Hi all!
I’m back at site now after a 2-week Peace Corps conference, known as In-Service Training (IST), that left us all feeling fantastically refreshed. IST marked the end of my cohort’s 3 month integration period at our sites, alternatively known as “lockdown.” Sounds fun, huh? During this observational phase, we were expected to stay in our villages in order to figure out how our schools function, start friendships with people, and get to know the needs of our communities. Since the lockdown has been lifted, we’re free to travel on breaks and weekends. We’re also free to start doing the jobs we were sent here to do! Wooo! We will hit the ground running, assuming responsibility of our own classes with the start of the new school year in January.
IST was held at a ritzy hotel, and packed with sessions to better prepare us for the coming year of service. I don’t want to bore you with a day-by-day rundown, so here’s a list of my 5 favorite moments, in no particular order.
1. SHOWERS
The unending buffet line was great; the HD flat-screen in my room was cool; my friends were charming as always. But oh my gosh. I miss showers. I’ll give a shout-out to the bathtub as well…not for its bathing purposes, but rather for its hot running water that allowed me to hand wash my clothing to an impeccable level of cleanliness that will never be experienced again.
2. Skyping with Dad
We’ve talked over the phone several times since I moved here, but this was the first time in 5 months I was able to see his face. To be fair, our 15 minute call was half actual conversation, and half coaxing the family beagle to come barreling into the computer screen at the sound of my voice. I’m so thankful to be serving in a country where technology is becoming something of a staple.
3. Secret Santa
A couple lovely ladies in my cohort, Brooke and Holly, organized a gift exchange to get us all feeling a little festive. My friend Diana gave me a wonderful gift. We became really close when, during our Pre-Service Training in July, we discovered that we’re soulmates in musical taste. She bought me a map of South Africa and labeled it with some annual music festivals around the country. So thoughtful of her! Can’t wait to check ’em out.
4. Grassroot Soccer
Grassroot Soccer (GRS) is a program for school-aged youth that combines HIV/AIDS education with soccer in an engaging way. A former South Africa PCV who is staying in South Africa for a 3rd year to work with GRS came to lead the session. We walked away with a couple handbooks and free soccer balls to jumpstart GRS at our schools. It’s an awesome, sustainable project that will definitely help the kids in my village make good choices.
5. SA26
This is beyond my preferred threshold of mushiness, but I feel that it’s important to say. My cohort (the group of Education Volunteers who left the US with me in July) is called SA26, since we are the 26th group of PCVs assigned to serve in South Africa. Within weeks of meeting them, I knew that I had formed lifelong friendships. This job, and I think the first 3 months at site in general, have been difficult in ways that I can’t even explain. I’ve spent more time than I like to admit dealing with frustration, homesickness, loneliness, and confusion. There were some tense moments during the conference, and it hit me that I’m definitely not the only one feeling these things. As much as it hurts to personally struggle and to see friends struggle, I was touched by the outpouring of support that my cohort offered each other. I truly think that we have a special group of people, and we’ll have each other’s backs for the long haul. Much love, SA26.
I’m not sure if I’ll get to post again before the New Year because I have some epic vacation plans starting tomorrow. I’ll tell you all about it after, but here’s a sneak peak: beach, mountains, caves, cockroaches, pubs, 9 people sleeping in my hut, dreadlocks(?). Piece all of that together, and I’ll let ya know how it turns out.
Happy holidays everybody! Wish I was closer, my dear Americans. Hoping you all get to spend lots of quality time with the people you love. Miss you guys!
Let’s delve into the African Time enigma, shall we? The American PCVs and South Africans alike acknowledge this great force which, to my understanding, encompasses much of the continent.
I write the following as a time-conscious individual who is gradually embracing these looser constructs and stepping away from the wristwatch. Please take it with a grain of salt. I really do love many parts of the slow pace. As with any change in lifestyle, it just takes some adjustment! So, here we go. Below, I have listed African Time terms with their definitions, common examples of usage, and how they might feel to those born and bred under American Time.
“Soon”: Maybe today, but probably not. A very abstract and seldom used term.
Example: Please open your notebooks soon.
Translation: Ignore this request until further pleading. You probably won’t need your notebooks at all.
“Now”: Sometime soonish; probably within the next 15 minutes- 2 hours, depending on the situation.
Example: Please open your notebooks now.
Translation: You should think about completing this action. You will most likely, throughout the course of the day, need to open your notebooks.
“Now now” or “Just Now”: Seriously do it. But no hurry.
Example: Please open your notebooks now now.
Translation: Yeah, I really mean you need to open your notebooks.
However, in order to commence the actual task of learning, I have fully analyzed the implications of this heinous request, which include, but are not limited to:
a) Finding the notebook which, God willing, is located somewhere on your person, in this classroom, or within the school premises at large
b) Turning, page by page, throughout the notebook until landing upon a blank one
c) Digging to the dark depths of your Mary Poppins backpack for a pen
d) Retrieving and assembling the dismembered parts of the pen back into working order
e) Performing all of the aforementioned actions with the utmost lethargy, unless:
1) A bribe of some sort is involved (i.e. sweets, stickers, free time, etc.)
“Now now now”, etc., etc.: Do it now and do it quickly. Each subsequent “now” adds a shade of urgency to the request. Flailing hand motions also add to the urgency.
Example: Please open your notebooks now now now now now.
Translation: Open your notebooks and put some pep in your step! No time to dilly dally! We must learn!
Although not strictly time-related, there are also some terms that aid in understanding when/ if a circumstance will materialize. They are:
“No”: No
Example:
Q: Would you like to help me with this project?
A: No, I am busy, sorry.
Translation: The individual is either busy or completely uninterested. It’s a “no.”
“Maybe”, “I will think”, or similar: Probably not
Example:
Q: Would you like to help me with this project?
A: I will think, my friend!
Translation: The individual doesn’t want to, but they also don’t want to let you down. They might help, depending on your persistence.
“Yes”: Maybe
Example:
Q: Would you like to help me with this project?
A: Yes, I would like to!
Translation: You have to know your audience on this one. They may be genuinely interested. Alternatively, again, they may not want to let you down. Either way, persistence is still key.
“Ngiyabuya” or “I’m coming”: Literally, “I am returning”
Example:
Upon exiting my hut around dinner time, my host sister tells me, “Ok sister, ngiyabuya!”
Translation: She is not returning. It’s a Zulu phrase to politely excuse oneself. I have learned this through some trial and error, after a few long nights of wondering how late I had to stay awake because my sister was “coming back” to use my coloring books.
I hope, should you find yourself in Africa (or should you find yourself not in the mood to rush to and fro today) that this glossary has provided you with a good foundation for the basics of African Time. I will say that for the first time since 4th grade, I am not keeping a daily planner. There are days in which I long for a little more productivity at school from everyone- myself, the teachers, and the learners. But for now I’m going with the flow and, in many respects, my stress levels have gone down.
Ok, I have to do some work now now– ngiyabuya.
This weekend was the Kwa-Zulu Natal (KZN) provincial conference. What’s that mean? I’ll tell you!
Every Peace Corps Volunteer in my province, KZN, was invited to a weekend conference on a beautiful beach situated not far from Durban. The majority of the PCVs in my cohort (the group that I came to South Africa with in July) live in KZN. I loved the chance to reunite with some friends that I haven’t seen in well over 2 months, as well as meeting a bunch of hilarious, supportive PCVS from other cohorts serving in the province. The conference was completely Volunteer-run, so it was relaxed, relevant, and quite informative. They (the earlier, more experienced cohorts) gave us (the rookies) lots of tips for projects we could try at our schools, writing grants, and keeping our sanity in general.
This glorious getaway was obviously the opportune time for the sickness from Hell to coming crashing in with the tide. So far in South Africa, I’ve had a few cases of the sniffles, runny tummy, and the likes, but nothing debilitating. This bad boy was different. My bet is on food poisoning. I’ll spare y’all the details and just say that probably 80 percent of my weekend was spent molded to my bed or fondling the toilet.
We all departed from the backpacker’s on Sunday morning. I left regrettably on two accounts: for one, I was sad to leave this tropical wonderland with its warm beach and hot showers; for two, I was quite confident that I would not be able to subdue the contents of my stomach for the duration of the 2+ hour khombi ride back to my village. Things were further complicated when midday hit and I realized that, given my planned route, I was going to miss the transfer I needed. Therefore, I would not be able to get home that day. I called my host mom, mildly panicked, and asked if she knew of other options. She told me of a different khombi that would skip the transfer that I originally was going to have to make, and would instead drop me off right in front of my house…..why she didn’t tell me of this ride to begin with, I’ll never know.
So with that, I clumsily stumbled off from the back of the khombi I had been waiting to fill. I wandered through a sketchy alley, and happened across 2 tall Congolese brothers with big, white smiles and dreadlocks outside their barbershop, which was a tent they had assembled on the sidewalk. The long alley, otherwise lined with taxis and waiting patrons, was vacant in this one spot. The men told me that my taxi would be coming, in this very spot in front of their tent, very soon. They offered me a chair. My exhaustion outweighed my skepticism and I accepted the seat.
Time passed. The men went off to chat. I clutched my sleeping bag in the white plastic chair, silently coaxing my stomach into behaving in exchange for never eating anything, ever again. One of the Congolese men returned with an older gentleman and explained,
“This is the taxi rank manager. He says your taxi is coming at 1 o’clock.”
I looked at my watch- 1:06. He reassured me,
“No worries, it is coming now now now now now now.”
Interjection: I have briefly glossed over one of my largest frustrations and most enjoyable delights, African Time. This phenomenon will soon get a blog post of its very own. At any rate, “now now now now now now” means that the khombi should be around at any moment.
I waited, and sure enough, the van came rolling up as big and as white as the Congolese men’s smiles at 2:15. Right on schedule. The remaining 13 passengers filled in a quick 15 minutes, and I arrived home by 5 PM. Once inside my hut, I hastily unpacked my bags and collapsed for the next 13 hours. I awoke today (Monday) with a terrible headache and overall weakness- surely dehydration. So today is for drinking water, sleeping more, and typing up various odds and ends. I feel like I’ll be back in business tomorrow!
Take care, all.
Yesterday, in honor of this great day of thanks, I spent a considerable chunk of time composing an eloquently worded manifesto of gratitude. Then to test the resiliency of my humble state of being, my friends Fate and Modern Technology thought it would be cute to tag team and freeze my phone, from which I had just typed the draft, without saving a word of it. Cool, guys!
Some other time, I’ll muster up the concentration to rewrite that post. In the meantime, I’ll offer the abridged version. I’ll simply say that today I am grateful.
I’m grateful for witnessing my learners’ lightbulb moments and hearing their sweet voices greet me with, “Good morning, teacher”; for my host mom’s maniacal laugh and my host brother’s adorable company; for the mighty storms and the rolling hills that nourish and nestle my village.
I’m grateful for stepping in cow poop weekly; for drawing water from an outdoor tap into a bucket daily; and for being surrounded by swarms of headache-inducingly loud Zulu people constantly, because these are the real-life things that remind me that I am human, and I am in Africa.
I’m grateful for the countless opportunities that I’ve been privileged enough to encounter; for the access to a solid education for 17 years of my life; and for every last insightful and inspiring person who has encouraged me to savor these opportunities, take advantage of this education, and live my dreams.
I’m grateful too for all of you- yes, even you– who read this blog. Whether we know each other or not, I love that you have taken the time to drop in on my cross-cultural musings. For those who have provided me with letters, phone calls, texts, emails, thoughts, prayers, and packages- thank you. I am not exaggerating when I say that your good deeds make my day. I really, truly cannot repay you for your kindness.
I hope you’re thankful, too. And I hope you acknowledge your thanks today by telling someone why you appreciate them. We might never know how much our encouraging words, written or spoken, can warm a person’s heart.
Happy Thanksgiving!
On a typical Tuesday morning at school, I was startled from my work in the office by a shrill attack of screeches from the learners outside. My principal, our commander-in-chief, wasted no time. He sprung from his desk and out the door in one swift motion. Through the chaos of dozens of stampeding feet, I distinguished agonizing cries of “inyoka!” (“snake!”). I was curious, but not curious enough to venture out into enemy territory.
Shortly thereafter, a teacher paraded into the office with a group of six Grade 5 boys filing in behind her. The boys’ chests were puffed out and their faces wore the expressions of real men. She gave the orders to bring forth the intruder. One boy stepped forward with utmost pride, swinging his right arm from behind his back to unveil a pedestal of crumpled paper. Atop the paper rested not a snake, but a very dead frog.
I don’t know why, but around this region, frogs seem to hold the same level of stigma attached to a football-sized tarantula or Sasquatch. The boys waited for my reaction. I oohed and ahhed and shooed them away with the flick of my hand, focusing my entire being on not vomiting all over their black uniform shoes. As the boys marched out, my principal shimmied back in.
A bit of background: my principal’s number one priority is my safety. He reminds me of this some days. Most days, actually. I’ve foolishly mislabeled his protection as “suffocation” a few times, but in the end I am grateful because I cannot argue that he watches out for me.
Therefore, it was so endearingly fitting when he forcefully slammed the burglar door shut behind him and quickly latched up the locks. Never mind the gaping spaces between the bars on the door or the understanding that the frog was, in fact, dead. With this, he turned over his shoulder and declared,
“Miss, we are safe now.”
And with that I got back to my tasks, feeling reassured that I could continue to live and work in a frog-free democracy.
Wednesday Morning
“Happy Halloween!” I proclaimed upon entering the Grade 6 classroom.
Yeah, I know Halloween is an American thing. But I had heard some mentions of it a couple hours earlier during the radio talk show that I tune in to every morning. So I thought maybe, just maybe, one lone learner out of the bunch would have some vague insight to enlighten us all. And besides that, sometimes you just need to spice up your Wednesdays.
The 16 sets of eyes darted in 16 different directions. I think a saw sweat beads forming on a few foreheads. I could read their nervous minds: “Oh no. Oh no. White Lady has lost it again.”
“Yes,” a few timidly croaked.
Happy Halloween… Yes. They had no idea. Perfect. There I was, a female Michael Scott, dumping an utterly uncomfortable and foreign announcement on my Office of small African learners.
“Ok,” I seamlessly transitioned. “Let’s do some English!”
* * * * * * * * * *
Thursday Afternoon
“Ms. Raynor, you will come with me to see Dr. Debbie?” my principal asked.
“Sure,” I said.
Who is Dr. Debbie, you ask? I had no idea. I’ve learned that sometimes, asking questions is overrated.
We hopped in his white sedan and arrived in town after about a 45 minute drive. We pulled up to the gate of Dr. Debbie’s driveway. It was locked. No one was home. My principal tried calling her roughly 11 times.
“Dr. Debbie is not picking up her phone,” he lamented.
“I see,” I responded.
My principal honked his horn a few times. The small, cock-eared terrier mix in the driveway yelped for Dr. Debbie. All to no avail.
“Did you phone her beforehand to see if she would be home?” I wondered out loud.
“No, no. I did not phone her.”
“Oh.”
We pulled out of the driveway and, defeated, drove back home through the winding countryside. Then, as we were about to cross over the small river that marks the entrance to my village, a green SUV passed us going the opposite direction. Wouldn’t you know it?
“That is Dr. Debbie’s car,” my principal explained. “Please, can we follow her? Unless you are busy.”
“No, please, follow her.”
I would have to be crazy to miss this gem of an encounter. We drove until a point where we could safely U-turn, did such, and proceeded in the exact direction from which we had just returned. Once in town again, we spotted Dr. Debbie’s car parked at a convenience store on the right. We pulled up next to it.
My principal exited and walked around the front of his car. Dr. Debbie sat in the driver’s seat of her car, window rolled up, mid-conversation on her cell phone. My principal waved. Dr. Debbie smiled. Then my principal stood patiently gazing through Dr. Debbie’s window as she wrapped up her call. I remained in the passenger’s seat, the awkwardness of the situation swelling up in my body until I couldn’t move. A girl in her early twenties (presumably Dr. Debbie’s daughter) made her way from the convenience store with a couple of candy bars and a Coke, and climbed back into the SUV. Dr. Debbie at long last hung up her phone. She exchanged pleasantries with my principal and glanced my way. I stepped out and shuffled toward her.
“And who do we have here?” she crooned in a distinctly British accent.
I introduced myself and gave her my spiel.
“Wonderful. Just wonderful. My, how different it must be.”
Her lovely voice and kind eyes instantly comforted me. We chatted for a few minutes, and I finally began to unravel some details about her mysterious identity. In a nutshell, she’s an NGO Wonder Woman. She swapped career paths after realizing the many needs of the surrounding communities, and she is quite literally saving innocent kid’s lives. My principal had come to talk to her about connections that she has with a school-friendly organization.
I was also completely taken off-guard when I realized that she was already familiar with the Peace Corps. In fact, I learned that I am actually not the first Peace Corps Volunteer assigned to my area, contrary to what I’ve been told by both the locals and the Peace Corps itself. Apparently, some PCVs in the past have done work in a large hospital situated pretty near my village. I was thrilled when Debbie offered to share a previous Volunteer’s contact information with me.
I thanked her for her invaluable info and connections. I was about to turn back to my principal’s car when she inquired,
“Katie, are you busy tomorrow night? It’s just that there’s a Halloween party and some of the young people are going. And it would just be so nice for you, you know, to have some friends your age. It’s important for you.”
Sweet, sweet music to my ears. She continued.
“I don’t suppose you brought your costume from America? Nevermind then, I have some odds and ends and I’m sure we can make something work.”
I exchanged phone numbers with her daughter, Holly, and we decided that we would be in touch the next day.
* * * * * * * * * *
Friday Night
I caught a taxi into town and met up with Holly at the country club where the party was to be held. From there, we took a visit to her house to pick up her parents. We were about to roll out- but wait! We were still in our everyday attire! What’s a Halloween party without costumes (or as these classy people call it, ‘fancy dress’)?? Oh, good thing Holly happens to work at a preschool with a fully stocked room of costume clothes. Within minutes upon entering, we had raided the place and were born anew as angel/ devil Holly, matching clowns Mr. and Mrs. Dr. Debbie, and Santa Claus Katie.
The party was fan-tas-tic. Besides schmoozing while delighting in a steak dinner, we partook in culture exhange galore (Peace Corps points: scored). I shed some light on American Halloween festivities, since it’s kind of a new and sketchy idea even to the few South Africans who have heard of it. I conversed with a few do-gooders in the area and feel that I’m slowly building some relationships for future projects. And my personal favorite, I got to offer a small glimpse into the lives of the residents in my village. A village which, though it’s a straight shot down the road, many of the country club attendees have never actually driven through.
Looking back, perhaps it added a layer of difficulty to concentrate on my words, what with the pom-pom attached to my Santa hat bobbing around my face as I spoke. But despite the distraction, I managed to bond with a vampire, a zombie, 3 witches, and a bloody nurse, among others.
So Halloween exists after all in South Africa. This was totally not how I expected to spend my Friday night, but I couldn’t have asked for anything better. With all sincerity, I strongly hope that this will not be the last you hear of my new friends and Dr. Debbie.
Indeed my friends, life in Africa sometimes feels like a circus in which I am the main spectacle. Specifically, read my fourth anecdote to understand why. Here are some stories that have kept me smiling this week.
– It’s official: the Zulu dreams have begun. This is both intriguing and hilarious to me, as most days I am still unable to carry on a solid conversation with my Zulu speaking 4-year-old host brother. The only detail I can concretely remember is that, in my dream, I was explaining to someone that something was ‘hlekisa’ (funny). And then I laughed a lot. This is a good thing…right?
– I led a lesson on various types of abuse and prevention to 6th grade. When I asked for an example of abuse that might occur at school, one of my favorite learners with hip, dark-rimmed glasses innocently offered:
“Homework.”
Some things are universal.
– Whilst traversing the streets of my shopping town yesterday, my friend and I wandered upon a man selling baboon arms on the sidewalk. Then heading home in the taxi, the seat to my right was occupied by a live goat. Yee-haw.
– I’ve decided I will master that quintessential African image of being able to ‘thwala’ (carrying large parcels on your head). I mentioned it to my host mom a while back, and it came up in conversation in the school office one afternoon. I explained to the small gathering of teachers that I was eager to start practicing, and they enthusiastically supported me. So I figured what the heck? No time like the present.
I swiveled my head to the right, surveying the options. There it was, resting atop a shelving unit: I lifted the roll of toilet paper, weighing it against my pride, realizing that the latter would take a plunge for the worse within the next 20 seconds. I placed the roll on my head and slowly rose from my chair. As I made one large, swooping circle around the perimeter of the office, the teachers applauded wildly (in much the same way that you might expect to find one applauding a cigar smoking monkey during a Barnum & Bailey’s act). I had nearly finished my display and was preparing to descend back into the chair when my principal timidly sauntered into the office. He asked no questions. We haven’t mentioned the incident since.
There’s my life at present. Also, if someone could ship me a small slice of Kentucky autumn, I would be most appreciative. Missing those pumpkin scented candles, crunchy, orange leaves, apple cider, and all of the people that I share those things with today.
Love to you all. Now go enjoy fall. (That’s poetry)
The title of this post has no relevance; it’s just what happens to be on the radio right now. What up, Coldplay? Generally, if a song is or has ever been popular in the US, South Africans dig it. The most poptastic station in the area, East Coast Radio, plays the best of the 80s, 90s, and today. Lots of Celine, Puff Daddy (when he was still Puff Daddy), and the Bieb. Oh, and don’t forget GANGNAM STYLE.
It’s been a pretty uneventful couple of weeks. Funny how formerly world-shifting occurrences become ‘normal’ so quickly, isn’t it? Anyway, there have still been some moments worth noting. Here they are, in no particular order:
– My parents celebrated their 28th wedding anniversary on 13 October! Congrats, mom and dad. Love you.
– I had my first phone conversation from South Africa with a non-immediate family member last weekend. Lydia picked up the phone, and we proceeded to spend an embarrassing amount of time giggling/ sobbing for joy before anything of substance escaped our mouths. It was so refreshing to hear her voice. Just what I needed! More phone calls to come, friends and family!
– I got paid today, which led to an overly enthusiastic stop at my shopping town’s supermarket. I may have overshot my weekly grocery budget… by double. Oopsies. BUT I don’t regret it, because my discoveries of granola, chai tea, and tea light candles have made for a cozy little evening in the midst of some gross, drizzly weather outside.
– I feel bad for laughing at this one, but it’s too good. My host mom was running late for school one morning, so my brother and I ventured off on our own. As we walked hand in hand, he suddenly froze in place. He got fidgety and started crying. I tried in my best Zulu to ask what was happening, but I couldn’t understand his response in between his bursts of tears. After a couple minutes of this, we had attracted an uncomfortable amount of attention from the villagers who were passing by. Then without warning, my brother jetted down the long stretch of main road, head down and hands in his pockets, Napoleon Dynamite style. He continued to SCREAM his lungs out and peek back over his shoulder until he reached the gates of the school. I stood there, dumbfounded. As I started to follow behind, I finally gathered his wails of “amahashi!” in the distance. Horses. He was afraid of the three horses leisurely munching grass on the side of the road. I was fully intending on keeping him forever, but with this in mind, it’s looking like Kentucky might not work out.
– Lastly, here’s a school story. One day this week, I was observing a 6th grade math class. Two exceptions:
#1- We’re in South Africa, so it was actually a 6th grade maths class. Leaving off the ‘s’ will solely get you a heap of quizzical glances.
#2- It wasn’t technically an observation, because no teacher was present. When this happens, fairly frequently, the learners sit and chat for indefinite amounts of time. I promised a post on education issues, and it will happen eventually. Chill out- I’m on African time 😉
So I decided to teach their class on the fly. They were doing an activity that required them to figure out the pattern of a given set of numbers, and then plot them on a number line. They listened attentively and participated. I was really proud of them. We reached the end of the assignment and I was about to head back to my desk to work on something else, when I caught a sheepish hand raise out of the corner of my eye. I’d say 90% of such hand raises are requests to use the restroom, so I started to trudge over expectantly. But instead, the boy stood up and asked,
“Miss, do you know how to do long division?”
Why yes, boy. Yes I do. So we did some long division. And during the lesson, every once in a while a kid would interject,
“Miss, do you know how to solve for x?”
“Miss, do you know how to plot numbers on a graph?”
I had to explain that we needed to leave some time for their sponge-like brains to absorb everything, so we only touched on a couple of their requests.
We were, however, able to revel in the magic of the ‘9s’ multiplication trick. You know, the one where you count on your fingers to find the product of a number times 9? If not, holler at me- your life will never be the same. I turned around after demonstrating this at one point and looked at the kids, tickled to find each set of eyeballs bulging out of their respective sockets like little frogs. There was silence for about 5 seconds, and then a hearty chorus of “Ahhhh”s and smiles ensued.
All in all, we did math for about 3 hours that day. I’m looking forward to going back to their class next week to teach some more!
Remember when I talked a couple weeks ago about how I misplaced my camera somewhere and had to retrace my steps to retrieve it? I think I made a reference to my “inevitably scattered brain.” You see, I have this habitual pattern of losing, breaking, and forgetting valuable objects and pieces of information. If you know me, you’re nodding your head smugly in agreement right now. Stop it.
Well, I was at it again recently. Good Samaritan story of the century:
School was out this week. South African schools go year-round, so this was their between term break. I was going stir-crazy by about day 2, so I jumped at the chance to tag along with my host mom to visit some of her family in the beautiful east coast city of Durban. With it’s promises of big city life, savory spices for sale, and the picture-perfect Indian Ocean, what could possibly go wrong?
We left on Wednesday, and took so many taxis that day that I lost track. (Quick note: taxis, or khombis as they are called locally, are actually huge 13+ passenger vans. They’re sweaty, bumpy, and my main mode of transportation.) We took one taxi from our village to the nearest big town, transferred to another to get to downtown Durban, and then to at least 2 within Durban because of some errands we had to run. During one such errand, I was sitting in a bank, waiting for my host mom to wrap up a transaction. That’s when I reached into my pocket and, all at once, got the feeling that the air had been sucked straight out of my lungs. My phone was gone.
I thought for a while and concluded (with about 30% certainty) that I had probably dropped it under my seat on the ride into downtown Durban. My host mom and I walked back to the taxi rank (a huge lot where taxis from all over the region park to load/unload passengers) in hopes of tracking down the same vehicle we drove in on. We asked around, and some gentlemen told us that our driver was long gone. Essentially, game over.
I am not usually one to become overly sentimental about losing things. Like I said, it happens to me all the time. And they’re just things. I’ve been through many chunks of phonelessness throughout the years, and life goes on. However, I’ve found that sometimes, when you’re living thousands of miles from home in rural Africa and your budget is such that buying a new dishcloth feels like a splurge, feelings can change. I was kind of devastated.
Although the nagging regret was still ever-present in the back of my mind, I had a really fantastic little vacation. I stayed with my host mom’s brother, who is an avid Animal Planet watcher and talented musician, including a gig with “Playing for Change.” The rest of the endearing family consisted of his sweet church-going wife, aspiring DJ son, and hilariously hip daughter. The daughter, Thabile, and I were quick friends. She’s a student at the University of KwaZulu-Natal, so I got to follow her to campus one day and even sit it on a class. It almost made me miss college. Almost. Later, we killed some time at a swanky casino/ food court (where I had pizza and a frozen mocha…..my idea of Heaven). We finished off the day with a walk along the gray-skied but beautiful beach.
Now skip to the end of the story. My host mom and I departed Durban on Saturday morning. We had to leave via the same rank that we arrived from. As we approached the taxi we needed, a man walked up to my host mom and spewed a small volcano of Zulu. Ma turned to me, cool, calm, and collected, and simply stated,
“They found your phone, girl.”
She later filled in the details- the guys had gone out of their way to take good care of the phone after they found it, seeing as they all felt terrible that I looked so ‘desperate’ and ‘miserable’ on Wednesday. Thank you, fellas. Thank you.
Shout-out to all the honest people in this crazy world. You’re very much appreciated.
And yes, I will try to take better care of my things.
I LOVE attending any type of South African celebration- weddings, birthday parties, cultural events, you name it. The food, the atmosphere, and the people-watching are always top-notch. But here’s my favorite part:
Sometimes, I walk into a room or introduce myself to a person while their back is facing me. They turn towards me, and I catch this really quick little flicker in their eyes. It’s over in an instant, but it lights up my heart.
They aren’t expecting to find someone like me in a situation such as this, and it’s as if their perceptions of the world are shifting, right there in front of me.
It is the coolest thing to experience. I am typically the only non-black person at these gatherings, and sometimes the only non-black that the other guests have ever interacted with directly. Needless to say, the crowd is often shocked and confused about my presence. So my goal is simply to spread a little bit of love.
My Zulu speaking and comprehension are still waaayyyy underdeveloped, but I always make the effort to greet people in their language. I also try to help out wherever I can at these events. Easier said than done: South Africans, in their very warm and assuring way, often elevate Peace Corps Volunteers to guest-of-honor status. They offer us the comfiest chairs and serve the freshest food, constantly checking in that everything is “Alright?” (pronounced with rolled ‘r’). As appreciative as I am for these gestures, I’m happiest when I’m in the middle of the action- helping dish out meals, cleaning up, etc. Truly, I owe so much to these people for welcoming me into their homes, and I feel that this is the very least I could do to show my thanks.
As many of you know, South Africa has this really ugly part of their not-too-distant past called Apartheid. It was a disgustingly racist time, and it only ended in 1994. (Before I go on, I want to note that my intentions are not to be extremely un-PC: under Apartheid, people were labeled according to the terms ‘native’ [or ‘black’], ‘white’, ‘coloured’, and ‘Asian.’) The small white minority controlled and manipulated government, education, living standards, and more, so that blacks and other races didn’t stand much of a chance at succeeding. Since Apartheid’s dismantling, laws have been reworked and efforts at peace made. However, this is obviously still a fairly fresh source of pain, and the country will take more than a decade or two to heal. Many still harbor feelings of resentment to other races, ranging from subconsciously repressed to blatantly obvious.
So when people see me and my white skin at these parties, or anywhere for that matter, I don’t really blame them when their gut reaction is to want nothing to do with me. But more often than not, I’ve found that giving kindness receives kindness. People pick up on compassion, and they can sense love.
I don’t usually share the fact that I’m not South African, with two exceptions: if people ask where I’m from, or if they start speaking to me in Afrikaans (the home language of most white South Africans). I just don’t think that where we’re from is the important part. I want the take-home message to be that we are human beings, and we’re all capable of love.
KZNKatie 