Relativity

Whenever I describe my experience living in a village in South Africa, my listeners make sympathetic noises about how difficult it must have been. They're not wrong. Hauling water in a bucket under the hot African sun in a desert was no leisurely stroll in the park. Walking up that enormous hill in Kuruman to the taxi rank, with a month's worth of groceries on my back, was hardly a piece of cake. Everyday living took a lot of effort.

However, after a couple months back in America, I can't say I find life here all that much easier. Sure, water comes from the tap, hot and cold, no need to bleach, filter or boil. That's nice. I don't need to walk anywhere. I only walk for fun. That's nice, too. So while staying clean, healthy and mobile requires that much less effort, there are other elements of living here that wear me out.

Social interaction was the most immediately obvious. My first day back in Rochester I went to visit some friends. All we did was chat in a small group, but after the initial giddiness wore off, I was exhausted. I wrote it off as jet lag, but I doubt that now. While I had (and have) many friends in South Africa, most of my time was spent living a hermit-like existence. The majority of conversations I had were with myself. Me, myself and I are wonderful conversational partners. They only speak to you in a way you are guaranteed to understand, they always agree with you and when you want to end the conversation, so do they. There's no need for social graces. In South Africa, I mastered the art of conversation... alone. When I did visit my local friends, the conversation was conducted in seTswana, Afrikaans, South African English, or some combination. Because of my lack of fluency, I wasn't often expected to follow the conversation that closely. If someone really wanted to talk to me, they would slow down and I would listen up. Otherwise, I tuned out. It was a coping mechanism to combat the constant stream of incomprehensible chatter around me. Given that I spent years not listening to people, the sudden expectation that I will be an active participant in conversation is difficult for me to meet. It's not just an issue of attention span, but also of language. Everyone here speaks to me in fluent English, using words, phrases, accents and speed that I never or rarely encountered during my tenure in Africa. While I did speak plenty of English with fellow volunteers, those encounters were few and far between. Here, the English language, in all its astounding expanse and variety, is everywhere, all the time. It's overwhelming.

Grocery stores are also completely exhausting. While South Africa had very modern stores, the local ones on this side of the ocean feel ten times as big compared to where I used to shop. The aisles go on forever. There are a dozen brands for every product. The produce section alone could feed a city block for a week (only slight hyperbole). There's a specialty cheese shop. The ceiling is so high, the lights are so bright. The labels are all so colorful. There's self-checkout. It's a quick trip to the loony bin as soon as I start looking for the kale amongst all the other leafy greens. I'm a hop-skip-and-a-jump from insanity hunting down the sun-dried tomatoes between the rows and rows and rows and rows of canned tomatoes, sauces, soups and whatever else comes in tin, wrapped in paper, splashed with yellow, red and ancient Roman fresco detailing. Peering down one aisle to see if the fish monger might be on the other side, I begin to wonder, neon and metallic Lays products swirling, is this the inspiration behind The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test? Granted, some of my feelings may be explained by my first post-Peace Corps grocery shopping experience also being post-eye doctor appoint which resulted in freshly dilated eyes. That was a trip. Still, I am frequently paralyzed by indecision as a direct result of too much choice. Choosing one item means saying "no" to every similar product. When there are only a few alternatives, it is easy to calculate the best choice. When there are a dozen or more options, not necessarily adjacently located, the process gets tiring fast. Combined with floor plans the size of whole villages, and you've got one frustrated returned Peace Corps volunteer who would gladly return to a peanut-butter based diet in exchange for some peace of mind.

I expect as time goes on I will reacclimatize to the English-speaking world and conquer the local grocery stores. In the meantime, I am concentrating on enjoying the miracles of washing machines and central heating.

Surprising Stats

I could never get the stats page about this blog to load on my Blackberry. Now that I'm back to my regular computing machine, I finally had the opportunity to check it out today. I won't bore you with many of the details, but I'd like to offer a hearty welcome to my readership in (drumroll, please) Slovenia! I have no idea what you were looking for, but I hope you found it and I'm mighty glad you came.

Paranoid in America

I've been back in America for a couple weeks. By and large it's been wonderful, but the occasional waves of culture shock are jolting. As I was lucky enough to spend time in a few of South Africa's modern cities and towns, I am not too overwhelmed by highways or hot water. Rather I am more often struck by how out of place certain attitudes I adopted abroad are here in America. Most common of these attitudes is a strong belief in, and preparation for, ever-present danger.

In South Africa, the danger is usually real. Just about every South African I know has a few horror stories to tell about how many times they have been mugged, how many of their cars have been stolen, and how often their homes have been broken into. It is no wonder that most South African houses are built to resemble fortresses, and that keeping the doors locked and valuables hidden is as natural to residents as breathing. At first, I thought all this 007-like security was a bit much, but eventually, I assimilated. After being chastised repeatedly for leaving my door unlocked or my cell phone unattended in the village or about town, I fell into a routine of constant vigilance and consequently, paranoia. It was normal in South Africa, but it's unnatural in America.

On my return journey to the States, I traveled relatively light. I had just one suitcase, a backpack and a bag. The bag was a souvenir from a trip to Cape Town, but I never carried it while in South Africa. It had no closure at the top, so I deemed it too risky to be usable. Still, it was the perfect size for a carry-on, so I took it along on the trip home. All was well until I stepped out of the airport and promptly hopped on the New York City subway. The suitcase and backpack were locked, as per Peace Corps recommendation, so I had no worries about either of them, but my bag was open and I was very worried about it. With my one free hand I clutched it closed. Every time a turnstile or staircase forced me to let go, I peered around at the crowd, just waiting for someone to reach in and grab my wallet or cell phone. No one did. It's America.

A few days ago, I was asked to fetch something from a parked car. "Sure," I said, "Where are your keys?"

"It's unlocked," came the reply.

My mind raced. "Unlocked? Who in their bloody right mind leaves a car outside, unattended, unlocked? What is wrong with these people?" Nothing. It's America.

The list just goes on and on. Entering someone's home in South Africa involved opening gates, unlocking burglar bars and switching off alarm systems. Entering a house here is usually as simple as turning a knob. I did not expect to find this quite so unnerving, but every time I hear the words, "Come on in, the door's open!" I'm swept up in a fresh wave of amazement and disbelief.

Time and Purpose

I have a problem with time. It's moving too quickly! Exams are over, my marks are completed and my teacher career is almost past the finish line. This Saturday is my farewell party. There are people coming in from town, Deorham and, of course, all over Loopeng. I will be back "home" in upstate New York in three weeks.

I'm excited. I'm nervous. I'm a little bit nauseous. I'm frantic. I haven't started packing! I'm surprised. I never once thought time would move so quickly. I thought this experience would never end, and now it almost has.

I've made an uneasy peace with the work I got done. I did my best. Maybe it was enough and maybe it wasn't, but the whole Peace Corps experience was a net positive for both myself and the various places I worked. I'm content.

Loopeng will be a difficult place to leave. Just yesterday I went for lovely walk along the riverbed and discovered a part of the village that was entirely new to me. After all the time I've spent here, and I'm still learning and seeing new things. My favorite discovery was one of those balloon-ish flowers that opens only at night. This one is huge, and tucked right up against the village's largest thoroughfare. I must have walked right past before. Now, I'm trying to soak up every detail.

People keep asking when I'll come back. I have no idea. I want to come back and visit, but I don't think "coming back" is really possible. I can't come back to my life here. I'm sure I'll wish I could. As rough as it's been, it has its charms.

Another Peace Corps friend wrote to me recently about readjusting to life back in the States. What she missed most about life here really resonated with me: living a life with purpose.

Lots of people have purpose in their lives. Teachers influence young lives, doctors save them, families raise them. But many people don't. Many people just get up everyday and go to work. For what? To earn a paycheck? To earn money for an anonymous corporation? For nothing?

Life as a Peace Corps volunteer has purpose: make the world a better place. The task may be entirely impossible, but it's there. It's something to strive for, to get out of bed for, day after day, disaster after disaster. I hope my return to America doesn't mean a return to my prior life as a purpose-less amoeba.

Tomorrow's a big day. I'm headed to town to blow my entire paycheck on party supplies. My family's borrowed a grill and invested in a new soundsystem. I'm going to buy wors and pap and beer. I may be leaving soon, but I'm going out with a bang!

Heat and Humor

In case you haven't noticed, I have been blogging a lot lately. There are a few reasons. First of all, I suspect you will all lose interest as soon as I leave South Africa so I want to jabber on as much as possible while I still have your attention. Secondly, I have a lot of free time at the moment. Learners are busy writing exams, but they haven't yet written mine, so I'm in that awkward limbo where I'm not teaching, not marking and yet I'm still attending school. Anyway, here's another post that's been percolating in the back of my head for a while.

"How do you keep from getting depressed?" is a frequently asked question for Peace Corps volunteers. My reaction is always, "Uh, what makes you think I'm not depressed?" I once cried at a dinner party because there was so much food and the other guests kept rattling on about orphans, which led me to thinking about one particular orphan I live with who cries every day because he's hungry. True story. I am frequently depressed. However, nothing can jolt a person out of a depression-induced funk quite like a hearty laugh, so for that I turn to the following:

XKCD

This is a webcomic I've been reading for years. I'm not sure where or when I first came across it, but it has remained consistently funny. It's got a strong nerdish bent, so it's not exactly slapstick comedy, but if you know just a bit about math, physics and computer science then I'm sure it'll put a smile on your face every now and then. It updates Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at www.xkcd.com.

Hyperbole and a Half

This is not quite a blog and not quite a webcomic, but it is 100% awesome. Allie, the author, describes her life experiences using amusing narrative interrupted by stick-figure illustration done in Paint (or a similar low-brow program). I cannot tell you how many times I have laughed out loud at her descriptions of social entrapment, the antics of her dogs, her childhood out West and her near-death experience in Texas. She's writing a book now, so the website is rarely updated, but the archives are worth a look at hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com.

David Thorne

This guy is an Australian comedian whose schtick seems to be harassing anyone and everyone he comes into contact with. His attempts to settle a bill using a drawing of a spider, design a missing cat poster, invite himself to a party and refusal to collaborate with a colleague are particularly memorable. You can find them at www.27bslash6.com.

In other news, it is finally hot in the Kalahari. It reached 100 degrees before noon today. It wouldn't be so bad if there was any hint of rain, but the sky is blindingly clear.

Expiration

South Africa may be home to several of the largest cities on the entire continent, but it is also home to a mind-blowing level of total dysfunction in some areas.

I went to the post office last week to pick up a package. It was work-related, so don't get too excited. Anyway, here in South Africa, you must present ID to retrieve a package. For locals, this requirement is satisfied by their Orwellian ID books. Foreigners need to present a passport.

Standing in line, I suddenly realized that under no circumstances could I surrender my passport. I settled on my Peace Corps ID instead, which has my passport number on it.

I rocked up to the window. Passed over my package slip and ID. The post master frowned. My ID expired on September 16th, my original COS date. I explained that my contract had been renewed, but I had yet to receive a new hardcopy ID. He sighed deeply and asked for my passport. I shook my head. He sighed again and went off to fetch my package.

Why did I refuse to show him my passport? Because my visa is expired! The Department of Home Affairs has had my application for months, but they have yet to formally grant my extension. I'm officially in limbo. As exciting as it is to be an outlaw, it's also pretty annoying. South Africa has an obsession with indentification, so a valid passport would be most helpful. As I have no plans to leave the country between now and December, I'm okay, but come December 20th they better let me on that plane.

Leaving

After two and a half years in South Africa, I am leaving next month. While I am all kinds of sad and depressed one minute and crazed with joy and excitement the next, most bizarre to me is that people here just don't seem to get it. They keep telling me how much they'll miss me, then they try to load me up with work for the next term. I explain that I won't be here and then they beg me to extend my contract. I shake my head, they shake theirs and we settle at a kind of awkward impasse.

Part of the problem, of course, is me. I spent two years declaring I would leave in September, but September came and went and I'm still here. Since I obviously extended my contract once, people no doubt think it would be simple for me to do it again. As much as I would enjoy staying just a few more months, being granted a second extension is wildly unlikely and besides, I recognize the need for to start my "real" life. I have school to attend and a career to get started. I have a whole other life to get back to. As great as my experience has been here, that's all it's been, an experience. Fun, valuable and certainly educational, but it has to end. I understand that, I wish everyone else here did too.

Resettlement: A Tale of Several Villages

Here's a new perspective on the resettlement of the Moshaweng Valley. I heard it second-hand from the local priest, but I thought it interesting enough to share.

The party line about the area's history is that the people suffered a forced removal from Gatlhose (now Lohatla) to Padstow, Laxey, Slough, Deorham and Bendell. The alternate version claims there was nothing "forced" about it.

In this scenario, the government wanted the people out of Gatlhose. Either they wanted the land for military purposes, or they simply wanted the people moved into Bophutatswana. Either way, they went to the tribal chiefs and negoiated. They bought up the farms of Padstow, Laxey and so forth and offered this land to the chiefs. The chiefs came, saw all the green foliage and agreed to move themselves and their people. The move happened, people brought their cows and goats along with them, and suddenly the land wasn't so green anymore. The land's new residents weren't exactly pleased to discover that beneath all the pretty, pretty green foliage was nothing but a whole lot of sand. So now the people are less than thrilled to be living here, but at the time, apparently, there was little resistance. Granted, not everyone got a vote. Tribal societies are not democracies, a fact no doubt exploited by the apartheid government.

I guess the lesson here is yes, do look a gift horse in the mouth. What was quality farming land for a half dozen people is not necessarily quality farming land for thousands.

What I find most interesting is that finally, all the English village names have been explained. The villages were often named for the farm or farmer who originally occupied the land. Aha!

Community Task Force

Everyone who's ever worked in development knows the importance of getting community buy-in. This is probably the single most difficult aspect of development and this difficulty has been compounded in Loopeng by the lack of any sense of community amongst residents.

As I've mentioned before, Loopeng is not one village but rather the combination of many plus a large resettlement. While the roadsign may say Loopeng, generally people don't identify with that name. Instead, they insist on retaining the historic, and more specific, name of their neighborhood. For example, when the attendance sheet passed around during an examination asks for their address, learners do not just put their house number and then Loopeng. No, they put Slough, or Mampestad, or Agrico or any number of places that aren't distinct villages.

The refusal of local people to adopt Loopeng as their "official" home is quite understandable when you consider that there is no chief in Loopeng. Instead, each "neighborhood" retains their own chief.

This has all come up recently because the school I work at has decided to prepare sports grounds. The school used to have this land available, but it was requisitioned by the municipality. In order to have it returned to us, the parents have formed task teams to petition each local chief who will in turn petition the higher-ups.

I have no doubt that these parental task force teams will get the job done and our land will eventually be returned to us, but the whole episode has been a very good lesson to me in how easily off-track projects can get when you don't understand or utilize the appropriate hierarchy. Sure, this is annoying and will probably drag on and on, but it's better to do it right the first time than fight over it forever.

I should note here that the only chief I am familiar with is the one in Slough, where I live and work. Should I have gone to meet the others? Yes. Hindsight is always 20/20.

Amen in Africa

In my tiny corner of Africa, most everyone is Christian. Not being a Christian is equated with being the spawn of Satan himself and is a statement most often greeted with shock, horror and repeated attempts at conversion.Luckily, I just so happen to be a Christian. There is a Roman Catholic church in the village which I have attended a handful of times and thus, I am not too harassed by Bible-thumping locals. However, I am frequently alarmed and annoyed by life in this uber-Christian environment.

Most appalling is the intolerance displayed towards other faiths. Considering how recently the locals were converted to Christianity by missionaries, I find it bizarre how quick the people are to condemn others with different belief systems. As an American, people often attempt to bond with me over an assumed mutual hatred of Muslims. When they discover that I bear no ill will towards Muslims or Islam at all, people are stunned. "But, but it's bad! It's an evil religion," they stutter. They, of course, know nothing about Islam, but because it's not Christianity it is presumed to be something horrific and awful. If I told someone here that Muslims are cannibals who eat their own children, I would probably be believed as it conforms to the local notion of Christianity's inherent superiority. If I try to explain that Islam is a peaceful, mainstream, monotheistic faith practice, well, no such luck. No one wants to hear that.

Aside from the very un-Christian
attitude of hateful intolerance, the practice of other aspects of the Christian moral code are equally dubious. I recently attended the baptism of a friend's daughter. While I greatly enjoyed the ceremony and was honored to be invited, I could not help but marvel at the irony of the Catholic baptism of a child deliberately born outside of marriage. This is not at all uncommon. People have children before marriage to ensure they as a couple will be fertile, and also because marriages are just too expensive. This itself doesn't frustrate me, but when an unmarried man or woman with multiple partners and children comes along preaching all fire and brimstone, I get a little testy. If being a Christian is oh so important, I wish people would spend a little more time applying its principles and teachings to their own lives instead of shaking their fists in my face.

On the bright side, I do genuinely enjoy many religious services here in the village. While the oratory can be quite bombastic and veer quickly towards the absolutely ridiculous, the singing is always a treat. It's usually upbeat, and always loud and inclusive. You almost can't help but join in. I also like attending mass at the local church. While it's always said in seTswana and I understand very little, a Catholic mass is a Catholic mass all the world over. The service is so highly ritualistic that I'm able to follow right along using mostly muscle memory. It's comforting to participate in something so familiar even when I'm on the other side of the world.

Praise

South Africa is one of Peace Corps' largest posts and most local people are familiar with the organization. I have never encountered any negativity regarding the Peace Corps or its volunteers. Rather, people seem to love it and consequently shower me with praise. It happens on taxis, in shops, and even just standing around on the street. People learn I'm a volunteer with the Peace Corps and suddenly they're gushing with thanks. I even had a taxi driver dedicate a song to me. While I enjoy a nice thank-you every now and then, and the song dedication was good fun, generally the praise makes me extremely uncomfortable. It just feels undeserved.

The most frequently cited explanation for the gratitude of strangers is that Peace Corps volunteers speak, and therefore often teach, English. South Africa has many official languages, but two are predominate in-country. These are, of course, Afrikaans and English. These are also the only languages in which secondary school is taught and Grade 12 exams are given. Thus it is imperative that people learn one of these languages in addition to their home language. Due to South Africa's recent, and still painful, history most black people wish to learn English. However, this can be a real difficulty in rural areas where the most qualified and well-educated English-speaking teachers fear to tread. Enter the Peace Corps in shining armour on a white horse.

We go to rural areas and speak English. We often teach it, both formally and informally. When we are lazy and don't keep up our local language skills, we inadvertently teach English by virtue of being incompetent fools who can't communicate properly without falling back on our native tongue.

I work at a thousand different projects everyday for which I receive little more than a cursory note of appreciation, but near strangers profusely thank me just for opening my mouth and saying what comes naturally. Using English is, for me, just too easy to deserve the level of praise that is heaped on it. So while I always nod and smile along when I'm being praised like a demi-god, I also cringe a little on the inside and feel just a tad guilty. Yes, I speak and teach English in a rural African village, but it's not especially difficult for me so let's not get too carried away with gratitude.

Sidenote: The scale of the English-teaching operation of Peace Corps is truly impressive. I have met people in South Africa who learned English from volunteers in Ghana, Malawi and other African countries decades ago. They still remember that Peace Corps volunteer, and they are still grateful to them.

Second Sidenote: Dear South Africans, you're welcome.

Evaluation

During my first few months as a volunteer, I would sms my friend and fellow volunteer every Monday with the number of weeks we had left of service. 99 weeks, 85 weeks, 78 weeks... It felt like an eternity. Time crawled. It doesn't feel that way anymore. Now I feel like the end is rushing towards me like a train. It's all happening too fast. Where have the last two years gone? What do I have to show for them? While I am deeply saddened to be leaving a country I've come to love and so many people I consider a second family, my greatest fear in regard to leaving is that my time spent here was a waste. I, as a volunteer, have been a failure.

I briefly spoke with another American visiting the Kuruman area about this very nagging and persistent feeling of mine. His response was that it only takes one to make a difference. You only need to change one life.

Sure, changing one life is a whole heck of a lot easier than changing the entire world (a goal Peace Corps works tirelessly to beat out of its prospective volunteers), but still, it's a tall order. I mean, how does one do it? Is there a book? A manual? A 12-step program? Are there metrics by which to measure one's influence on another? Is there any measurable result at all? How do you know you've changed a life?


Due to the lack of accurate data on life-changing, I've decided not to pursue that line of thought in the evaluation of myself as a Peace Corps volunteer. Instead, I'll revert to the three goals of Peace Corps itself.

(I'm paraphrasing here. I am not fluent in legalese.)

1) To help developing countries meet their need for skilled manpower.

I am skilled? According to the US job market, certainly not, unless you count french-frying and burger-flipping as marketable skills. In a South African work environment, this question is more difficult to answer. South Africa suffers from a massive skills crisis. While I am no more or less skilled than the average American, I am far better educated and experienced than Joe Schmo South African. This is not to say that I'm better than my colleagues. They are all infinitely more knowledgable and experienced concerning education in South Africa than I am or will ever be. However, I have skills to offer that don't already exist here. For example, I type with all ten fingers. I'm fluent in English. I can do maths without a calculator. On the flip side, I could be more skilled. Other volunteers have decades-worth of teaching experience. They have graduate degrees. They are considered skilled no matter where in the world they are. So, I think with regard to myself, the first goal is a draw. I'm right smack in the middle of the skill spectrum.

2) To share American culture with host country nationals

American culture is already pretty well represented in South Africa. Beyonce and Rihanna are mega-popular. Even Dolly Parton can be heard blasting from the sound system on taxis occassionally. All of the movies I've seen in theaters here in South Africa have been Hollywood productions. In terms of entertainment, there's nothing left for me to share. In terms of dispelling myths about America, I've done quite a lot of work, repeating everything from "No, not everyone in America is rich" to "No, not everyone in America is white" like a broken American propaganda record. In addition to answering the many point-blank questions I get, "Do you have children? Are you Christian?" ("No, most American women my age are childless." "Yes, but many Americans practice other religions.") I also spread a bit of American culture through my s'more making and holiday baking. Nothing is more cross-cultural than sharing a meal, or a cupcake. I'm putting a mental check mark next to this box.

3) Share host country culture with Americans. Well, you tell me. Have you learned anything about South Africa through my infrequent blogposts? I hope so!

When I stack myself up against the Peace Corps goals, I come out looking pretty good. Not glowing, exactly, but an all-around solid volunteer. I came, I achieved and soon, I will leave. I guess my nagging feelings of failure have more to do with my expectations of what success looks like. Namely, that success is a thing to be looked at. Whether it's a report card or a new house, generally "success" can be tied to a physical object. In my case as a Peace Corps volunteer, it's not. I kind of wish it were.

Out of the Woods

Just when I thought I had the whole "survival in Africa" thing figured out, I was felled once more by a violent and mysterious illness. It came straight out of nowhere, and laid me up in bed for two days, vomiting every few hours like clockwork. Don't worry, I'm better now. I'm not 100% yet, but I'm dressed, my teeth are brushed and I've kept down several crackers for most of the day. Anyway, while I was in throes of agony yesterday, I checked online to see what treatment advice the old interwebs had for me. Turns out, most people who post advice online don't live in a rural African village.

Ginger ale? Doesn't exist here.
Peppermint tea? Not available.
Toast? I don't own a toaster, or have any bread for that matter.

I made do with a package of stale crackers and water. It may not have helped speed my healing process, but I'm still alive and really looking forward to returning to a world where all manner of natural remedies are just a short drive down the road and I have friends and family willing to make the trip for me.

Right now I'm eating oatmeal and remembering how much I don't like it, who wants to fly over with some homemade chicken soup?

Death of a Tswana

Death is a big deal here in the village, it's also a big business in South Africa. Dealing with death is a three-step process that involves tremendous expense on the part of the deceased's family, as a result funeral cover is probably the single most advertised product on local television.

Step one is a memorial service. The memorial service generally takes place as soon after death as possible. It happens in a gigantic (rented) tent. The whole village is invited. People come and go as they please. Women are expected to wear skirts and cover their hair. At the front of the tent is usually a table for the VIPs, such as the family and any local preachers. Preacher is typically defined as anyone moved by the Spirit to, well, preach. The preaching is frequently interrupted by random intervals of singing. Again, the singing starts whenever anyone is moved by the Spirit to begin singing. Everyone joins in, standing, singing and clapping. The singing is truly awesome. The clapping is unimaginably difficult. The music is simply far more rythmnically difficult than I am accustomed to. Eventually, all this singing and preaching is interrupted by the arrival of food. There is always, always, food. Sometimes it's small, just a magunya or two (fried dough), other times it's quite substantial, pap and spinach and plenty of meat. After the everyone's had their fill, people begin to file out. Unless, of course, they stay behind to either help clean up (women) or continue the cycle of singing and preaching.

Step two is the funeral itself. Funerals always take place on Saturday mornings. They begin at sunrise, usually at 6:30. I have never showed up that early. I usually wander over at 7:00. The giant tent is set up as for a memorial service, with a preacher (or two) busy in the front and rows and rows of plastic chairs squashed into every other available space. Crowds of latecomers (myself included) stand at the back, for hours. It's a good time. Once the preaching is over, the casket is carried out to a waiting hearse (provided by large funeral company, such as Rekathusa) and a large procession begins to the burial site. Sometimes I'm able to hitch a ride, piling into the back of a bakkie with village friends or distant relatives of the deceased from faraway places. Often I trudge through the dirt and sand in my skirt, jacket and scarf. At the cemetery (and there are several in Loopeng), there's a tent for immediate relatives, complete with chairs, and a big hole in the ground that everyone else crowds around. There's more preaching, more singing, and finally, the burial. The casket is lowered into the ground, and then a group of men take shovels and begin filling in the hole to the sound of more singing. This takes some time. I'm always amazed at the stamina of the singers and shovelers. After the dirt come the rocks. The fresh grave is covered by white rocks, placed there by the same men responsible for the filling the grave. Once complete, everyone trudges back to the tent in the yard of the family home. I try to walk pretty fast, because once you get back to the house, and wash your hands in a large communal basin, it's time to stand in, essentially, a very large, ragtag cafeteria line. That's right, there's more food! You get your plate, find a seat, chow down and then hit the road. That great part about funerals is that since they start so early, they end early too. I'm home well before noon, exhausted, but at least back in my own bed.

Step three sometimes never takes place at all, and when it does, it sometimes takes place months or years after the funeral. It's the tombstone unveiling. Similar to a funeral, it starts at dawn. There's preaching and singing. Then there's the trek to the burial site, where there's more preaching and singing, followed by a literal unveiling of the tombstone. A white sheet is lifted, and there it is! Wa-la! Afterwards, it's back to the giant tent for, you guessed it, food. After all the eating comes a short period of rest before the real festivities begin. The festivities in this case are, literally, a party. There's a DJ, loud music, dancing, drinking, and, obviously, more food. The men braai meat over an open flame, and the women cook up giant pots of pap. Everyone who cares to drop by eats, busts a move or two, and leaves.

Basically, a death in the village means a lot of free food for everyone else. It's not a bad way to go, if you ask me.

Spring Awakening

No, this post is not about the musical (though the soundtrack is quite good). Rather, spring just snuck up on Loopeng and sprung. Everything's green, if not exactly lush, the sun is warm and my tin roof is burning hot. There are clouds in the sky and the Kalahari sunsets are accordingly spectacular. It's a good time of year to be here, and I'm glad I am.

Not so good is that I'm writing this while sitting atop my empty water bucket in line at the neighborhood tap. The water is running painfully slowly. I swear I've seen my hair grow. With so much time on my hands, I'd like to update you on my current reading list.

Wilbur Smith is a white African novelist whose books are terrible, positively dreadful, but oh so readable. They're like Indiana Jones meets James Bond. Smith has been quite prolific over the last few decades, his many books number more than thirty. They're highly formulaic, but quite enjoyable if you're just looking for a fun, wild, and eye-rollingly ridiculous adventure story set in an African context. Most of the books feature a historical bent, so you may actually learn something between all the torrid affairs and big game hunting. Wilbur Smith is the perfect author for when you're in the mood for the literary equivalent of a Nicolas Cage film.

JM Coetzee is exactly the opposite. His books are very serious and intellectual, so deep it's easy to start drowing in all the layers and metaphors. While not particularly thick, Coetzee's books take me a lot of time to get through because I keep pausing to re-read, reflect and repeat. It's dense material, but absolutely worth the effort. His essay On Raiding in the novel Diary of a Bad Year is a stunningly sharp, but simultaneously poignant analysis of apartheid. It's on page 104. Go to a library, find this book, and read it. Right now. Your time will not be wasted.

Hugh Lewin's Stones Against the Mirror is also worth a read. While I don't usually enjoy books about apartheid, Lewin handles the subject well. He restricts his writing to his personal experiences, which as a member of an underground anti-apartheid movement responsible for multiple bombings are quite intense. He describes his time in jail and his journey to forgiving the man who put him there, his best friend. While these parts of the book are certainly interesting and well-written, I was really struck by the chapters describing his involvment with the Truth and Reconciliation hearings. The book actually quotes testimony from the TRC and Lewin describes the context exactly as it was, because he was there, he was in those rooms. He listened to that testimony, participated in the inquiries, he was there. Apartheid's been gone for nearly two decades, and yet it's not quite history. Nelson Mandela's election didn't erase the memory of the people. For most of the adult population of South Africa, apartheid is not an abstract footnote in history, it is the backdrop against which much of their lives played out. Lewin's book carefully knits the past into the present and gives the reader a personal glimpse into South Africa's troubled past. As most readers of this blog will never get a lift from a retired member of Umkonto wa Sizwe, I think Lewin's book is the next best way to get a strong dose of perspective on the apartheid state. Stones Against the Mirror injects life and color into a historical period too often painted in lifeless shades of gray. The people and places of the apartheid state are, for the most part, still present in South Africa today. They've always been here. Lewin just points them out.

I've also been reading some Tom Robbins, which is always a delight, but with school back in session my long days in bed with a book are mostly things of the past. I'm about to curl up with hundreds of papers to mark and several seasons of Grey's Anatomy. Saturday night in the village: it's just like every other night!

The Poverty Spectrum

I used to live in Fairfield County, Connecticut. This does not mean that I had an Uncle Scrooge-like vault of money to practice my backstroke in. Similarly, I now live in a poor village. This does not mean that everyone wanders the streets wearing rags and looking dangerously emaciated. There are different levels of disadvantage. There is a spectrum of poverty present in poor communities, just as there is a spectrum of wealth between Bill Gates and Joe Executive, even if they both happen to live in the same place.

Many homes in Loopeng are made of a mixture of cow dung and mud, which is daubed over a tight structure of sticks and covered by a thatch roof. These homes are often well-taken care of, almost always electrified and frequently the home of such modern frivolities as television and stereos. They may be made of cow dung and mud, but cow dung and mud are not necessarily indicators of extreme poverty.

In fact, a residential address in a "poor" village is hardly an indicator of poverty at all. In addition to a plethora of mud-stick homes, Loopeng has houses that would not be too terribly out of place in suburbia. These houses have 2-car garages, several bedrooms and, of course, running water. Hot and cold, even! They have lawns and gardens watered by irrigation systems. They haven't got a speck of pavement nearby, but that's practically the only giveaway that these homes are in an African village, not a Floridian suburb.

Loopeng has poverty. Some people living here don't get enough to eat. It's true. But not all residents can be painted with the same brush. Not everyone suffers the same level of disadvantage. Even in a rural African village, the playing field isn't level. Some of my students are orphans living in child-headed households amidst absolute squalor (the mud-stick house with the roof caving in and holes in the walls). Some of my students live with both their parents in a three bedroom house and get dropped off at school in shiny new cars. As it turns out, very few assumptions can, or should, be made about someone based on geography.

Untimely Demise

I have many things to blog about. Almost everyday I have some little experience and I think, "I should really blog about that!" Then life gets in the way. By the time I've fetched water, made dinner, washed the dishes and sorted myself out for the next day I'm far too exhausted to do much more than crawl into bed with a book or old episodes of Grey's Anatomy and so my blog gets put off again and again. Now there's another reason for my time away. Shaka died last week and I haven't been able to blog on until I've addressed the shadowy cloud that is the loss of my third dog in two years.

Simba was my first dog. My host mother in Deorham noticed my affection for a certain village puppy, and so knowing where that puppy had come from, she requested that a sibling be given to me. I think I got the runt of the litter. Exactly two weeks into Simba's life with me, he passed away. I came home from school to find him curled up in his box in the garage, cold and stiff. We buried him in the backyard, where my host mother said a few loving words before her domestic piled dirt on top of him. I never found out exactly what killed him, but I later discovered that all his sibling died as well. They were probably just from one sick litter.

I was still pretty sad about Simba's death. People in the village knew this, and one person in particular proposed a solution. He would get me another dog. While he said this to me personally, I was still pretty surprised when he rolled up one day with a squirming bundle of adorable, Rustenburg. I named him for his "rusty" copper ears and the South African city of the same name. He lived well past the two week mark, and even moved with me when I left Deorham for Loopeng. There he was a quick hit with my new family, as Rusty was a fairly composed and unflappable animal. He rarely barked, or jumped, or made anyone's foot a chew toy. I left him for a few days to attend a workshop, and while there learned that he was found dead back in Loopeng.

That was devastating. I was halfway across the country. I had no idea what had happened. I had seen him just a few days prior, as happy and healthy as could be. Then, he was gone. Poof.

I returned to Loopeng and began life as a dog-less volunteer for the first time in almost a year. It was bearable. I could handle it. But it wasn't fun. I didn't enjoy spending time outside without a dog to throw a stick to. I didn't like not having a warm head to pat first thing in the morning, before I brushed my teeth. I was lonely without a dog to greet me at home after a long, and frequently depressing, day at work. Still, I survived. I puttered on.

Then a friend moved to a new village. I went to visit her, and lo and behold. Her neighbor had puppies, and yes, they were for sale. I picked the first fluff ball to stagger towards my feet and start nibbling my toes. I named him Shaka, because obviously he was going to be fierce.

I didn't know the half of it. Shaka was a handful like no other. He was cute as a button, but man, was he crazy. He jumped. He scratched. He chewed. He bit. He barked when he wanted attention, which was all the time. He was never tired. Never, ever. I would toss his rope toy til my arm was sore, and he would still have enough energy to tear my clothes straight off the clothesline with his jaws. I couldn't take him for proper walks because he was so busy biting the leash to bits. Shaka was a spitfire, and he drove me insane.

Time passed, though, and age mellowed him just a tad, just enough to make him seem manageable. I invested in some dog biscuits and began training him, both vocally and visually. He could sit, stay, paw and lay down. He actually did those things whenever he felt like it. On many occasions, during an evening training session, I could feel the gears grinding in his head as his attention wavered between the treat in my hand and the donkey cart outside the yard. The donkey cart usually won.

Shaka died last Tuesday. He came to my door in the evening, as usual. I let him in, but something was off. He stumbled to his bed, but was too weak to climb up properly. I lifted his hind legs, and he started to settle down. He was panting heavily and drooling like a maniac, so I gave him a bowl of water. He lapped it up, but couldn't seem to actually swallow it. I still wasn't too concerned. I thought maybe he'd been in a fight, he was stressed, he was anxious, he just needed to rest. I started towel-drying my hair. Shaka started shaking. I called his name, he looked at me, and I saw that he was not improving. I put down the towel and started frantically Googling his symptoms. I found nothing helpful. Stroking him with one hand, I started dialling numbers. The call to the vet didn't go through. Shaka started seizing, his jaw snapping wildly. I called another friend with dogs. She was helpful and kind, but minutes after I hung up the seizing stopped. I said his name to no response. My heart rose to feel his continue beating, but I burst into tears when I felt it stop.

I stroked him until his body went stiff, covered him in his towel and lay him outside. I couldn't bear to have his body in the room. My host dad buried him the next day.

So I've had three dogs die, each more terribly than the last. Of course I asked myself what I did wrong. Plenty of other volunteers adopt pets during their service, but I don't know anyone else with such a tragic track record. As it turns out, dog poisonings are not uncommon in Loopeng. Farmers, in particular, set out poison to prevent dogs from eating their chickens. Other people just hate dogs. I heard this after Rusty's death, I just didn't really believe it or its now-obvious extent. In a way it makes me feel better to know that there was really nothing to be done for Shaka. That he didn't die of something accidental or preventable. His death was intentional, and short of locking him up inside all day, everyday there was nothing I, or anyone, could have done to save him. It also infuriates me that I live in a part of the world where people deliberately kill man's best friend. Thankfully, many of my friends and colleagues feel the same way. I've heard nothing but angry and empathetic comments about "these people" for a week straight. "These people" are supposedly responsible for a rash of dog poisonings that stretches from Loopeng to several villages east. Apparently it's been happening for years.

Knowing this now, and given the general difficulties of pet ownership in a rural, African setting, do I regret all the time, money and emotional resources I invested in my dogs?

Really and truly and honestly, no, no I don't regret anything and I would do it all again.

I'm not alone as a volunteer prone to acting like a hermit. Interacting with the village, day in and day out, all alone, is exhausting, often difficult, and, of course, sad. There have been so many days when I just did not want to get out of bed, much less go outside. But I had to. Simba, Rusty and Shaka all needed to be fed. They all needed to be played with. If nothing else, my dogs made me get up, go outside and face the world. Every. Single. Day. Sure, sometimes we never made it outside the yard, but at least I got some sunshine to drive away the constantly impending doldrums.
The exercise wasn't a bad bonus either. Additionally, my daily dose of their affection, though no human substitute, was far, far superior to the daily dose of absolutely nothing that most other volunteers subsist on.

My dogs also served as a vehicle for some of my most meaningful, and fun, interactions with local people. I enjoyed walking them, and having people comment on how nice and friendly they were. I enjoyed showing off how dogs could learn to listen and obey commands. I really enjoyed seeing children, who were once terrified, pick up a ball and include my dog in a game. For example, I have some really fun photos of Shaka and local children playing with bubbles. In a world where dogs are frequently treated as pests, and are more often abused and neglected, showing off my dogs as models for a more mutually beneficial relationship between man and beast has been one of the highlights of my service. If just one of the many, many admirers of my dogs some day puts out a bowl of pap, instead of poison, takes a stick and tosses it to dog, instead of using it to beat the dog, I will consider my service a job well done, and my three dogs well worth all the pain and suffering.

Ultimately, all relationships between pets and their owners end in sorrow. My sorrows just came a whole lot sooner than I expected. However, just like the potential for an untimely demise never stopped anyone I know from adopting an animal in America, it didn't keep me from keeping pets in Africa. And with just three months left of my service, I'm glad it didn't. I loved each of my dogs, learned a lot from my experience with them, and generally benefitted from their presence. That's the best anyone can hope for.

Criminal Activity

A fellow volunteer once remarked that the only time anyone in South Africa was in a hurry, there was a crime in progress. That's a fairly keen observation, although I would expect to see a lot more people on the run given the level of crime here. It's quite high here, regardless of category. From murder to muggings, this country has it all and in great quantity to boot. Fortunately, I have not dealt with the more serious and violent end of the criminal spectrum. No, I've been busy being bludgeoned by petty theft.

People steal from me with alarming regularity, but what really gets my goat is what they steal. It's bizarre.

Since my arrival in 2009, I've lost:

-R200 and some inexpensive jewelry (from a suitcase that contained wildly expensive electronics)
-prescription sunglasses
-paint
-dog collar (from neck of dog)
-dog biscuits
-dog

And the list goes on... I've had dishware nipped from the wash bucket, art supplies taken from my desk, essentially anything not nailed down is fair game for thieves (be they grabby-handed children or sticky-fingered adults).

Most frustrating to me is that people do not steal what would be most useful to them. My wallet has never been filched, my cameras and computer are untouched, and my cell phone is perfectly safe in spite of my flaunting it wherever I go. No, people do not steal the things they could benefit most from, instead they seem to steal from me whatever it is that will make my immediate future more difficult. Shaka's collar wasn't too expensive, but it was of no value to anyone else so why did they bother except to make me miserable? This type of petty theft is too personal. It's just mean and demoralizing. I'm also a little concerned about how I'm going to open future canned goods now that my can opener's been pinched. (Someone borrowed it and failed to return it, claiming that someone else stole it. Either way, all my tantalizing tinned food will have to stay that way... Tantalizing, and surrounded by an impenetrable fortress of tin).

Image Rights

Sorting through all the photos I've accumulated over the last couple years in Africa, I see plenty of dramatic nature shots from various vacations but virtually no pictures of any of the three villages I've called home. Unfortunately, that's not going to change. Unless you hop a flight out here and see it for yourself, the scenic beauty of Loopeng and the quirks of its residents are eventually going to reside only in my memories. It's not that I don't enjoy taking photos, or feel uncomfortable hauling such an expensive piece of equipment around, but rather I've grown extremely conscious of the image rights of individuals.

As the sole white occupant of Loopeng, and quite often the only white girl wherever I go, I've gotten used to the camera phones whirring wherever I go. It's not often that taxi passengers are seated next to a lekgowa. They want proof to show their friends. They want a photo. Sometimes people ask. Often they don't. While I am accustomed to the attention, I am not exactly comfortable with it. I may be the subject in these pictures, but I have no control of the image itself. It may be duplicated, it may be altered, it may be posted online. It may spend decades covered by electronic dust until I attempt to embark on a political career, at which point it will be sure to rear its potentially ugly head. The point is, having your photo taken by strangers is unpleasant, particularly in this digital age where there is no way to tell where the photo may end up and how it might be used.

I am hardly the only person who feels this way. During a trip to Zambia, I spent an afternoon walking out to a local market. The path was dotted with quaint colonial-era homes surrounded by lush jungle vegetation. It was gorgeous and the urge to take a photo was strong, but I resisted. The homes, many of which had seen better days, were inhabited. There was laundry in the yards, stacks of wash buckets and, of course, people. The yards and alleys were crammed with locals. While I kept my hands in my pockets, my companion was not so cautious. She whipped out her camera and started snapping. Instantly, there was shouting from the house she had just photographed. Neither of us spoke the language, but the message was clear, particularly when our guide asked her to put her camera away.

Not all subjects are as vocal about their objections, particularly children. Their ignorance makes them easily exploitable and they often are. Almost every visitor to an African village goes home with a dozen photos of adorable children. The kids here certainly are cute and they frequently enjoy having their picture taken. However, I've seen this go way overboard. A close-up photograph of several local children was turned into a postcard, duplicated and is now being sold. Granted, it's being sold as a fundraiser, but that misses my larger point which is that when it comes to image rights, Africans don't have them.

No one would ever walk into a well-off Western community and start snapping photos of people's homes. No one would go to a playground there and take pictures of children who belong to strangers. Those photos would definitely never be sold. The photographer in any of these cases could expect a harsh reprimand at the very least.

And yet, when the scene moves to Africa, the rules seem to change. Of course it's okay to take pictures of poor people, their homes and their children without their permission!

Except that it's not. Some people don't want their personal poverty on display in some foreign person's photo album. Some people want to protect their privacy. On the other hand, some people love to ham it up for the tourists. So the next time you're on vacation remember to relax your trigger finger, take a deep breath, and ask!

Water Snake Safety Tips

Ages ago I had a conversation with my friend at school. She was fortunate enough to have traveled to Germany a couple years ago. She was telling me all about her adventures when she mentioned her unwillingness to go anywhere near water. I asked her to explain, and she did.

Apparently, a local belief is that giant, dangerous snakes live in water and (get this) prey only on black people. They are also capable of speech and will call out a person's name in order to lure them into the water, bite them and drown them. They ignore white people because their skin and hair is too soft for the snakes to grab.

"You? You're fine. You can cross the river," said my friend,"but me? No!"

This might sound completely ridiculous, but given all my free time lately I've taken to going on long walks in the bush and boy, it can be creepy out there. Rest assured though, if I start hearing the wildlife call out my name, I will run right home.

I have no update on the strike, other than that it is still going on. It's been in the local paper, and also on the news. While all the schools are closed, the village is relatively quiet. The calm before the storm, or just eternal calm? Ga ke itse. I'm keeping relatively busy with a new cookbook and the construction of a soccer field with the neighborhood kids. Apparently the big kids have commandeered the field across the road, so we've resorted to building our very own. It's amazing what ten-year-old boys with a lot of free time can do with a few sticks and the saw attachment on a Swiss Army knife (I knew it would come in handy, I just knew it!).