pretty sure conveyed my surprise.  An older proud and respected man, my host father always tries to speak English to me; a task which is clearly difficult for him but something I appreciate.  In fact, more often than not, I will be stumbling over Sepedi to converse with him while he stumbles over English to speak to me.  It’s like two grown men speaking in infant tongue trying to reach some kind of mutual understanding.  There are a lot of strange nonsensical verbal utterances and curious looks exchanged.  I love his efforts though and I’m pretty sure he loves mine.

“Uh.  I say.  I go to the house of the party now.  And you, uh come, after.  With the Vivian.  You finish the, uh, wash.  It’s alright.”  He was towering over me in his pressed suit.  Feeling entirely underdressed in Hawaiian Tropic sandals, running shorts and an old stained tee shirt, I reply “Aie.  Ke tlo go bona ka marago.  Sharp.” which I hope to mean “Yes.  I will see you later.  Good.” 

 

After finishing the laundry and changing into something that falls between clothes- washing gear and fancy full suit attire, I meet with Vivian to walk the dirt road to the party.  Dimurelo, Desmond, Vivian, and Thuso are all dressed nicely with scrubbed shoes and ironed clothes.  I began to wonder what I am getting myself into.  I made sure with Vivian that a sport jacket (let alone a suit) were not required of me.  After all, we were going to a 1-year old birthday party at 2 in the afternoon in Phoshiri Village…

                When we strolled into the yard of the party 10 minutes later, I was relieved to discover most of the other attendees were far more casual than my host father.  There were approximately 50 people at the party when we arrived.  Being the only American (let alone white person) for miles, I have come to accept in rural South African gatherings, I would be the subject of all eyes just for my presence.  This is a fact to which I continually feel I have adjusted only to be taken by surprise repeatedly when it undoubtedly occurs.  This party was no exception and as 100 eyes turned toward me, I just smiled sheepishly and walked toward the birthday girl.  The girl was dressed in a fancy white dress and the table was completely decked out with a veiled table cloth, ribbons, and a large cake.  As I stood watching the surroundings and taking in the blaring South African dance music coming from the rigged speaker boxes, I noticed some young men beckoning for me to join them.  They were dancing and drinking beer.  (Check off the list for booze, dancing, and cake in the first 2 minutes).  I walked over to them and recognized some of their faces.  They clearly knew me and, as always, were entertained to hear me talk (or attempt to talk) in Sepedi.  After yelling over the music to converse with them for about 5 minutes, I joined my host father who had taken a seat on the porch behind the birthday girl’s decked-out table.

                A woman carrying a baby strapped to her back with a towel (the common method of carrying infants here) danced by us smiling.  She yelled something to my host father while looking at me.  My host father then turned to me and said “Uh.  She says she wants you to go with her and dance.”  I laughed and said “Ha ke rate go bina,”  (I don’t like to dance)  but it was of little use.  She was extending her hand while dancing and I realized that at least a dozen people were looking at me smiling.  I stood up with a smile and followed her out of the porch and joined the crowd of men (several of who were comprehensively intoxicated) to make a fool out of myself.  I turned my legs and tried to follow the electronic reggaeton beat.  Of course, it was actually pretty fun and I soon found myself laughing.  (Though not as much as the crowd of young women and men I caught laughing at me).

                As the afternoon progressed, I began to feel like a celebrity more than I think I have ever experienced.  It’s not that I’m not used to being the object of fascination in my village as I think Peace Corps training and my months of disparate experiences in the village adequeately prepared me for that feeling.  It was just that it was a bit amplified on this day.  I am confused as to why this would be other than more alcohol being consumed by the party-goers and my dancing.  After this dancing, I tried to reclaim my seat next to my host father but a handful of very inebriated older men were lining up to shake my hand.  I smiled and shook all of their hands and tried to reply appropriately in Sepedi but it was rather difficult to understand their slurred words.  I turned to my host father for interpretation.  To my surprise, he pointed to one of the drunkest men who was repeatedly shaking my hand and said “he says that he loves you.”  I looked at the drunk man and my host father’s interpretation made sense.  The man was bending down pumping my outstretched arm and smiling.  To say the least, it made me feel a bit awkward.

The celebrity feeling reached a climax when an old camera was produced to, I thought, take  pictures of the cake and the birthday girl.  Instead, I found my host father saying “they, uh, want you take photo with them.”  Sure enough, when I looked back at the man with the camera, he was motioning me to come to the table for a photo.  I was then handed the birthday girl in her dress and without having a chance to comprehend what was happening, I reactively cradled her in my arms.  She immediately started crying.  Hell I couldn’t blame her.  I wouldn’t want to be held by a stranger in the middle of a huge party.  I looked out and people were smiling and the camera was shooting.  I tried to smile but the baby girl seemed unequivocally miserable and it was, afterall,  her birthday, so I handed her off to the woman next to me and tried to return to my seat.  “No.  They ah, want another one.”  I looked around and sure enough, baby number 2 was being extended to me.  I took her as well and smiled for the photo.  This continued to happen for about 5 babies in succession when a mother appeared with her small son.  The boy looked to be about 5 years old and came up to my waist.  I put my hand on his shoulder and looked at the camera for another photo but the mother tapped me on the shoulder and then picked the boy up from under his armpits and handed him to me.  “Really?”  I thought.  “Really?  Why?”  Without verbally protesting, I awkwardly held the young boy and smiled for another picture.  I thought “this is ridiculous.”  I also felt bad to be at this birthday party and be the subject of all these pictures.  The birthday girl had stopped her crying and as I looked at her, I was relieved to see she was content in her chair oblivious to the photo shoot going on behind her. 

I also felt a bit used.  Why all these pictures with me?  Was it merely because I am the foreigner?  The American at the party?  Or is just because I am white?  I gathered that it was probably a combination of those factors and a myriad of other subtle things and then came to terms with it.  Taking a picture with me seemed to make these mothers happy.  After all of the photos ended, I tried to ask my host father “why all the pictures with me?”  He conveyed that they all wanted to have their pictures with me to put in their homes.  “For years.  They don’t want to forget you.”  I bemusingly told him that I was not leaving and would be around for another year and a half.  He then asked with a look of concern if I minded taking the photos.  Disarmed by the question, I instinctively replied that I didn’t mind.

 

And considering it now, I realize I truly don’t mind.  As I sat on the chair next to my proud host father as cake was cut and the music continued, I realized that this afternoon I could swallow the uncomfortable awkwardness of feeling undeservedly watched.  I needed to enjoy the novelty of the situation.  Although I wanted nothing more than to blend in, people were happy to have me at the party and I should be happy for that.  Before arriving, I imagined there would be moments like these in the village.  However, it’s just not something you can prepare for or react to comfortably until after it has passed. 

A unique experience marked by feeling both distinctly alien and wholly welcomed.

And something I won’t easily forget.

 

Longtom Marathon Update: A Run Through the South African Mountains

               
              “You will need to be up and ready to head out by 4:30am.  We will leave promptly by a quarter to five and if you are not here, you will be left.”  This was the message being conveyed by the coordinating volunteers of the race.  Not so much in military disciplinary means but with a serious and knowing smile.  And the message was being conveyed at 10pm the evening before the race.  We were gathered in the common area of the backpackers (similar to a hostel) enjoying grilled food and a few beers and the news struck.  I had realized that I would be facing an early departure but I had no idea it would be that early.  Through 3 decades of life, I have accepted that there are certain times of the day when I function reasonably well and certain times when I’d rather not be cognizant.  The early morning definitely comprises the latter.  Furthermore, when the volunteers convene for events such as trainings and workshops, we like to unwind, socialize, and relax a bit.  That was what we were doing the night before this race.  It had been about a month since most of us had seen each other and now we were hanging out in the beautiful mountains at a backpacker with running hot water and great food.  And I was informed we would be leaving earlier than I had awoken in this country yet!  To run!  Eish.  So that news pretty much put an end to the evening’s socializing and most of the volunteers started making preparations for the dormitory sleep.  We had signed up for the race and most of us were eager and proud to take part.  Just not so early. 

                I arose well before the sun and well before what I would consider a healthy time for a human to be non-dormant.  After meeting in the aforementioned backpacker’s common area, we headed across the main street of the town of Sabie in the dark to a local high school.  The volunteers for this event were about 70 in number (there are about 160 Peace Corps Volunteers total in South Africa).  Now I have done quite a few running races and triathlons in the states, but never with such a large group of friends.  It was interesting being awake and social this early with the thought of a looming major physical event approaching.  About ½ of the volunteers planned to run the race and the other half was planning on speed walking.  We were required to finish and we were supposed to finish it in less than 4 hours.  Easier said than done considering the race was throughout the mountains of South Africa.  And the road was called “Longtom Pass” because there was the “Longtom Cannon” at the top of one of the mountain.  The cannon was a symbol for the peak where, during the Boer Wars, one side (not sure which side) would perch to spy out on the enemy coming from any direction.  It was a good spot considering it was the highest point for miles around.  Sure I had done some running in the weeks leading up to the race but nowhere near a mountainous 13 miles.  So I had decided to run what I could and walk the rest.

                Back “home” in the states, the Tarheels were playing for the right to go to the Final Four and admittedly I was more interested in checking the cell phone Internet for game updates than running up and down mountains in the dark.  Once the news came in that the Heels were headed to Detroit, we were at the top of the first mountain.  I had walked up most of the mountain with some friends and had managed to drop a 100 rand bill (about $10) when I slipped my camera out of its case.  I decided to go back down the mountain and search for the bill.  It was crumpled and a bathroom break along with pre-race stretching had sent me to the back of the starting pack anyway.  I figured there were few runners behind me let alone any who would have noticed the bill and scooped it up.  I trudged pretty much all the way back to the starting line before I located the rolled bill on the side of the road.  Success!  With the money safely back in my camera case, I was off.  This time, I was running.

                The trail followed the road as it winded across the grassy mountains.  The views were stunning and the weather was perfect.  As the sun came up, it was about 70 degrees with pretty much 0% humidity.  I felt good running.  I was by myself running and as I passed dozens of walking people I didn’t know and a few I did, I reveled in the fact that I was running atop the mountains of South Africa for a positive cause.  What an opportunity!  An older gentleman approached me from behind toward the beginning of the race.  He greeted me in the language of Afrikaans which sounds like German and is the assumed language for me being that I’m white (to be blunt about it).  I replied “Ek kan Afrikaans praat nee” (or something similar) meaning I can’t speak Afrikaans and he instantly shifted to flawless English.  He asked where I was from and after I told him America he said that his son was living there working on a farm.  Where?  “South Dakota.”  I laughed.  It seemed strange to be at the top of a mountain running and having a foreign man tell me his son was farming in South Dakota.  Most of the time when I tell people where I’m from in the states, they have never heard of it.  North Carolina generally becomes confused with “Canada” which is known to be in the “north.”  The man went on to tell me that he had helped start this Longtom Marathon years ago and now he enjoys taking a more leisurely pace and talking with the participants.  He did seem to know quite a few of the people along with way.  After a short time, he dropped back but added “I will be passing you several times during the day.”  I laughed and replied “well that means I will passing you several times as well!”  He patted me on the back and called me “Mr. Bandana.”

                As I walked up most of the slopes and ran down the others, met up with friends for sections, and ran sections in solitude, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  It felt good to be getting out and running again.  I snapped photos of cows, winding roads, other runners, and sprawling views along the way.  When I finally crossed the finish line in the field of a high school in the town of Lydenburg, I was spent.  My legs ached.  I was not out of breath, but I was sore.  Very sore.  Running down hills definitely uses a different set of muscles than regular flatter courses.  I had finished in 2 hours and 45 minutes which, though far from impressive, was decent especially considering my delayed starting time in search of my 100 rand.

                I relaxed in the inflatable Coca-Cola spider-shaped tent with the other volunteers.  We had to wait for the awards ceremony which was held hours after the race and so we munched on various snacks, drank lots of water, got free massages, and napped.  It was a good feeling.  On the bus ride back to Sabie late in the afternoon, I sat next to an Afrikaaner man from the nearby city of Nelspruit.  He said he was “in his sixties” and had been running the marathon for “years.”  In fact, his hobby was running with his friends in various long-distance races across South Africa.  During the hour long bus ride back over the same roads we had run earlier in the day, we discussed South African politics, American politics, American sports, South African sports, our families, crime in South Africa, the school system, financial auditing, world travel, and long distance running.  To the latter he said that his family thought he was “certifiably insane” but “he was okay with that.”  When I told him we had awoken at 4 for the race, he said he had left Nelspruit at 3!  Through all of his tales and the friendly chatter, the tale that entertained me the most was his relating an annual tradition to me.  Every year during this race, he and a buddy would stop at the one resort hotel on the road (midway through the race none-the-less) and throw off their shirts and shoes and leap in the swimming pool!  He said “its great fun!”  I asked what the hotel thought of this amusing gesture and he laughed and said “I think they are used to it by now!”  He then added that they would get out of the pool and order a lime milkshake from the pool bar before finishing the race.  He told me that he loved lime milkshakes.  (Yeah, well, me too, just not in the middle of a race!)  I thought it lovely to imagine two men in their sixties leaping into a private hotel pool in the middle of a marathon before downing two green shakes.  An image that will stick with me for years no doubt.

                That evening back at the backpacker, the representatives from the KLM Foundation told us about the success of the funding portion of our participation.  Each year, the KLM Foundation funds a learner (student) from a poor rural area to attend a prestigious, private secondary boarding school.  The prospective learner has to go through rigorous interviews and essays.  But they have met success.  They explained that a learner from a few years ago who was a young orphan and head of her household had gone on to be in the academic top 10% of the secondary school.  And this was in comparison with other students who “have financial and parental support you wouldn’t believe.”  This is especially inspiring considering the more ‘destined’ route for these learners had they not been given such a wonderful opportunity.

                Thanks for the support!  It was a wonderful race. 

               

A fan and a (really) long commute

               
               School is out right now for the end of the first term.  In South Africa, the public schools go year round with 4 quarterly breaks.  (I am aware that the proposal of a similar system is a topic which has stirred many riveting debates in the American schools).  With schools being out, we Peace Corps Volunteers are free to experience South Africa through travel and work on community projects.  To this end, I ran in the Longtom Marathon last week for charity (I really appreciate the support & will write about it soon!) and have been working to complete the art project which is described briefly below in another post.  Other days during these breaks are spent doing what I did today: errands. 

 

                I live approximately 70 kilometers from town.  That’s about 40 miles.  I know this because I saw it on some government document at the primary school where I work.  The document was describing the remoteness and seclusion of the school as a means to emphasize the hardships in getting supplies, quality teachers, nutritious food, announcements, etc to the school.  The problem with this documentation on paper is that 70 km doesn’t sound terribly far.  And relatively speaking, its not.  But this is the type of distance you have to feel and not imagine.  Today I felt it.

                The week before the aforementioned Longtom race, one of my most cherished possessions angered me.  It died.  What I thought was a healthy fan died of sudden motor ischemia less than 3 months into its valued existence.  Granted, running a fan at constant three speed in a dust-blanketed tin box room off an overstressed power strip is an obvious requiem for such an appliance.  Still I had high hopes for it.  At 500 rand (about $55 dollars), it was one of the most expensive things I bought for myself here.  I even passed on a small fridge which is commonplace among volunteers and opted for this seemingly quality fan instead.  When the fan smoked to its untimely death, I located the receipt and even found the box which my host family had mysteriously kept.  I was definitely going to return the fan to the store.  Here in South Africa, this is not a common practice.  I don’t know if it is just an American tradition to return things (I’m imagining the day after Christmas), but it’s definitely not the norm here.  However, I wasn’t going to just eat this purchase without incident.  I was determined.

I dismantled the dead fan and stuffed it into the box complete with duct tape.  The fan and box were rather large.  Just imagine a big metal box fan in a large retail cardboard box.  The kind a store clerk has to lift from the storage shelf after you identify the display model that you like.  I had purchased the fan from a store in the nearest town of Polokwane back at the beginning of 2009 (dead heat of summer here).  On the day of said purchase, I found myself in town with my supervisor who has a car.  Its incredible how much I have taken cars for granted.  You exit a car, walk through a parking lot, go in a store, buy something, walk through the parking lot, and drive home.  Done.  And at 70 km, a drive in a car takes about an hour.  Even counting the 15 km through the unpaved and treacherous roads of the rural villages.  But my supervisor doesn’t live in my village on weekends or during school holidays and I have only seen 2 cars in my village other than his.  Alas, I am resigned to taking the bus and combi as standard means.  Generally I find this not too much of a problem except when lugging something heavy.  And today I was lugging the fan.

The bus leaves my village of Phoshiri once a day in the morning on weekdays.  It is supposed arrive in Phoshiri at around 8.  So today, I awoke a bit before 7.  Around a quarter to 8, I gathered my things including this big-ass boxed fan and scooted out the door.  (So we have a 7:45am departure time for the record).  I walked the 10 minutes to the bus stop with the fan and an empty book bag (I had to buy groceries as well).  The bus arrived on time around 8 and I boarded it to head to the next village over where I could catch a combi (a taxi-van-thing that seats about 18 people) to head into Polokwane.  When I boarded the bus, there were only about 10 passengers since Phoshiri is one of the very first ‘stops’ along the route.  I crammed the fan between my uplifted legs and the seat in front of me and felt good.  I was off. 

The bus stops at about every 10^th house as it passes through the villages.  In mornings, everyone gets on and nobody gets off.   Everyone rides until the last stop of Lebowakgomo where combis can take you most places.  It fills to capacity rather quickly.  And then keeps filling.  I found myself once again amazed at just how many people could actually fit on the thing.  Old women and men hanging on to the metal seat frames as the bus lumbered over the dirt mounds constituting a road.  Young girls with babies strapped by towel on their backs.  And everyone was talking.  Loudly.  It’s quite a scene.  Much more social than any metro bus I have ridden in the US or elsewhere abroad.  Strangers talking to strangers unabashedly.  And since the whole swell of conversation is in lightning fast Sepedi, I can only make out bits and pieces.

The fan box was being crushed primarily by my contorted legs and the metal seat frame directly in front of me but the young boy perched on his mother’s lap in the seat adjoining mine was pounding the top of the box and this was definitely adding to the disintegrating boxiness of the fan’s packaging.  I cringed at the thought of my lugging this thing across Polokwane (whenever I got there) and lumbering up to the return counter hoisting such a banged up piece of merchandise.  The bus ride lasted 2 hours.  Actually 10 minutes shy of 2 hours but still, at a distance of approximately 15 km, this was definitely not a swift means of travel.

The combi filled in Lebowakgomo (as is custom before a combi departs) surprisingly quickly and we made the ~55km trip to Polokwane rather uneventfully.  After deboarding the combi and awkwardly traversing across overly-crowded streets to return the disheveled box and its enclosed malfunctioning contents, I realized it was 11:50am.  4 hours total.  This is where that bit about underestimating the ease of a car comes to mind.  If a fan (or similar appliance) were to malfunction to an owner of a motor vehicle, this trip would have taken less than an hour. 

As it was, I was a sweating mess with a half day gone and I still had the return trip.  After printing some forms, grabbing lunch, and picking up some groceries, I made the same trip in reverse.  Although the return trip was a bit easier without the fan, it actually went less smooth as the wait for the bus verged on an hour and the combi took longer to fill going away from the main town.  Still, I felt spent and any energy I had to conjure up annoyance or bewilderment had passed.  I rode in relative peace.

 

Buoying up and down the lumpy dirt paths with the hundreds (literally) of other passengers on the bus home, I realized how much of a challenge a chore such as getting groceries is to the people with whom I live in the village.  What was a somewhat bemusing and curious day to town for me is a bi-weekly occurrence and duty for most of the people in Phoshiri.  When all was completed and the bus trudged into Phoshiri, it was dark.  It was nearly 7 pm.  I had spent just 3 hours in Polokwane and a full 8 hours commuting.  And traveled 80 miles total!  It is a small wonder that those ‘fortunate’ members of families who do find employment in the cities are gone from their families for months at a time. 

And as a bit of an aside, someone on the bus ride home vomited in the aisle.  I didn’t see the projection, but the increased volume of speech and awkward maneuvering of passengers in the aisle halfway through the trek alerted me that something was a bit awry.  I had just assumed it was someone making a fuss because younger riders were sitting while some elderly passengers were standing (a fuss over such a thing has occurred).  When I made my way off the bus as one of the last passengers on the last stop of Phoshiri, I saw the fresh vomit blanketing the aisle and chuckled.  I asked a familiar woman next to me if it was “dijo” (food) and I made the vomit motion while saying “lawla” (ill).  Then we laughed together on the nearly deserted bus.  8 hours of cramped traveling amid sweat, dust, & now vomit to return a broken fan.   That ‘remote’ tag line from the school form makes a lot of sense to me now.      

I’m running a marathon for charity! (Well, a 1/2 marathon but still…)!

               
                I recently decided to become involved with a charity Marathon run here in South Africa.  I completed that Olympic-distance Triathlon for cancer research (Team In Training) back in late 2007 in the states and so this opportunity seemed kind of familiar.   I guess I’m at this exercise-for-a-cause thing all over again - just in a new country…  The opportunity to run in the Drakensburg Mountains of eastern South Africa for a charitable cause seemed like something I really couldn’t pass up.
                The name of this charitable half marathon is called the Longtom Marathon.  It’s actually a half- as well as an ultra-marathon, and I plan to participate in the half, which is 21.1 km.  (I’m a bit too out of shape and it’s a bit too hot here in South Africa to venture into ultra-marathon territory though maybe it will be something to strive for when I return to the states…).  This half marathon is happening on March 29^th in the village of Sabie which is in the Mpumulanga Province of South Africa.  The area is not far from Kruger Park which is the famous game reserve in eastern South Africa (You can search on You Tube for some wicked wildlife videos at Kruger including the Eyewitness Video-of-the-Year filmed a couple of years back.  Actually, I searched for you:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU8DDYz68kM).  The run will start at the top of the Longtom Pass and go downhill most of the way into the city of Lydenburg.  A good number of other Peace Corps volunteers will be taking part so I imagine it will be a lot of fun to get together with them for the weekend and run in this beautiful part of the country of which I have not yet seen.

Oh and the charity component…  The main reason for my (and Peace Corps’s) taking part in the Longtom Marathon is to support the Kgwale le Mollo (KLM) foundation.  Their website is www.klm-foundation.org; please check it out.  The KLM foundation is an organization that was founded by two Peace Corps Volunteers (PCV’s) who served here in South Africa a few years ago.  They decided to hook up with the existing South African Longtom marathon as a fundraiser.  The KLM foundation funds a worthy, needy child to attend an excellent secondary school in Mpumalanga Province.  The school that the recipient child attends is called Uplands College.   KLM’s philosophy is to help South Africa by educating a future leader through a quality program that otherwise would be unattainable for these children.  And the child they choose is meticulously selected, going through a four-tier process of elimination (a bit brutal perhaps but necessary since only 1 child a year is funded through this program).  The four children who have been chosen so far in the preceding years are so far excelling and the foundation has been successful.  The feeling of having all of that support behind you as an aspiring child is inspiring to me.

Yes, I hesitate to request anything over my ‘blog’ and so please forgive me if this seems inappropriate (and don’t start avoiding the blog!).  But I hope after reading about the KLM Foundation and this marathon you will find yourself as supportive as I am of their work (yes, I am donating money myself!).   Donations of $5, $10 or $20 really would help out.  I only need to make a minimum of $200 but there is no upper limit and this foundation definitely needs the money.  US dollars go quite a long way here in South Africa!  All of the donations are tax-deductible.  Donating is quite easy online as all that is needed is to go to that KLM website (http://www.klm-foundation.org), and click on the ‘donate’ photo in the top right corner.  Make sure to put my name in the top white box where it asks for the Longtom runner you want to sponsor.  Don’t let the amounts they have listed there scare you, you can just put “other” and put whatever amount you feel comfortable.

Thanks so much for your support of me, and especially for supporting the child who is chosen next year to attend Uplands.  If you are not able to donate at this time, that is of course okay as well.  Thanks for reading this blog!  I most definitely will give an update in this blog after the race to document how the weekend goes.

My host brother, Mamakgeme

                My host brother in the village of Seleteng is, simply put, a character.  The tales that I have related to fellow volunteers keep increasing in number.  I finally have realized that some of these tales cannot remain exclusively oral and I must document some of his more memorable idiosyncrasies.

 

His name is Mamakgeme and for anyone interested his name is pronounced something like “Mama Hemm Ay” except there is supposed to be a throaty-phlegmy rumble with the “h” in “hem” (think of Fat Albert saying “Hey, hey, hey”).    His two “Christian” names are Conrad and Joy but I don’t know anyone who refers to him using either of those and he doesn’t like them to be used so I stick with Mamakgeme.  Much more unique anyway.  Mamakgeme is 30 years old and married with a 20 month old son.  He moved back home to Seleteng from Johannesburg when his wife, Karabo, was pregnant with their son Bahumi.  Currently he is helping his mother run the Drop-In Center for orphaned and vulnerable children here in village of Seleteng while Karabo finishes some computer studies in the relatively nearby city of Polokwane.  He has a university degree (in what, I’m not quite sure) and has worked in the private industry in the city and plans to return to Jo’berg within the year with Karabo and Bahumi.  Mamakgeme speaks English quite well.  In fact, I would say that there is no difficulty understanding his spoken English though it is clear that it is his 2^nd language (A fact that is readily apparent in his written English) and he has a pronounced accent which makes the stories below often a bit more entertaining (especially the snake/camera tale below).  He is a somewhat large man who often sports a moustache and shaved head.   I have heard him described by another volunteer as “that handsome son of Mae’s at your house with a gentle face.”  Mamakgeme is a truly generous, patient, intelligent, and amusing friend and one of my very favorite people in South Africa.  He also happens to be quite eccentric.

The first time I remember thinking Mamakgeme was a bit, unusual, was following the ‘family coming-together’ ceremony which occurred around October of 2008 (the blog entry entitled “Scotch & Goat” explains that event in slightly more detail).  When we walked home from the ceremony late in the afternoon, we passed a large aloe plant growing next to the dirt road.  He stopped and said “ooh, what a nice specimen.  I will come back this evening and collect some leaves.”  I asked him for what and he said “for medicine.  I am a medicine man, man.”  Sure enough, later that evening after dinner, I was helping Jerminah wash dishes in the kitchen and in pops Mamakgeme with a silver pail from which two large “leaves” (spiky stalks) of aloe plant protruded.  He set the pail down and grabbed a small spoon.  I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he tilted the pail and fiddled the spoon between the stalks of aloe.  “Now the moment of truth” he announced as he held the spoon up to his mouth.  He swallowed the spoon’s juices and made one of the most wretched faces I ever recall having seen.  His eyes squinted shut and his entire face puckered inward.  I laughed in a bit of amazement.  He said “that stuff tastes horrible!”  He then added, “But ahh, it’s full of antioxidants.”  Rather than be repulsed as I later realized I should have been, I found myself intrigued.  I asked him if I could have a spoonful of the green goo.  “Yes, of course” he said and promptly produced a liquid helping for me.  I gave him a look that intended to relate that I was aware I was doing something regretful (so as to somehow rationalize my undertaking in the ‘medicine’) and swallowed the goop.  Instantly, the bitter metallic awfulness seized my mouth.  I squirmed and my mouth writhed.  “Oh my God!  I think that is the worst thing I have ever tried!”  (I actually thought, and still think, it was.  Or at least in the top 3).  I ran out of the kitchen and grabbed my water bottle and rinsed.  Then I brushed my teeth.  Then I took a Listerine strip.  Then I took a 2^nd Listerine strip.  The bitterness was still there.  From the kitchen I could hear Mamakgeme laughing.

Continuing on the “medicine man” tip, Mamakgeme has, upon several occasions, announced his desire to run a homemade herbal/medicine business.  He boils roots, leaves, seeds, brine, fruit peels, fruit rinds, bark, and eggs making various teas and potions.  (Some of these are, admittedly, quite tasty).  He enjoys relating how someone in the village once suffered from something akin to appendicitis which was not relieved following a visit to a town doctor and the city hospital.  Mamakgeme made him a concoction of god-knows-what and the man felt better within an hour and the pain never recurred.  Other than this isolated incident, I am not familiar with the success rate of his creations.  He is fascinated with the multi-vitamins and fiber pills that I brought from the states.  One afternoon he asked me about how Google makes money on the Internet.  I explained the ad-revenues, company payments for top search returns based on key words, Google directed click counts, etc.  He then asked if he were to start an online business selling his “medicines” could he pay Google to have his company come up when people typed in different ailments.  I tried to explain the intricacies, expenses, and difficulties associated with said venture without directly tearing down his ambitions.  After announcing that if his yet-to-be-created “company” were to find the cure for HIV/AIDS, his yet-to-be-created website would surely receive a lot of hits from Google, he suddenly had an epiphany and said “I bet I could make money on the Internet from porn.”  I stopped and looked at him a bit stunned.  With Karabo, his wife, sitting next to him he went on to ask “does anyone make money on the Internet from porn?”  He was smiling as he asked me but was entirely serious.  I stammered and said “sure.”  He then said “I bet a lot of people would pay for that stuff.”  For the sake of conversation, I tried to sustain just a hint of seriousness in the midst of what I felt was an increasingly and alarmingly ridiculous discussion and said “they sure would, but there is a lot of free porn too.”  His only response was “I would like to start a business and make money online.”  He then added “not necessarily with porn.”  Much to my surprise and perhaps due to conditioning, Karabo never looked up from the paper she was reading during the entire course of our conversation.  She must be simply accustomed to his exceedingly whimsical ponderings.   

During a much-anticipated and meticulously planned ceremony honoring the community elderly at the aforementioned Drop In Center this past October, a snake rudely interrupted the proceedings.  Or rather, the children attending the event allowed the snake to interrupt the proceedings.  The snake was minding its own business hanging from a nearby tree when it was spotted by a young ceremony-attendee.  Quickly, the children (as well as a few younger adults) flocked over to the tree with an intrigued glee.  A mamba!  A crowd nearing 50 or so eventually convened around the tree and I decided that I myself would go visit the tree as its not often I get to see an African snake in the wild.  As I walked over, I noticed that an adventurous (and rather mischievous) adolescent boy had momentarily “captured” the snake on a stick.  The snake was writhing around on the stick as the boy held the stick out in front of him.  (Of course it was the snake that was doing the entertaining but the boy clearly loved the attention coming his way).  As I approached and heads turned with a few muddled chants of “lekgowa” (white person), the snake-curling young lad turned the stick toward me and stuck it out in an attempt to either scare me or make the onlookers more entertained (or both).  I smiled and simply watched.  After I finished viewing the snake I decided to return to my seat to watch the remainder of the ceremony.  Once I had reached my seat, I noticed that Mamakgeme was strutting over to the snake-ogling crowd.  I say strutting because he was clearly walking in stride.  He looked as though he was on a defined mission.  He would later tell me that the crowd was taking too much attention away from the planned ceremony and therefore must b e “attended to.”  As he strutted, his shoulders dipped alternately.  Immediately upon reaching the crowd, he stuck out his hand for the boy to give him the stick with the snake.  The boy acquiesced both disappointedly and immediately as if he had been caught by a school principal.  Mamakgeme then walked to the fence surrounding the Drop In Center and launched the snake over the fence.  As its body coiled in the air Mamakgeme calmly laid down the stick and turned toward his seat.  I don’t believe he had spoken a word during his entire mission of ousting the snake.  The other volunteers and I had watched the entire series of events transpire and when Mamakgeme passed us, he looked over at us and winked.  He actually winked.  And didn’t break his stride.  One of the other volunteers was so entertained with Mamakgeme’s actions that she motioned for him to come over to us.  He walked over and asked to look at my camera to see the pictures I had taken thus far of the event (he is infinitely intrigued with the camera).  He then encouraged us to come together for a photograph which we did.  As we cheesed it up for the camera, Mamakgeme uninhibitedly announced, “Say shit.”  We all laughed and smiles were easy.  Clearly much more effective than “cheese.”

Of course there are other tales and the little ones are fun too.  For instance, Mamakgeme is oddly obsessed with both Phil Collins and Abba.  I have awoken to him blasting “Take a Chance on Me” for himself, his family, and the surrounding neighborhood.  He has, more than once, told me that “Phil Collins is the bomb” and if I were to hear his album, ‘But Seriously,’ it “would rock my world so much that I wouldn’t believe it.  Especially the guitars on it. ”  And of course, there are the little one-liners such as “Andrew, I’m nude man!” (In response to my seeing him naked as he inexplicitly stood with the door wide open in the middle of the day), or “this grass smells like malted barley.  Like a good beer.  But these days I prefer a dry red wine over beer” or “do you eat pig’s heads in the United States?  Ooh, they are a delicacy here.”  He once wondered if the US Embassy “scans your stomach when you enter to tell you whether you had bacon for breakfast.”

 

As I reflect on the fun I have had with Mamakgeme understanding some of the South African culture and answering his endless curiosities about American culture, I am assured that the tales will continue.  For those volunteers who have been lucky enough to spend any amount of time with Mamakgeme, they share in my enthusiasm for his quirkiness.  A quirkiness which would be powerless and dull if it was not paired with a warmth, curiosity, and friendliness that is incredibly refreshing.   Mamakgeme is definitely a person who possesses a personality accurately described as indelible.    

 

Watching Obama from South Africa. On TV.

 

I was informed mid-morning that Obama’s speech would be covered by the network television station, SABC here in South Africa.  (As an aside, the reason that I found out had to do with a friend’s coworker being upset that his ‘soapies’ would not be airing).  Personally, it was an opportune time for the inauguration speech being that I am spending this week in Seleteng (one of the two villages where I live) and in Seleteng there is a chance I can have access to a television.  (In the other village where I stay, Phoshiri, I have yet to see a TV which is not at all surprising considering electricity is less than 18 months old there).

The coverage was supposed to start at 6 pm here (11am in the eastern states).  Upon seeing my host mother Gillian (her Christian name) this afternoon, I was pleasantly surprised to find out that she was as excited as I about watching the inauguration.  As I finished up some things in my room a few minutes prior to 6, Gillian came by my door somewhat flustered telling me that her TV set was not working and no picture was coming through.  This has happened before and though one of the neighborhood boys seems to be able to fix it with relative ease, the apparent simple solution continued to evade me as I jiggled wires behind the set in vain.  Gillian watched me briefly and then took my arm and said “come now, let’s go.  We will watch at Lolo’s.”  With that, we left the house and walked down the dirt roads to where her daughter-in-law stays. 

Grateful and a bit baffled to be able to not only have a backup venue in the rural village where I could watch this historical US inauguration but also to have a steward as intent as I, it took me a few minutes to adjust to the uniqueness of the situation.  About the time soon-to-be former-President Bush ambled down the aisle solo, I realized fully that I was watching the new US President take office with two older South African women to whom English is a first language of neither.  As I glanced over at them, faces plastered with grins, I felt a sense of pride as an American.  And this, I must somewhat shamefully admit, is not a feeling I could pinpoint having had too often during my first quarter century. 

And entertained was I after fielding Gillian and Lolo’s questions – which they delivered with such a genuine curiosity: “Was (the woman who was) Diane Feinstein Hillary Clinton? Who is Obama’s wife?  Where are Obama’s Children?  What is that waterway behind the first group of people?  Is it winter in Washington?  Is Obama a lawyer?  Was Bush a soldier?  What was Bush before he was a President then?  How did they get all those people on that lawn?  Or is it an outdoor stadium?” 

As the song “Air and Other Simple Gifts” (at least, I think that was the title) performed by Yo Yo Ma and company came to a finish, Gillian literally stood up clapping vigorously and proclaiming “I love music.”  As Obama walked to the podium, she said “so dignified in that coat.”  And as the news narrator for SABC said that a recent poll found that the majority of Americans think Bush has been the worst President ever, Gillian laughed.  She actually laughed.  So did Lolo.  (And to that I must mention: gathering humor from a 2^nd language is a skill of which the difficulty I have lately grown very appreciative).

As Obama spoke, Gillian and Lolo exchanged observations in their native tongue of Sepedi.  And I listened more intently to Obama than I anticipated I would listen to an inauguration speech (come to think of it – that seems to happen rather frequently with me upon hearing his speeches).  A magnanimous speech indeed, I was left again with that newly minted feeling of being proud of being an American. 

Nearly immediately upon the speech’s conclusion, Gillian turned to me and asked “did he talk about HIV and AIDS?”  The question caught me a bit off guard and I answered “no.  Well not directly but he did talk about health care.”  Gillian said “ahh, but he cares about it.  He cares about it.”

Several times during the evening, the two women said that the crowds reminded them of Mandela taking office in South Africa following apartheid in 1994.  Although they did not understand all of Obama’s speech or accompanying commentary (as I didn’t understand nearly all of their accompanying commentary), they were quite visibly excited.  Upon thanking Gillian for inviting me to accompany her to watch the inauguration, she said that “I couldn’t have missed it.”  I told her that I was a bit surprised that it aired on the regular, non-cable TV station and she said “Why is that?  Oh, America has done so many great things for South Africa.  It is very important to show.”

And then I felt that strangely novel nudge of being proud to be an American once more.      

 

All at once: summer, christmas, vacation.

                Christmas.  It occurs in December. 

Summer.  It occurs during the months of June, July, & August but only if you live in the northern hemisphere.

For the first time in my life, the Christmas I experienced coincided with summer.  Sure I have experienced Christmas in warm places but never during summer.  And this synchronization of two previously binary events was more pronounced being that it occurred during the school’s ‘summer break;’ A time previously marked by freedom, swimming pools, and mischief and appropriately enshrined through Alice Cooper’s yelling “school’s out for summer.” 

Vacation.  I just returned from mine.  Vacations generally are pleasurable events.  Recent vacations, at least from my experience, have typically been marked by discovery of something new – a chance to see new places and live outside the environment of the everyday.  The best vacations for me have provided a unique opportunity to spike the everyday routine.  I can remember certain years of my life by the vacations I took during those years.

Although vacation while serving in Peace Corps was unequivocally pleasurable, it differed from any vacation I have previously taken.  For starters, it was the longest vacation I have taken in my adult life.  Furthermore, I didn’t feel like I was vacationing from anything.  While certainly, the opportunity to see areas of South Africa, Mozambique, & Swaziland qualify as getting out to new areas, the contrast of leaving something everyday and routine was not present prior to this vacation.  I realized that I am still experiencing something new and seemingly unordinary everyday so to leave that freshness only to travel further to new areas and new experiences definitely provided the backdrop for a unique vacation.

I traveled with 7 of my friends who are all South Africa Peace Corps Volunteers.  We all work in the rural public schools so we are allotted some time off for ‘summer break’ as the schools close for the majority of December and half of January.  The trip was months in planning.   We had perused backpacker guides (backpackers are basically hostels) and mapped our route & activities.  We all wanted to see as much as we could in the 2-3 weeks of traveling but we were constrained by the fact that we were all spending saved money since our Peace Corps ‘salary’ is around $250 a month.  We decided that we would cram 4 people into each of 2 small rented cars with all of our luggage and tents.  Oh yes.  Very early on we decided that we would camp as often as possible in an effort to save money (and sleep outside!).  It costs around $5-$8 a night to camp at the various backpackers whereas dorm rooms would typically cost $10-$15 a night.  The difference would add up over the course of ~20 nights.  The cars were both VW’s running on manual transmission.  In South Africa, it is exponentially cheaper to rent a manual transmission automobile rather than an automatic.  This is fine but it should be noted that everything about driving here is reversed.  Not only does driving occur on the opposite side of the road, but the drivers’ seat (and hence the stick shift itself) is reversed.  Therefore, the left hand went from a state of non-use by US auto standards to the main player in the South African automobile.

As one would imagine, the trip was insanely hilarious, exhausting, exhilarating, refreshing, intense, and truly memorable.  In short, I had one of the best times of my life.  If you pack 8 20-somethings who met only 5 months prior into 2 small cars to drive around 3 African countries camping out and visiting collectively entirely new and exciting places, you are bound to have some wicked crazy adventures.  We did.  Undoubtedly a healthy portion of the hilarity and novelty are intertwined within the jokes and interpersonal chemistries of those involved.  The warm feeling of inclusiveness that arises from inside jokes, shared novel experiences, and chance occurrences is not surprising and constitutes the totality of the experience.  If anything though, the desire to share experiences with other people who share your background & culture is indicative of Peace Corps and it certainly manifested itself during our trip.

Over the course of ~20 days, we zip-lined over a gaping canyon, caved by candle, white-water rafted without the raft (“canyoning”), devoured incredibly fresh fish straight from the Indian ocean, ate mangoes straight from the tree above the tent, bought African beadwork, glasswork, clothing, and art, swam in the turquoise Indian ocean off the Mozambique coast, karaoke’d to MC Hammer in front of a South African audience, read while reclining in numerous hammocks, cooked out (braai) over an open fire, lost a hubcap, drank copious amounts of African beer, bloody maries, martini’s, and margaritas, camped out on a Swazi game reserve among giraffes, zebras, and lions, drove unauthorized through the game reserve in the VW, went to a reptile house and held a python, fried the car CD player with overuse of the Shins, saw wild hippos on Christmas day, exchanged rare gifts with each other, had fresh brewed beer with Zulu men, saw Batman in an Imax, broke and fixed my Osman’s luggage bag twice, went to the largest mall in the Southern hemisphere, drank the freshest lime milkshake ever, took a boogie board out to combat the rocky ocean, walked an aerial forest boardwalk, climbed the world’s highest indoor rock climbing wall, donned fedoras and danced like mad to bring in the new year, drank Tobasco sauce straight from the bottle, swam naked in rock pools, and played more charades than I have ever cumulatively attempted in my life.                           

One night while sitting atop the “sun-worshipping” deck at a backpackers south of Durban, we had a discussion about what we wanted to be/do when we were older.  Although I have never and do not have a clear answer to this question, it occurred to me that so far, I am doing exactly what I want to be doing.  I couldn’t then and cannot now think of anything I would rather be doing than serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer.  Life in the villages has thus far been eye-opening and incredibly rewarding.  By volunteering through Peace Corps, I have now been fortunate enough to take one of the most unique and memorable vacations of my life.

So Christmas was enjoyed in summer for the first time in my life.  I loved it. 

 

Christmas Morning